KELLEY

It’s a quiet Thanksgiving this year. Patrick, Jennifer, and the boys are going to San Francisco to spend the holiday with Jennifer’s mother, Beverly, and Ava has chosen to stay in New York with Margaret, a decision that shows where her heart is. It has taken thirty years but Ava has finally—and inevitably, he supposes—turned into Margaret. On Wednesday morning, she was offered the job of her dreams, as the director of musical studies at Copper Hill School on West Seventieth Street.

Kelley writes this down word for word so he can put it in the Christmas letter.

Kevin, Isabelle, and Genevieve will be on the island and Kevin has suggested that Kelley and Mitzi allow Isabelle to cook and that they eat in the pocket-size dining room of the cottage they’re renting.

Kelley is too embarrassed to express how he feels about this. He feels irrelevant; he feels like he’s being replaced as patriarch. For years and years, Kelley has wished for Kevin to find his way. But now that he has—Quinns’ on the Beach is an enormous success—well, he feels jealous. He’s not ready to pass the baton yet and certainly not where Thanksgiving is concerned. If they eat at Kevin’s house, Kevin will want to carve the turkey. The notion is outrageous!

Kelley expects Mitzi to side with him. She will say no way to eating at Kevin and Isabelle’s. Mitzi loves Thanksgiving. She loves getting one of the sought-after fresh turkeys from Ray Owen’s farm and making her famous stuffing with the challah bread, sausage, pine nuts, and dried cherries. Kelley can’t imagine Mitzi allowing Isabelle to make the stuffing. What do the French know about stuffing? Nothing, that’s what.

But when Kelley tells Mitzi about Kevin’s invitation, she says, “What a lovely idea!”

She sounds genuine. Kelley blinks. Mitzi spent last Thanksgiving in Lenox with George. It was the nadir of her depression and she couldn’t bring herself to boil a potato or end a bean and so they ended up going out to the Olde Heritage Tavern, where Mitzi cried into her cranberry relish. She definitely wants to make up for what was, essentially, a lost Thanksgiving last year, and besides, she has to keep busy. That’s how she survives. She has the inn to run, but any additional distraction is welcome—Margaret’s wedding in August, and Kevin and Isabelle’s impending nuptials. Thanksgiving too—or so he’d thought.

“You want to go to Kevin’s?” Kelley asks.

“Sure,” Mitzi says. “It’ll be fun.”

“Fun?” Kelley says.

“Something new and different,” Mitzi says. “They’re getting married; they moved into the new house. It’s only natural they would want to host us.”

Natural? Kelley thinks. Fun? These aren’t words Mitzi should be using. Their son, Bart, their baby, is missing. Kelley has counted on Mitzi to be the more emotionally vigilant of the two of them; she worries all the time at the maximum level so that Kelley doesn’t have to. But now, instead of being thrown into a tailspin by the holiday, she’s relaxed. It’s almost as if she’s forgotten about Bart or is, somehow, getting used to the agony of their circumstances. Kelley remembers when his brother, Avery, died of AIDS. His parents had been destroyed; his mother, Frances, especially. But the day had come, hadn’t it, when Kelley had called his parents’ house in Perrysburg, Ohio, and Frances had been hosting her bridge group.

Bridge group? Kelley had said. What about Avery?

Frances said, Avery is with the Lord now. There’s nothing I can do about that. So I might as well host bridge group.

The next thing Mitzi says really knocks Kelley’s socks off.

“If we go to Kevin’s, I’ll be able to do the Turkey Plunge.”

“The Turkey Plunge!” Kelley says. “Since when have you been interested in doing the Turkey Plunge?”

“Since forever,” Mitzi says. “It’s a Nantucket tradition! But I’ve always been too busy cooking. This is my year. I’m doing it.”

Kelley is speechless.

“Do you want to do it with me?” she asks.

“No,” Kelley says. The Turkey Plunge is a fund-raiser for the Nantucket Atheneum in which scores of crazy people put on bathing suits and run into the water at Children’s Beach. Nothing sounds less appealing to Kelley. That has always been true, but this year Kelley feels like a husk. He has no energy and lately has been plagued with a headache that never seems to go away. Just discussing the Turkey Plunge exhausts him so much that he wants to lie down in a dark room.

Mitzi harrumphs. She calls Isabelle to accept the invitation for Thanksgiving, then signs herself up for the Turkey Plunge.

Ten o’clock on the day of Thanksgiving finds Kelley bundled up in jeans, duck boots, an Irish fisherman’s sweater over a turtleneck, his navy Barbour jacket over his sweater, a hat, and leather gloves standing down on the green at Children’s Beach along with every other person on Nantucket, locals and visitors alike. One of the visitors is Vice President Joe Biden. Kelley has heard that Biden comes to Nantucket every Thanksgiving but he’s never seen him in person until today. Kelley would love to bend the vice president’s ear about Bart and the other missing Marines but the man is surrounded by a crowd ten people deep. He seems to be more popular than ever now that he’s about to be replaced. If Margaret were here, Kelley would have her make the introduction, but she’s not—and besides, it’s Mitzi’s big moment. She is out and about, chatting and schmoozing with people and reminding them all about the Christmas Eve party at the inn, which will also serve as Kevin and Isabelle’s wedding reception.

“We’re moving all of the furniture out of the living room,” Mitzi says, “and getting a band.”

The spirit of the Turkey Plunge is convivial and festive, the weather freezing cold but sunny. Kelley sees people he has known for so long they feel like family.

Mitzi pulls off her Lululemon yoga pants and her jacket and gives them to Kelley to hold. She’s in an orange one-piece that Kelley has never seen before.

“That’s a great suit,” he says.

“Bought it just for today,” she says. She kisses him on the lips and runs to line up with all the other hardy souls on the beach.

The gunshot sounds and the swimmers charge into the water, laughing and shrieking. Mitzi is easy to pick out in her pumpkin-colored suit. Her curly hair flies out behind her as she runs, then high-steps through the water, then submerges. Kelley winces, imagining the shock and burn of water that cold. He gets Mitzi’s towel ready.

When she approaches, dripping and shivering, he wraps her up and gives her a squeeze. “You are a very brave woman,” he says. “Now I see where our son gets it.”

Mitzi asked Kelley which of her Thanksgiving dishes he can’t live without and his answer was “All of them.” He loves the stuffing, the sour cream mashed potatoes, the corn pudding, the creamed onions, the butternut squash, the fiesta cranberry sauce, the snowflake rolls. But if he has to pick one, he’ll pick the corn pudding, made with Bartlett’s Farm corn that Mitzi bought and froze this past summer and topped with buttery Ritz crackers. To Kelley it’s the ideal blend of island-grown produce and the midwestern-housewife fare that he and Avery were raised on.

And he’ll also pick the fiesta cranberry sauce. Mitzi completely reinvents the dish, adding orange peel, cilantro, and jalapeño peppers. It’s so addictive, Kelley craves it all year long.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll make both.”

When they get home from the Turkey Plunge, Mitzi goes to work in the kitchen. The TV has been left on, and the huge balloon floats of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade roll past on the screen.

Margaret is there, as she is every year. And today, so is Ava. Kelley feels a sharp pain at the back of his skull. He misses Ava. He has taken her for granted all these years and now she’s leaving, possibly for good. Mitzi has also accepted this with equanimity.

Ava’s breaking up with Scott and Nathaniel is the best thing she ever did, Mitzi says now. “Ava needed to find Ava, and the Ava she found wants to move to the city. I lived in the city when I was young, and so did you. The good news is… she’s teaching. I’m sure she’ll come home every summer.”

Summer isn’t enough! Kelley thinks. He knows how unreasonable he sounds, how rigid. His head is splitting. He tells Mitzi he needs to go take a nap.

“Good idea,” Mitzi says. “I’ll cook and watch a little pregame, then I’ll come wake you. Isabelle wants us at three.”

Kelley has one of his dreams. He and Bart are in a car; Kelley is driving. They are in a desert. It looks like pictures Kelley has seen of the American Southwest but Bart keeps telling Kelley they’re in Australia.

Australia? Kelley says. That doesn’t sound right. Shouldn’t we be in Afghanistan?

No, Bart says. They got it all wrong. Everyone thought we were in Afghanistan, but we weren’t.

Kelley drives to the edge of a cliff. Far, far below are jagged, red rocks. Is this a gorge? Kelley asks. Bart gets out of the car. He starts to walk away.

“Kelley! Kelley!”

Kelley opens his eyes. His head is killing him, and that’s not a euphemism. It feels like his head is trying to pull away from the rest of his body.

“Kelley!”

With effort, Kelley sits up. Mitzi? She’s calling for him.

“Kelley!” she’s screaming. Really screaming. Maybe her apron caught on fire or she missed a step and the corn pudding spilled out of the casserole dish all over the floor. Kelley gets out of bed and stumbles to the door. He sees Mitzi at the end of the hallway. She’s wearing an apron—it’s not on fire—she’s crying, she’s sobbing, breathless, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. What? She’s holding something, Kelley sees. It’s the telephone.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he’s always imagined it. They have news.

Kelley falls. He hits the floor, but there is no pain. Not yet, anyway. It is dark. Quiet.

 

MARGARET

The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, Margaret takes her assistant, Darcy, for a farewell dinner at Eleven Madison Park. Eleven Madison Park was recently voted the best restaurant in America, and although Margaret has long outgrown being impressed by the “best” this and the “best” that, she has to admit, this dinner is pretty unforgettable. Eleven courses with wine pairings, each course based on a food tradition of New York City. The meal starts and ends with a black-and-white cookie. The first cookie is savory; the final cookie, sweet. Margaret’s favorite course is the one they eat in the kitchen—this, the VIP treatment because she is Margaret Quinn—which riffs on the Jewish deli. They are served tiny, open-faced Reuben sandwiches—slow-cooked corned beef with homemade sauerkraut and some kind of heavenly sauce—and a petite bottle of celery soda. When Margaret sees it, she says, “I’m sorry, what is this?”

Celery soda.

It’s bright green and fizzy, and Margaret tastes it tentatively at first, then determines it’s the most delicious, refreshing, original elixir ever to cross her taste buds. It’s bursting with fresh celery flavor and it’s carbonated with just a hint of sweetness. It pairs beautifully with the fatty succulence of the corned beef and the piquancy of the sauerkraut.

When she and Darcy leave, Margaret agrees that Eleven Madison Park is the best restaurant in America, but she won’t be able to explain why—even to Drake—beyond gushing over the celery soda.

Margaret has to bid Darcy good-bye outside the restaurant, a moment she has been dreading. Darcy has been her assistant for four years and four months. They have been a couple longer than Margaret and Drake. Being Margaret’s assistant can hardly have been easy, but Darcy is one of those super-capable, incredibly knowledgeable people who take everything in stride. She is unflappable, and if she made a mistake during her tenure, Margaret hasn’t found out about it. She has never been sick, never been late, never been hungover, cranky, or cross. She has been faithful, discreet, loyal, and funny, and although she has helped Margaret with innumerable details of her personal life, she has never crossed the line into acting too “chummy.” Are they friends? No, Margaret thinks. Not really. This dinner aside, they have never socialized other than at work functions. Even when Margaret was on location and Darcy traveled with her, they kept their private time private. In many ways, Darcy is closer than a friend. She is family—no, not family. She is, somehow, another manifestation of Margaret Quinn, Margaret in another, younger body.

“I’ll never find another assistant like you,” Margaret says. “Never.”

“Margaret, stop,” Darcy says. “I’ll cry.”

“Okay,” Margaret says. She is on the verge of tears herself. “If you need me, any time, for any reason…”

“I know,” Darcy says. “The same goes for me.”

“Good,” Margaret says, and they both laugh because they know Margaret needs Darcy far more than Darcy needs Margaret.

Darcy climbs into the taxi and waves at Margaret through the window. She is heading home to Silver Spring early tomorrow and then to Atlanta on Friday to start her new life.

Good-bye, Margaret mouths. Good-bye.

It’s just after one o’clock the next day when Darcy calls Margaret’s cell phone. Margaret is still at the parade party held every year at Lee and Ginny Kramer’s apartment on Central Park West, thirteen blocks south of Margaret’s apartment and twenty floors closer to the action on the street. Ava and her friend Potter are also at the party; the three of them have consumed no small amount of champagne, celebrating Ava’s job at Copper Hill, which Lee and Ginny’s sons, Adam and Harry, both attend. There are cheers all around, several times.

It’s just when Margaret is gathering her things to leave—Drake is picking up a spectacular turkey dinner with all the trimmings from Citarella—that she sees Darcy’s call come in. There is no reason for Margaret to panic, but she senses Darcy is calling to tell her something. And at one o’clock on Thanksgiving? It’s something big.

“Darcy?” Margaret says. She sees Ava looking at her from across the room and she turns her back and wanders into the dining room, where there are floor-to-ceiling windows. The parade has passed but the street below is flooded with people; Raoul is around the block, waiting for Margaret and Ava. They’ll have to head four blocks west to get thirteen blocks north. “Darcy, what is it?”

“My source at the Pentagon?” she says. “He called me a few seconds ago. Another soldier from the missing convoy escaped.”

“Oh my gosh,” Margaret says, breathless. “Was it Bart?”

“Not Bart,” Darcy says. “I asked specifically. My source couldn’t give me the name but he could confirm it wasn’t Bart.”

“Oh,” Margaret says. Her spirit is in a free fall.

“But Margaret, this soldier has far more information. They’re about to send out a press release. He said when he escaped that half the troops were alive and—”

“Half were dead?” Margaret says.

“Yes,” Darcy says. “He gave them a whole bunch of other stuff too, I guess. Details about the surroundings, how far they’d traveled, what direction they went, what landmarks he remembers. My source says the Pentagon is going to move on the information tonight.”

“Tonight,” Margaret says.

“I’ll call if I get anything else,” Darcy says.

“Yes,” Margaret says. “Thank you, Darcy.”

She hangs up and tries to process what she’s just heard, keeping emotion at bay. She is afraid to turn around; she doesn’t want Ava to see her face until she figures out what to do. Part of her, naturally, wants to let Kelley and Mitzi enjoy their turkey. They are eating at Kevin and Isabelle’s house. But no, Margaret can’t keep quiet, not this time. This is too big. Half alive, half dead. Flip a coin, she thinks. They’re going to find the kids, all of them, either way—of this, Margaret is confident.

She swallows, takes a deep breath, and replays Darcy’s exact words in her mind. Then she dials the number of the inn.

 

JENNIFER

Jennifer comes by her type A personality honestly: She is exactly like her mother. When Jennifer and her mother, Beverly, occupy the same space, there is always a showdown and Jennifer usually loses.

Not this year, however.

Beverly likes to dine out on holidays—Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas. More specifically, she likes to go to the Park Tavern. Jennifer has gently but firmly shot down that idea. This year, Jennifer will cook.

“Why put yourself through so much trouble?” Beverly asks. “You’ve had such a tough year.”

“Because it’s Thanksgiving, Mother,” Jennifer says. She leaves no room for argument, and Beverly backs down.

By ten o’clock, Beverly’s townhouse on Nob Hill smells like home cooking. Jennifer should be humming contentedly along—the meal will be to her specifications and the quality of ingredients one can find in California is far superior to what’s available at home. But Jennifer is bothered by something that happened earlier that morning. She went into her mother’s bathroom to borrow dental floss and in the medicine cabinet she found a brown prescription bottle filled with Vicodin. Twenty-five pills. Jennifer held the bottle in her palm and read the label: Beverly Barrett, for pain as needed. What bothered Jennifer wasn’t that her mother had the pills—Beverly had suffered from chronic back pain for years—but how badly Jennifer wanted to sneak a few out of the bottle for herself. She could take five or six and they would probably never be noticed missing. Right?

Jennifer had set the bottle back where she found it, but she practically hyperventilated with the effort.

And now, she can’t stop thinking about the pills or about how nice it would be to get high and float through the remainder of this holiday.

Jennifer went crazy at the wine store. She bought three bottles of Round Pond sauvignon blanc, three bottles of Stags’ Leap chardonnay, three bottles of Cakebread cabernet, and three bottles of Schramsberg sparkling. That gives them four bottles of wine per adult, she thinks. She also went to Cowgirl Creamery in the Ferry Building and bought an assortment of cheeses, sausages, mustard, quince paste, Marcona almonds, crackers, crisps, bread sticks, olives, pickles, and chutney. She arranges all this on a platter and brings it, along with a chilled bottle of the Schramsberg, to Patrick in the den.

She sinks down next to Patrick on the leather sofa in front of the crackling fire and the enormous TV. The games are already on.

“Whoa,” Patrick says as he digs into the spread. “And you expect me to eat dinner after this?”

She doesn’t need the pills. She sees Sable’s kind face and hears Sable’s soothing voice saying that Jennifer does not need the pills.

She hands Patrick the champagne. “Let’s open this.”

“Why not?” Patrick says. “It’s a holiday.”

He uncorks it and pours, and they raise their glasses in a toast. “I’m thankful for you,” Patrick says.

“I’m thankful for us,” Jennifer says. They clink glasses and drink. Ahhh. There is nothing like the first sip of really cold champagne to make one believe everything is going to be fine.

Jennifer’s phone bleeps. She sets the glass down and checks her display. She coughs. It’s Norah. The text reads: Happy turkey. I need to talk to you about something. Call me please.

Just like that, Thanksgiving is ruined.

Jennifer fakes a smile toward her husband. “It’s Sable,” she says. “Wishing me a happy Thanksgiving.”

“Nice of her,” Patrick says, but his attention is back on the game. The Patriots are playing and nothing comes between Paddy and the Pats—except maybe a Raincoast crisp smeared with Camembert and apple chutney.

Jennifer stands up. “I should get back to the kitchen,” she says. She is going right upstairs to her mother’s bathroom. Three pills, she decides. Only three.

But at that moment, Patrick’s phone rings.

“Hey, Kev,” Patrick says. Jennifer can hear the buzz of Kevin’s voice but no actual words.

“Tell him I said happy Thanksgiving,” Jennifer says. She can’t get out of the room fast enough.

When she is halfway up the stairs, she hears Patrick screaming, “Jennifer! Jen!”

She races back down to the den. She sees the look on Patrick’s face. Thanksgiving is ruined for sure.

 

KEVIN

Mitzi is speaking quickly but clearly: Kelley collapsed, Mitzi has called 911, she will meet Kevin at the hospital.

“And,” she says, “there has been news about Bart.”

“What?” Kevin says. “What is it?”

“I’ll explain at the hospital,” Mitzi says.

Kevin tells Isabelle to stay put—there’s a turkey in the oven and Genevieve is napping—he’ll call once he figures out what is going on.

Mitzi is standing outside the emergency room, smoking a cigarette. Kevin does a double take. Mitzi doesn’t smoke. But that’s Mitzi and she’s smoking. She says, “Left over from my days with George. You want a drag?”

“Actually, yes,” Kevin says. He takes the cigarette from Mitzi and thinks how much better growing up would have been if he and Mitzi had been able to commune with each other like this every once in a while. “What are they saying?”

“He’s in with the doctor.”

“He just fell over?”

“Fell over,” Mitzi says. “Unconscious. I couldn’t wake him, though the paramedics did.”

“And what’s the news about Bart?”

A nurse pokes her head out the doors. “Mrs. Quinn?”

Kelley is being flown to Boston in the MedFlight helicopter. The local on-call doctor—who is probably the low man on the totem pole, working on Thanksgiving—didn’t like what he saw and thought Kelley would be best served at Mass. General. Dr. Cherith will be there waiting for him.

“Dr. Cherith?” Kevin says. “His oncologist? They don’t think this has anything to do with the cancer, do they?”

No one in Kevin’s vicinity is able—or willing—to answer that.

Mitzi says, “I have to go too. Can you take me to the airport?”

“Yes,” Kevin says. “Of course.”

On the way to the airport, Mitzi tells Kevin about the phone call from Margaret. Another soldier from the missing platoon escaped. It wasn’t Bart. But this young man is coherent. He has valuable intelligence about where the rest of the soldiers are being held.

“He said—” Mitzi pauses and stares out the window. “Half the soldiers are alive and half are dead.”

Kevin pulls into the airport parking lot. He can see Air Force 2 out on the tarmac. The vice president is on island.

“Wait a minute. What did you say?”

“This soldier told the officers who found him that half of the other soldiers are alive and half are dead.”

“Half are dead?” Kevin says. His eyes are suddenly swimming with tears. Thirty minutes ago, he was hunting for the potato masher in the utensil drawer of his rental house, and now his father is being flown in an emergency helicopter to Boston and there’s a 50 percent chance his younger brother is dead.

“Half are alive,” Mitzi says. Kevin pulls up to the front of the terminal to let Mitzi out. “Don’t you get it, Kevin? Bart is alive.”

“Is that confirmed?” Kevin asks. “Did the soldier give any names?”

“No,” Mitzi says. “No names, nothing confirmed.” She steps out onto the curb and smiles at Kevin. “But I’m his mother. I know.”

 

KELLEY

Charitably, Dr. Cherith waits until Friday morning to deliver the news.

Brain cancer. Or, more correctly, prostate cancer that has metastasized to the brain. Kelley has a tumor blooming in the back of his occipital lobe, creating pressure against his skull, which was probably what caused his fall.

“Blooming?” Kelley says. “Like a flower?” He pictures a rose or a peony on the back of his head.

“The tumor has tentacles, some of them far-reaching,” Dr. Cherith says. “It’s not resectable.”

Tentacles now, like a squid. Kelley prefers the former analogy.

“So you can’t operate?” Kelley says.

“No,” Dr. Cherith says.

“What can you do?”

“Well, radiation, certainly. That should shrink it. The chemo protocol for this particular kind of cancer is notoriously nasty and effective only twenty-five percent of the time.”

“Kind of like our new president-elect,” Kelley says.

Dr. Cherith smiles, but just barely. Honestly, Kelley is so confused and overwhelmed, he can’t remember who won the election.

“I’ll give you all the information about the chemo and you can make your own decision,” Dr. Cherith says. “For now, I suggest radiation, much like before—thirty days.”

“Just keep me alive as long as you can, Doc,” Kelley says. As soon as Mitzi arrived at Mass. General, she told Kelley what she’d been screaming about right before Kelley fell over. Another soldier found, reporting that half of his fellow soldiers were alive… and half dead.

“Bart?” Kelley asked. He’d wanted to ask if Bart’s specific fate had been decided, but he didn’t know how.

“They’re going to find him,” Mitzi says. “He’s coming home.”

Kelley had asked for Dr. Cherith to give him the diagnosis privately so he could decide how much to tell Mitzi and the kids. Everyone is consumed with thoughts of Bart. The AP reports on the recovered soldier, Private Jonathan Mackie, on Thursday night included his quote that half of his brothers-in-arms were killed by the Bely, but half remained alive. Kelley admires Mitzi’s certitude that Bart is alive, and as much as he would like to join her in this steadfast belief, he can’t seem to keep his mind from visiting the dark side. What if Bart was killed? What if Bart mouthed off or otherwise angered the Bely? This is certainly possible, but Kelley thinks back on everything Bart has gone through since he enlisted. The thirteen weeks of boot camp on Parris Island, where the drill instructors broke Bart down to nothing—he referred to himself only in the third person—then built him back up into a Marine. By his own account, he excelled at his PFT (physical fitness test), running three miles in twenty minutes, doing thirty-nine pull-ups and then seventy-two crunches in sixty seconds. His basic training culminated in the Crucible, a fifty-four-hour exercise during which he was allowed to sleep for only two hours and had to hike forty-two miles with obstacles. After boot camp came the Infantry Training Battalion at Camp Lejeune, where over the course of three months he learned skilled rifle shooting. Mitzi had initially had a hard time thinking about Bart handling weapons but that had been Bart’s favorite part of ITB. Every Marine is a rifleman, he said.

Bart had been trained by the best drill instructors, men and women far tougher than the enemy; he had learned the finest combat techniques. His body was strong, his mind stronger. He would have found a way to survive.

Kelley tells Mitzi that the cancer is back, now in his brain, and that the only treatment Dr. Cherith can recommend is thirty more days of radiation.

Her bottom lip quivers and then her chin drops. He kisses the part in her hair. She smells vaguely of cigarettes. She’s back at it. But under the circumstances, Kelley really can’t blame her.

“I’m going to beat it,” he says.

Mitzi says something he doesn’t hear. She’s weeping.

“What’s that?” he says. He rubs her shoulder.

“We,” she says.

As with all things related to events around Bart, Kelley expects a lull to follow. It may take weeks or even months for the Pentagon to move on the intelligence they received from Private Mackie. But a scant week later, the Monday following Christmas Stroll weekend—which Kelley passed quietly while Mitzi and Isabelle tended to the guests; no parties or celebrations this year—the phone at the inn rings. It’s four o’clock in the morning. Mitzi answers right away, as though she has been waiting up for the call, but she is trembling so badly, she hands the phone to Kelley.

Kelley clears his throat. “Hello?”

It’s Major Dominito, calling from Washington, DC. Navy Seal Team 6 was deployed and the major reports that they have recovered all of the missing Marines, alive and dead.

The major asks Kelley if he is in a place where he can receive news about his son.

Kelley pauses before he answers. He’s safe in bed with his wife. The inn is quiet; most of the Stroll guests checked out the day before. But if the major is calling to say that Bart is dead, then no—he is not in a place where he can receive that news. He will never be in a place where he can receive that news.

“Yes,” he whispers. He imagines the flower blooming or the squid sinking its tentacles into his brain. He will take this diagnosis, this cancer; he will take death. But please, he thinks, let Bart live.

“Your son, Private Bartholomew James Quinn, was one of the lucky ones,” the major says. “He’s alive.”

Kelley can’t answer; he is crying too hard. This is, of course, unspeakably cruel to Mitzi, who is vibrating like a live wire next to him.

“He’s alive,” Kelley says, and his voice cracks. Did she hear him? Did she understand him? “Our son is alive.”

Mitzi goes to wake Ava while Kelley calls Patrick, Kevin, and Margaret.

Bart is alive!

Thirty minutes later, Ava, Kevin, Isabelle, Genevieve, Mitzi, and Kelley are all gathered in Bart’s bedroom, where the light has been on for twenty-three months, one week, and two days. They join hands and through his tears—they just won’t stop—Kelley says a prayer.

Thank you, God.

 

MARGARET

It’s the biggest news story of the year other than the election (including the election, if you ask Margaret), and it’s one she reports on somberly, out of respect for the seventeen American families who each lost a soldier and a son. Inside, Margaret feels not joy but relief. There but for the grace of God go I.

Bart Quinn is alive. The troops have to undergo a medical evaluation at Ramstein and then a ten-day debriefing. Even so, Bart should be home by Christmas Eve—in time for Kevin’s wedding.

It’s a Christmas miracle, sent especially for Kelley, who is sick again, sicker, Margaret suspects, than he’s letting on. If everything goes according to plan, he will see his son on Christmas.

 

AVA

By anyone’s standards, Mitzi is a Christmas person. But this year, she goes nuts, bonkers, off the reservation, completely and insanely all out in decorating for Jesus’s birth.

It’s not just for Bart, she says. It’s for everybody celebrating Bart’s return. The entire family! Plus, Kevin and Isabelle are getting married, and the Beaulieus are coming all the way from France!

Bart is in Germany, although they’ve all talked to him on the phone and done video chats. His cheekbone was broken, the skin punctured; he has bruises and bandages; but still, it is Bart, Ava’s baby brother, and when the family sees him for the first time, they all blubber while Bart waits with no expression on his broken face. His head is shaved; all of the surviving soldiers have lice, scabies, ringworm, and dysentery. Bart has lost sixteen pounds, which is far less than most.

They aren’t allowed to ask him any questions about what happened. Not yet. So mostly the conversations are Ava, Mitzi, and Kelley filling Bart in on all the family news since he’s been gone. They do not, however, say anything about Mitzi’s affair with George the Santa Claus and her lost year in Lenox, nor do they tell him about Kelley’s cancer, although nearly the first thing he says is “Geez, Dad, you look worse than I do.”

Bart is due to arrive in Boston on December 22. Paddy, Jennifer, and the boys will pick him up and drive him to Nantucket. The Chamber of Commerce called the inn to see if they could organize a parade, give him a hero’s welcome, but Kelley turned them down. He and Mitzi are united in their desire for privacy in regard to Bart’s return. They just want him home—not only on Nantucket but inside the inn.

Mitzi announces that her Christmas theme this year is joy. Ava doesn’t recall Mitzi having a Christmas theme in previous years but she understands how joy might be at the forefront of Mitzi’s mind. Mitzi makes a Christmas playlist on her iPod that she plays on the inn-wide stereo system; it consists of twenty-five versions of “Joy to the World.” At first, Ava objects on principle, but actually, the renditions are so varied that the effect is quite soothing. And heaven and nature sing!

Mitzi and Kelley venture out to Slosek’s farm and buy a fourteen-foot-tall Douglas fir. The tree grazes the vaulted ceiling, and Kelley has to climb a ladder to secure the top to one of the exposed beams. Ava worries about her now-frail father on the ladder and so she volunteers to decorate the tree with Mitzi, a job that takes four hours and sees them drinking nearly six poinsettias (champagne with a splash of cranberry) apiece. They try to follow Jennifer’s three cardinal tree-decorating rules:

1. When you think you have enough white lights, add three more strands.

2. Glass-ball ornaments are placed all the way inside the tree, near the trunk, so that the tree appears to glow from within.

3. Showpiece and heirloom ornaments go on the ends of the branches.

In Mitzi’s case, the showpiece ornaments are the handcrafted ones she received from her mother, who made an annual ornament for family and friends for over thirty years. Mitzi then sets up her impressive nutcracker collection on the mantel amid greens and giant pinecones she ordered from Colorado. She co-opts the round mail table at the inn’s entrance for her Byers’ Choice carolers.

Let every heart prepare him room! All this is pretty much as it has been in previous years, before Mitzi left with George, before Bart was a Marine, before, before, before.

But… there are a bunch of new ideas!

Mitzi painstakingly wraps each and every hardback book on the shelves in contrasting plaid paper. She bakes and decorates two gingerbread houses and uses them as bookends.

She hangs huge illuminated letters over the fireplace above the nutcrackers: J-O-Y.

Ava smirks, thinking that the letters are for the deaf guests who haven’t heard the playlist.

On her leaf-peeping trip this past fall with Kelley, Mitzi bought sap buckets, and she now plants baby evergreens in them and places them outside the front door, draped in white fairy lights, of course. Also on the porch is an artful display of a Radio Flyer sled hauling bundles wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied up with twine.

Ava and Mitzi study the porch tableau from the street. “I think it announces that this is a joyful Christmas house,” Mitzi says.

There can be no doubt about that. From the outside, the inn is a stunner. There is an enormous wreath on the front door illuminated by a spotlight and in every window, a smaller wreath dangling from burgundy velvet ribbons over a single lit candle.

“You’ve done a good job, Mitzi,” Ava says, squeezing her stepmother’s arm.

“I’m nowhere close to finished,” Mitzi says.

Mitzi hangs a pair of antique skis in the hallway. She has replaced the hall rugs with candy-cane-striped runners, and one day when Ava comes home from school, she finds even her bedroom has been decorated. There is a wreath hanging from her scrolled walnut headboard, and her bed has been dressed up with a red flannel comforter and crisp white sheets with red piping. On her dresser is an arrangement of greens, pinecones, and holly, and next to that a fat white pillar candle that Ava recognizes as Mitzi’s favorite scent, Fraser fir. Are all of the bedrooms like this? Ava has to check.

Yes! Kevin and Isabelle’s former bedroom has been decked out with the Christmas linens and headboard wreath, as has Kelley and Mitzi’s and… Bart’s! (Ava can’t believe Mitzi was brave enough to decorate Bart’s room. Despite the fact that it still smells vaguely of pot smoke, it has been treated like a shrine.) But an even bigger surprise is that the room that used to be Genevieve’s nursery has been transformed into a Christmas workshop. Mitzi bought a pine table and is using it as a wrapping station, but along with the predictable paper, bows, and tags are stuffed elves sitting on chairs and chilling on the windowsills. There’s a new red brocade wingback chair and a matching footstool where another elf sits, staged so it looks like he’s stringing a popcorn garland. And in the corner of the room is yet another Christmas tree, this one decorated with tiny musical instruments—a snare drum, a violin, a harp, a harmonica.

But no recorder, Ava notices.

When Ava calls Potter that evening, she says, “I feel like I’m living at the North Pole.” She explains the wrapped books and gingerbread houses, the antique skis and Santa’s workshop. She has also noticed that the Christmas china is out, that there is mistletoe hanging in the kitchen, and that on the windowsill over the sink someone has arranged Scrabble tiles to read MERRY CHRISTMAS. By the back door is a forest-green stepladder on which Mitzi has secured all of the Christmas cards and pictures she has received so far.

“I can’t wait to see it,” Potter says. “I could use a little holiday cheer.”

“Next week!” Ava says. She knows Potter’s December has been anything but joyful. He’s dealing with final exams, and his son, PJ, is spending the holiday with his mother and the British teaching assistant. They are traveling to Stratford-upon-Avon to celebrate a Shakespearean Christmas.

“In front of the Yule log?” Ava asks. “Why did Shakespeare never write a Christmas play?”

“He did. Twelfth Night,” Potter says glumly.

Ava loves Potter’s erudition!

“I’m sorry I’m in such a funk,” Potter says. “I’ll feel better the second I can hold you.”

When he says things like this, Ava melts. The first night she spent with Potter—back in New York over Thanksgiving—she confessed that she thought he was too good-looking for her. Oh, how he had laughed! He’d wiped tears from the corners of his eyes and said, “There isn’t a man alive who is too good-looking for you, Ava. Not Clooney. Not Tatum Channing.”

Ava had grinned. “Channing Tatum.”

“Him either.” Potter had taken Ava’s face in his hands and said, “I think you are the most beautiful, most captivating creature I have ever laid eyes on and I’ve thought that since I passed you running in Anguilla.”

“Stop,” she said.

He had kissed her deeply, then carried her off to bed.

She is taking things slowly with Potter. This is her new, adult self in action; she doesn’t fall all the way in love immediately, as she’s done in the past. She preserves her privacy, her personhood. But there’s no denying she’s besotted, and his feelings seem to match or exceed her own.

A week before Christmas, Ava admits to Shelby that she’s officially seeing Potter. He’s going to be her date for Kevin and Isabelle’s wedding and not just because he has a talent for making Quinn family nuptials fun. He’s staying through Christmas. At first, Potter felt bad about leaving Gibby alone but then Ava suggested Potter bring him up to Nantucket as well. The more the merrier, Ava said. And when you get here, you’ll see I mean that. Potter agreed this was the ideal solution and he booked Gibby a room at the Castle, which is where George and Mary Rose are staying. And surprise, surprise! George is bringing over his 1931 Model A fire engine for the first time in three years, and this will be the vehicle that transports Kevin and Isabelle from the Siasconset Union Chapel to the inn, with George dressed as Santa Claus behind the wheel.

“It’s a little scary,” Shelby says. “Your family’s devotion to Christmas.”

“Tell me about it,” Ava says. “Anyway, I owe you dinner at the Club Car.”

“With caviar,” Shelby says.

They get dressed up and go the following night. Ava wears a green velvet Betsey Johnson dress that she’s owned for years but only recently has been able to fit into—talk about Christmas joy!—and Shelby wears red. The Club Car is all decked out for Christmas and it smells of garlic and rosemary. The piano is stationed in the back, as ever, the pianist piecing together a medley of carols.

“Anything but ‘Joy to the World,’” Ava says. “I’ll even take ‘Jingle Bells.’”

“Wow, that is not like you,” Shelby says.

The maître d’ seats them in the front window. “You two are the prettiest window dressing I could ask for,” he says.

“But more important, we’re smart,” Shelby says.

Ava smiles down at the table. Being a mother has not softened Shelby in the slightest.

They order champagne, naturally, and then two ounces of osetra caviar, which comes with all of the usual accoutrements—buckwheat blini, chopped onion, capers, egg whites, egg yolks, and crème fraîche—as well as a bottle of vodka, nestled in a block of ice, from which the waiter pours them each a shot. And then, maybe because they are pretty or maybe because they are smart, he pours them each another shot, on the house.

Ho-ho-ho! Ava’s head is instantly spinning, so much so that she thinks she sees Scott and Roxanne by the maître d’s stand. She blinks and chases the vodka taste out of her mouth with a sip of crisp, cold champagne.

It is Scott and Roxanne. Roxanne is wearing a black dress. Ava heard that she has worn black every day since losing the baby. And she’s wearing black stiletto heels. Some people, it seems, never learn.

Scott waves. Ava waves. Shelby glances over her shoulder and groans.

“It’s not a problem,” Ava says. “He doesn’t faze me anymore. And neither does she.”

“Really?” Shelby says. She builds herself a loaded caviar bite, and her eyelids flutter closed in ecstasy as she eats it. “I’m sorry, what were we talking about?”

“I’m over Scott,” Ava says. It’s true; she sees him and feels nothing. This past Friday afternoon he dressed up as Santa Claus for the final assembly before break and he handed out candy canes and chocolate coins, and Ava gazed upon him and felt… nothing. A couple days before that, he had come to school wearing his ugly Christmas sweater, the one with the light-up tulle Christmas tree on the front that he had bought solely to please Ava. The one he had worn to her Ugly Christmas Sweater Caroling party. The one he had worn when he accompanied Roxanne to Nantucket Cottage Hospital and then Mass General after she gruesomely broke her ankle while crossing Federal Street. That sweater had so many memories attached to it—both good and bad—and yet when Ava saw Scott wearing it, she had felt… nothing.

“I hope he and Roxanne are happy together,” Ava says. “I hope they try to have a baby again.”

“Not likely,” Shelby says. “I heard she’s moving to California soon, before the end of the school year.”

“Is she?” Ava says. Not even this juicy tidbit piques her interest. If Roxanne moves to California, Scott will be single once again. All Ava feels is a twinge of sympathy for Scott—but honestly, not much. He’s a good guy. He’ll find someone else soon enough.

Scott and Roxanne are seated at a table somewhere behind them, but Ava doesn’t even bother to sneak a peek. She doesn’t scrutinize the expression on Scott’s face or analyze his demeanor or wonder what he orders to drink. Maybe Roxanne is moving to California and this is a farewell dinner, or maybe they’re just out celebrating the holiday. Ava doesn’t care!

She studies the menu. “I’m going to get the beef Wellington,” she says. “And then, let’s go sing.”

 

JENNIFER

The texts from Norah Vale pop up on Jennifer’s phone at the worst possible moments. The first was on Thanksgiving, but it was instantly eclipsed by the phone call from Kevin with the double-whammy news of Kelley’s collapse and another soldier from Bart’s platoon found.

A week later, they know that Kelley’s cancer has metastasized to his brain and that Bart is alive. A mixed bag of news if ever there was one. Patrick has chosen to focus only on the positive: Bart is alive and coming home in time for Kevin and Isabelle’s wedding and Christmas. And Kelley will battle his cancer just the way he’s battled all the other hardships of the past few years.

“My father is a warrior,” Patrick says.

Jennifer hears the respect in Patrick’s voice, which serves to mask his fear. Kelley is only in his early sixties, but he’s mortal just like everyone else.

For the kids’ sake, Jennifer adopts Patrick’s mind-set. They don’t tell the boys about Kelley’s cancer. All they announce is that Uncle Bart has been found and is on his way home. “Uncle Bart is a hero, a real-life hero who experienced unknown horrors while defending our country,” they say. Patrick and Jennifer hammer this home; their kids need something to honor other than their video games.

Norah’s second text comes while Jennifer is decorating a client’s house for Christmas. She had such success putting her own home on the Beacon Hill Holiday House Tour that decorating for Christmas has become a cottage industry within Jennifer’s already-booming interior design business. She has twelve clients across Boston and the suburbs who want her to deck their halls. Jennifer isn’t in a position to turn away any business. She is grateful for all the clients who stuck with her through Patrick’s incarceration, and she still lives in fear that rumors of her pharmaceutical addiction might get out.

At the moment, she is decorating a townhome for a couple in the South End who are throwing a huge party in a few hours. This project has turned out to be more fun than Jennifer anticipated. The couple favor a mid-twentieth-century style, and too much is not enough for Peter and Ken, so out come the white Christmas trees decorated with psychedelic glass balls and on the wall hangs a display of holiday-themed Jell-O molds.

Brenda Lee plays on the blue Bakelite turntable—“Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”—while Ken shakes up some martinis and Peter prepares the ham, decorating it with pineapple rings and maraschino cherries.

“I wish you could stay,” Peter says.

“Me too,” Jennifer says. She loves this couple, loves the vibe of their home and all of the authentic details. The presents under the tree are sleek and color-coordinated. There’s a pile of royal-blue presents, a pile of hot-pink presents, a pile of amethyst-purple presents.

Christmas comes in all shapes and sizes, Jennifer thinks. All colors, all eras. She would love to don a shimmery minidress, put on chunky heels and shimmery earrings, and drink martinis and eat deviled eggs and chicken livers wrapped in bacon.

Eartha Kitt sings “Santa Baby.”

But tonight, Jennifer and Patrick are going out alone. They both miss the lavish holiday party that Everlast Investments throws at the Four Seasons, so they have decided to throw a “company party” of their own. They’re going for drinks at Sonsie and then having dinner at No. 9 Park.

As Jennifer is putting the finishing touches on Peter and Ken’s vintage-Christmas-card collage, her phone pings.

She checks it eagerly, half hoping it’s Paddy telling her he’s running behind with work so that she can stay for a few more minutes and enjoy a martini or two. But no. It’s Norah.

The text says: Are you by any chance coming to Nantucket for Stroll? I really need to talk to you.

Stroll, Jennifer thinks. That’s right. Tonight is the Friday of Stroll weekend on Nantucket.

Burl Ives sings “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.”

“I just love the way records sound on this turntable,” Peter says.

Jennifer gives him a blank look, then she stares at the message on her phone. Stroll weekend last year was when all of Jennifer’s troubles began. She wanted oxy and Ativan, and who, of all people, supplied her habit? Argh! Jennifer wants to go back in time to Stroll weekend of last year and do everything differently.

“Are you okay?” Ken asks. He hands her a martini.

Jennifer slips her phone into her pocket and fakes a smile. “Yes!” she says.

“She wants to leave so she can go on a date with her hubby,” Peter says. “Let her go already.”

What does Norah want to talk to her about? Should Jennifer respond or just ignore this text as she did the last one?

“You can go,” Ken says. “But this martini is a work of art. Take it home and enjoy it as you get dressed. I’ll get you a cup.”

“And take a deviled egg!” Peter calls out from the kitchen.

Andy Williams sings “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”

The third text from Norah comes as Jennifer is wrapping the boys’ gifts on her bed and bingeing on Bloodline. Bloodline comes at the recommendation of Sable; former addicts know all the best shows, Sable insisted, and Jennifer laughed, thinking this was probably true. It’s eleven o’clock at night a week before Christmas, and Paddy is still in the home office, working. Jennifer brought him a glass of scotch and a piece of gingerbread with lemon sauce an hour earlier while he pored over the day’s market activity. He has raised thirty-two million for his hedge fund so far. This is going to happen, he assures Jennifer. This is going to be a success.

When Jennifer’s phone pings so late, she assumes it’s her mother in California, who is infamous for disregarding the time difference.

When Jennifer sees that it’s Norah, she gasps, as she might have at a stranger’s face appearing in her dark bedroom window.

The text says, simply, Jennifer.

“What?” Jennifer whispers. “What do you want?”

A second text follows: I’ll be in Boston the next few days. Call me, please.

Jennifer nearly screams. Norah is coming to Boston. Norah is going to… what? Stalk Jennifer? Knock on the front door or sit in her menacing black truck, engine idling, out on Beacon Street? Will she trail Jennifer as she takes the kids to school? Will she harass Jennifer in front of the other parents? Will Jennifer’s dirty little secret get out? Will Norah harm Jennifer or threaten the children?

This has to stop, Jennifer thinks. She holds her phone gingerly, like it’s a ticking time bomb. She types in: Leave me alone. Please. But that makes her sound like she’s a victim, pleading, groveling. She doesn’t send it.

Jennifer deletes the texts, just as she deleted the other two texts; she can just pretend they never existed. She can block Norah’s number on her phone. She should have done this back in August!

What does Norah want? She knows Jennifer got caught by Kevin and Paddy and she surely must guess that Jennifer has been through counseling. Norah should count herself lucky that Jennifer didn’t go to the police!

She should go to the police now, Jennifer thinks. To Paddy first, then the police. She should have kept the texts to turn over as evidence!

But another, calmer part of Jennifer’s psyche encourages her not to overreact. Norah is, no doubt, just after some money. Jennifer should continue to ignore her. Eventually, she’ll go away.

Jennifer wraps the last present—a black leather belt with a silver buckle, for Bart. Mitzi has said he’s lost weight and none of his clothes will fit. An American hero needs to keep his pants up, Jennifer thinks. Then she laughs. Thoughts of Norah fade away.

 

KELLEY

His radiation oncologist has granted him a week’s reprieve over Christmas. He doesn’t have to report for his final treatments until December 27.

He may skip those anyway. The radiation isn’t working. He has inhabited this body for more than sixty years and he holds the ultimate authority over it—not his doctors. He knows the cancer is growing, sinking its tentacles deeper and deeper into his brain. He’s dizzy all the time and needs to hold on to the rail as he descends the stairs. He can barely hear out of his left ear, a development he’s trying to conceal by cocking his head when someone is speaking to him. And the headaches are… stupendous. They are impossible to endure without medication, but the pain medication makes him loopy and, of course, he doesn’t want to become addicted, like Jennifer.

Although, he reasons, what does it matter if he becomes addicted now? The end is coming. He can feel it.

He doesn’t share this knowledge with anyone. Nobody wants to hear it! Everyone expects Kelley to battle, to wield his mighty sword and fight off the failure of his body. Plus, everyone is distracted. It’s Christmastime! Kevin and Isabelle are getting married! Bart is coming home! Ava is moving to the city to embark on her new career! Patrick is starting his act two, a hedge fund where he will be his own boss!

Kelley is so fortunate to have stood at the head of such an incredible family. When he passes, he can do so knowing everyone is safe.

But enough maudlin thoughts.

The house is decorated from the floorboards to the rafters. Kelley can’t enter or leave a room without hearing a merry jingle (Mitzi has hung sleigh bells from every doorknob throughout the inn). He smells the pot of beef bourguignon on the stove, ideal for this chilly night. (Because Mitzi was a non-red-meat-eater for so long, every time they eat beef, it feels like a Christmas miracle.) Bart is supposed to fly from Germany to Washington on the twenty-second and from there to Boston on the twenty-third. He will be on Nantucket Friday night, which is cutting it a little close for Mitzi’s taste, but what can they do? The mere thought of seeing his son, hugging him, holding him makes Kelley almost weep. Bart has a wound on his face in the exact spot that Kelley dreamed he had a tattoo of a star. This is uncanny, so eerie that Kelley is certain that no one will understand or appreciate his prescience, so he keeps it to himself. He wonders if the cancer in his brain is, somehow, giving him a sixth sense.

The closer Bart gets to home, the more impatient to see him Kelley grows. He has waited twenty-three months, but these last three days are torture.

He won’t waste a second of his holiday worrying about his health, he decides. He will simply enjoy this Christmas as though it were his last.

 

MARGARET

When was it that Margaret said that her favorite news stories were about the weather?

On the twentieth of December, she gets the first warning from the meteorological team at CBS, and this warning is given in person by Dougie Clarence, the new, young hipster face of weather at the network. Dougie comes over and sits on Margaret’s desk. He’s wearing a fedora, a plaid vest, pants that reach only to his ankles, and lace-up loafers with no socks. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and he sports a goatee. Every woman in New York City under the age of thirty-five loves Dougie. Margaret loves Dougie. If Ava weren’t involved with Potter, the first man Margaret would have set her up with was Dougie Clarence.

However much Margaret enjoys Dougie’s company, though, finding him sitting on her desk five days before Christmas and three days before she’s supposed to fly to Nantucket for her son’s wedding is not good. Dougie visits Margaret only when he has an urgent weather bulletin worthy of the national news.

“To what do we owe this honor, Mr. Clarence?” she asks.

“I’ve been missing you,” Dougie says. He gives Margaret a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“And I you,” Margaret says. Dougie hasn’t been to see her even once this year. The weather has been virtually perfect.

“But that’s not why I’m here,” Dougie says.

Margaret’s spirits fall. Maybe it’s the weather in the Midwest. Maybe he wants her to report on the drought in California—again. Maybe Mount St. Helens is about to blow. That would be exciting! Margaret has never reported on a good volcano story.

“I’m here because we are about to get pounded,” Dougie says.

“We?” Margaret says. “Pounded?”

“The Northeast Corridor,” Dougie says. “Blizzard.”

“When?” Margaret asks.

“Tomorrow night, Thursday, Friday,” Dougie says. “The good news is it should be mostly over by Christmas Eve. The bad news is it’s I-95 from Washington to Boston.”

“And the airports,” Margaret says.

“I don’t like to use the term hundred-year storm,” Dougie says. “But in this case…”

“Does it have a name?” Margaret asks.

“Elvira,” Dougie says.

Elvira.

Margaret looks at the briefs her new assistant, Jennifer, left her: ISIS cells suspected in the Netherlands and Denmark; the changing social landscape of Washington with the new administration (internally, Margaret groans; if there’s anything she dislikes more than election news, it’s postelection news); and… the eighteen surviving Marines making their way home.

Marines on their way home. Bart.

“Are we talking a C block?” Margaret asks. “B block?”

Dougie shrugs. “If you’re asking me… an A block.”

“That bad?” Margaret says.

“That bad.”

Margaret understands only the rudimentary basics of the science behind snowstorms. It all starts with the sun. The sun heats the earth unequally… direct sunshine in tropical regions, and low-angle sun at the poles. Heat builds up in the tropics and creates an imbalance in temperature from tropics to poles. The atmosphere doesn’t like this and tries to transport heat toward the poles.

So why do the biggest snowstorms form off the coast of North Carolina, track up to Long Island, and pound the Northeast? Because there is a perfect cocktail of weather ingredients there that’s found nowhere else in America. Cold, dense Canadian air pours southward while warm, moist air carried by the Gulf Stream ocean current tracks northward. Every now and again, the jet stream, a ribbon of strong airflow, takes a dip to the south, and through very complicated thermodynamics (that extend well beyond what was covered in the “rocks for jocks” class Margaret took at the University of Michigan) creates a low-pressure system. This low-pressure system intensifies over the warm Gulf waters, and the warm, moist air rises and flows over the cold Canadian air. The winds flow counterclockwise around the low-pressure center, and this causes the northeasterly winds to push the snow back into New England. This is how we get the term nor’easter—it is the wind’s direction during the most intense part of a storm. In winter, this storm becomes a blizzard.

“It’s expected to bomb out,” Dougie says.

“Translation?” Margaret says.

“The storm will strengthen with extreme rapidity,” Dougie says. “The low-pressure center will drop like a bomb.”

They are predicting a foot of snow in Washington and up to thirty inches in Boston, sustained winds of forty-five to fifty miles per hour, and—Dougie suspects—that rarest of weather phenomena: thundersnow. Minutes after Dougie leaves Margaret’s office, the National Weather Service issues a winter storm warning for the entire Northeast. Amtrak suspends service on December 22 and 23. Delta, Jet Blue, United, and American cancel six hundred flights, leaving over ten thousand passengers scrambling for alternative transportation.

Margaret is sitting at her desk at the studio on Wednesday when the snow starts to fall. She has released Raoul from his driving duties until after the holidays. Drake calls and says he’s rented a Ford Expedition and volunteers to drive himself and Margaret up to Hyannis. For as long as Margaret has known Drake, she has never seen him drive. He takes taxis.

“Are you sure?” Margaret asks.

“I’m sure,” Drake says. “But you have to tell Lee you’re not broadcasting tomorrow. We need to leave tonight, Margaret, as soon as you’re done.”

“Oh,” Margaret says. She already asked to take off the Friday night before her usual weeklong hiatus over Christmas. Can she ask for yet another night off? Margaret is sixty-one years old. She has been the anchor of the CBS Evening News for fourteen years. She’s not worried about job security as much as she’s plagued by a sense of duty. Millions of Americans will, likely, have their Christmas ruined by this storm, and Margaret feels compelled to be the one in the chair reporting on it.

But Kevin is her son and he’s getting married.

She feels torn in two, just as she used to when the kids were young. “What about your surgeries?” Margaret asks Drake. “Surely you can’t leave a day early.”

“Jim and Terry are covering them for me,” Drake says. “They’re both staying in the city.”

No more excuses, Margaret thinks.

She calls Lee. “I need tomorrow night off too, Lee,” she says.

“Margaret,” he says.

“You can’t make me feel any guiltier than I already feel,” Margaret says.

He’s silent. She hates when Lee is silent.

“Kevin is getting married,” she says.

“On Saturday,” Lee says. “I gave you Friday off to accommodate you going to Kevin’s wedding. That was my gift. I can’t let you go Thursday. The viewers want Margaret Quinn. The advertisers want Margaret Quinn. People turn on the TV and see Julian and they change the channel.”

“Find someone who’s more appealing than Julian!” Margaret says.

“That’s a conversation for another day,” Lee says. “This conversation is about you taking off Thursday night and the answer is no.”

Margaret fills with fury, an emotion so foreign to her that she doesn’t quite know how to process it. She is Margaret Quinn, one of the most esteemed television journalists in the nation, if not the world. And yet she still has to answer to a man, Lee Kramer, head of the network, a person she considers a friend.

Margaret takes a breath. Lee is her friend, but this is business. The advertisers pay Margaret’s salary. She has to stay and do her job.

“Okay,” she says, and then she hangs up so she can call and give Drake the bad news.

 

KELLEY

What we need is a sleigh,” Mitzi says. “And eight reindeer.”

She is standing just outside the back door of the kitchen smoking a cigarette, and Kelley is allowing it. The snow is falling slowly but relentlessly—big, fat, wet, heavy flakes, the kind you get when the temperature is hovering around the thirty-degree mark. An apron of snow is collecting on the floor and all the heat is escaping from the kitchen, which is strewn with hotel pans and dishes set up by the caterers in anticipation of the wedding reception. It’s too chaotic to cook in. Kelley had wanted to get takeout Thai food but it’s snowing so hard he can’t even make it to Siam to Go.

Kelley and Mitzi are on Nantucket, and Kevin and Isabelle are on Nantucket, and the priest, Father Paul, is on Nantucket. He arrived on the noon boat that day and is staying at the church rectory.

The Beaulieus’ plane has taken off; they’re scheduled to land in Boston at midnight. Paddy volunteered to go get them, and in the morning, Jennifer and the boys and the Beaulieus will drive to Hyannis and put their car on the 2:45 slow boat. Paddy will stay in Boston and wait for Bart.

Bart’s flight from Germany was rerouted to Reykjavik, Iceland, because Dulles was shut down due to the storm. Kelley was able to talk to Bart, but only briefly. Bart wasn’t sure what the flight status was; he and the other guys were planning to hit the airport bar.

“All the chicks here are blond,” Bart said.

Kelley was cheered by the fact that Bart finally sounded like himself, but he had wanted to remind Bart that no matter how cold the beer or how beautiful the blondes, Bart needed to focus on getting home.

Margaret is in New York. Drake is going to drive her up Thursday after her broadcast, so they should be on Nantucket first thing Friday morning.

Assuming the boats go. And the planes.

Mitzi holds out the last of her cigarette. “You want?”

He does want, very much, but he has a vision of one puff hurrying his cancer along to the point where his head shatters like a glass ornament hitting the stone floor.

“No, thank you,” he says. He walks out onto the deck to look up into the sky at the thousands of descending snowflakes, no two exactly alike. If you can believe that, then why not also believe that Santa Claus and his reindeer might pick Bart up in Reykjavik and deliver him home?

He leads Mitzi inside and closes the door behind them. “Sit down,” Kelley says. “I’ll make grilled cheese.”

 

JENNIFER

She has a reservation for her family and their BMW X5 on the steamship leaving Hyannis at 2:45 on Thursday but then that boat gets canceled, as does the 8:15 p.m. boat, and the Beaulieus haven’t arrived anyway. Their flight from Orly was rerouted to Nova Scotia.

Bart, meanwhile, is in Reykjavik, Iceland.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Reykjavik,” Paddy says. “Maybe we’ll just blow off Kevy’s wedding and I’ll meet Bart there.”

“Not funny,” Jennifer says. She is presently without her sense of humor. Paddy is in the home office wearing a Santa hat. He seems perfectly relaxed. He doesn’t have to worry about three rambunctious boys killing zombies in the family room or the missing parents of their soon-to-be sister-in-law or a car whose backseat and Thule carrier is crammed full of presents, compromising the crisp beauty of Jennifer’s wrapping and the perfection of her bows. Jennifer had everything packed and ready to go and now she’s being delayed, maybe for as long as twenty-four hours. She is going to have to run to Whole Foods to get groceries for dinner, but Beacon Hill is experiencing a whiteout. She’s not sure she can make it the three blocks to Cambridge Street on foot.

She turns on the TV but that just makes things worse. NECN is showing footage of the long snake of cars on Route 3, tractor-trailers jackknifed, all of the carnage barely visible through the snow.

Jennifer rummages through the fridge and cabinets; she has eggs, a pound of bacon, half a gallon of milk. They could always have breakfast for dinner.

Then the power goes out.

There is a shout from Patrick—his computer!

There is a blended shout from the boys—the TV! Their game!

Jennifer goes to the big picture window in the living room. She stands next to their now-dark Christmas tree, looking across Boston Common. The common is dark; every house up and down Beacon Street is dark. The cars on Park Street and Tremont honk in unified panic. Have the traffic lights gone out? Does that ever happen? All Jennifer can see is snow and more snow.

Her phone pings. She jumps, then checks the display. It’s Norah.

No, Jennifer thinks.

The text says: Are you coming to Nantucket for Christmas?

Paddy’s voice out of the darkness makes Jennifer jump again. Instinctively, she tucks her phone in her pocket.

“Do we have candles?” he asks.

 

KEVIN

They should have eloped. They could have left Genevieve with Kelley and Mitzi, flown to St. Barts for four or five days, and come home a married couple.

Genevieve is teething; whenever Kevin or Isabelle puts her down, she starts to cry.

Isabelle has spent at least fifteen minutes every hour for the past ten hours on the phone with one or the other of her parents. They are stuck in Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia! The good news is that they have befriended a couple from Montreal who speak French; the bad news is that Logan is closed for the foreseeable future, and even if Logan were open, Nantucket is unreachable—no boats, no planes, coming or going.

They should have eloped.

Kelley and Mitzi are, predictably, worried about Bart. Bart is in Iceland, getting drunk and wooing women with his uniform and his war wounds. Kevin doesn’t have the luxury of worrying about Bart right now. He has two females crying in his house; both of them want their parents.

Kevin picks up Genevieve and rubs her back. He takes the teething ring out of the freezer; this works for thirty seconds as Genevieve mad-gnaws on the thing like a dog with a bone, which is just long enough for Kevin to pour three fingers of Jameson into a highball glass, dip a clean washcloth into the whiskey, then rub the cloth on Genevieve’s gums. Jameson was what worked when Paddy and Kevin were teething, Kelley has confided. This explains some things.

“Kevin, mon dieu!” Isabelle says. She snatches the whiskey washcloth out of his hands.

Caught, Kevin thinks.

Genevieve starts to cry.

Before Isabelle can admonish him, her phone rings. It’s her father. They will be in Nova Scotia overnight, he says. Sleeping in the terminal. Logan will not open until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

Isabelle takes the phone into the bedroom and shuts the door.

Kevin is tempted to give the whiskey another try, but instead, he brings Genevieve into the living room and turns on the TV. His mother is broadcasting and immediately Genevieve quiets down. She points at the screen.

“That’s right,” Kevin says. “It’s Mimi.”

Margaret has been joined this evening by some kid who looks like he’s stepped off the pages of GQ. It’s the meteorologist Dougie, and he is delivering the bad news. The blizzard will reach its maximum force tonight or tomorrow morning. Hardest hit will be New York City, Long Island, coastal Connecticut, Rhode Island, Boston, Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard, and Nantucket.

Ha! Kevin thinks. He feels a childish joy any time Nantucket is mentioned on TV. It’s absurd.

“These areas can expect eighteen to twenty-four inches of snow,” Dougie says. The kid looks positively aglow. Margaret, although lovely in an ivory wrap dress, looks exactly like a woman who is about to sit for ten hours—minimum—in atrocious traffic inching northward in a car piloted by an inexperienced driver.

During the final seconds of the broadcast, when newspeople usually smile inanely at the camera, the meteorologist Dougie bursts into song: “White Christmas.” He does sound a little like Bing Crosby. Kevin snaps off the set, and Genevieve starts to cry.

They should have eloped.

 

GEORGE

He’s no stranger to New England winters and he’s been coming to Nantucket at Christmastime for nearly fifteen years, so he’s learned a few things. He and Mary Rose stay ahead of the storm. They drive George’s 1931 Model A fire engine onto the steamship at 2:45 on Wednesday, and the man who helps them park it on the boat says to George, “You’re smart. This is the last boat that’ll go for days.”

“You think?” George says.

“I know,” the man says, looking up at the sky, which does indeed look white and heavy, like a feather pillow about to burst.

George and Mary Rose check into their room at the Castle. The hotel is cheerfully decorated for the holidays. Johnny Mathis sings “Sleigh Ride.” The front-desk clerk, Livingston—George remembers him from last year—says he has a suite available and Livingston can offer it to George at the same rate as the room he booked because George is a return guest. “Wonderful!” George says, and he lets out a robust “Ho-ho-ho!” turning every head in the lobby.

“Shall we call Kelley and Mitzi and tell them we got here early?” Mary Rose asks. “Maybe they can meet us at Lola for sushi tonight.”

“I want you all to myself tonight,” George says. “Room service and Christmas movies.”

“It’s a Wonderful Life!” Mary Rose says.

That it is, George thinks. His hats were featured in the shopping guide of the holiday issue of Vogue and the spike in business was exactly what George needed in order to buy Mary Rose a two-carat diamond engagement ring.

He has the room-service waiter place the velvet box under a silver dome so when Mary Rose lifts it off, expecting calamari, she sees the box instead.

She shrieks. She trembles. She opens the box and sees the ring, and tears stand on her long lovely lashes.

Because of his new exercise regime, George is able to bend down on one knee. “Will you marry me?” George asks. “Will you be my Mrs. Claus?” He can’t believe the difference a year makes, never mind two years. Two years ago, Kelley had caught George and Mitzi kissing in room 10, and George’s world had gone into a tailspin. Then, last year, he had broken up with Mitzi and met Mary Rose. He’s a little old to believe in meant-to-be but he’s old enough to know that he wants to live out his days with this delightful, curvaceous redheaded creature right here. She makes him so, so happy.

Mary Rose throws her arms around George. “Yes!” she says.

 

AVA

She told Potter she would pick him and Gibby up at the ferry on Wednesday evening, but Potter calls to say a guy he met on the boat has offered him and Gibby a ride to the inn so Ava should just sit tight. It has started to snow; the boat they just disembarked from wouldn’t be going back to Hyannis, Potter reports.

Uh-oh, Ava thinks. Paddy and Jennifer, the boys, Isabelle’s parents, Margaret and Drake, and Bart. All of them are on the wrong side of this news.

Ava can’t worry about everyone else; they’ll get here when they get here. She is excited to see Potter. She is still in the stage of major butterflies and although she knows she should go into her bedroom and read or play carols on the piano until Potter arrives, she stands out on the front porch, waiting. The front of the house looks so pretty with the tree twinkling through the window and the sled with its bundles and all of the wreaths and candles.

Joy, Ava thinks. As she waits for her new beau to arrive, she feels pure, unadulterated joy.

A familiar truck pulls up in front of the inn and Ava blinks.

What?

It’s Nathaniel’s truck. She recognizes the sticker from the Bar in the back window and the dent above the wheel. What is Nathaniel doing here? Ava’s mind is racing. She receives a text or two from him each week; Ava has told him that she’s moving to New York City in June to start a new job, but she hasn’t told him what or where the job is, and she hasn’t told him about Potter. She needs to get him out of here before Potter arrives, which is sure to be any second.

Nathaniel turns off the ignition. No! Ava thinks. Not okay! Nathaniel is going to want to catch up. He must be on Nantucket for Christmas? Ava had been sure he would go back to New Canaan for Christmas to see his parents, his sister and her kids, and his pathetic old girlfriend Kirsten Cabot. He has said nothing about returning to the island, and although he still has a cottage here, it seems unfair that he would show up without warning.

Then a horrifying thought enters Ava’s mind: Nathaniel and Kevin are friends; is Nathaniel on Nantucket so he can come to the wedding and attend the reception at the inn on Christmas Eve?

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

“Hey!” Nathaniel calls out with a wave. He goes to the back door of his truck and opens it. He extends a hand, and an elderly gentleman steps out.

Ava’s eyes narrow. She has seen this gentleman before. It’s… Gibby. She realizes this just as she sees Potter get out of the passenger side.

Oh no.

Potter grins and waves like… well, like a little kid at Christmas. Ava wants to return the enthusiasm but she’s too addled by Nathaniel. Nathaniel was the guy who offered Potter and Gibby a ride to the inn. Naturally. Because Ava is the object of some curse where her love life will forever be an obstacle course.

She hurries down the steps to help Gibby.

“Hello, Gibby!” she says loudly, not because Gibby is hard of hearing but because she wants Nathaniel to realize these are not random guests of the inn. “Welcome to Nantucket!”

“Hello, my dear. Thank you for having me.”

“Our pleasure!” she says. She holds Gibby’s arm as he ascends the stairs. She visualizes Potter following behind with their luggage and Nathaniel disappearing with a wave and a “Merry Christmas!”

But when Ava and Gibby reach the safety of the porch and Ava turns around, she sees that both Potter and Nathaniel are heading up the stairs.

Whom to greet first?

There is only one answer to that question. Ava throws her arms around Potter’s neck and kisses him so that there can be no misunderstanding the nature of their relationship. When Potter releases Ava, she turns to Nathaniel. He seems unfazed.

“Hey, stranger,” he says and he hugs Ava. Tightly.

“Hey, stranger, yourself,” she says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It’s a surprise,” Nathaniel says.

Yes, it certainly is.

“I thought I might have Scott to contend with,” Nathaniel says. “But I see my competition this year is taller. And better-looking.”

“Competition?” Potter says. Then he seems to get it. “Oh, are you one of Ava’s ex-boyfriends?”

“Her ex-fiancé, actually,” Nathaniel says.

There is a beat of silence, during which Ava wants to vaporize. Then she says, “Gibby, you must be freezing. Let’s get you inside.”

“I’m freezing too,” Nathaniel says. “I wonder if Mitzi has made any of her world-famous mulled cider?”

Has Mitzi made any of her Cider of a Thousand Cloves? Why, yes, she has! Mitzi is thrilled to see everyone—because what is Christmas without visitors? She hasn’t gone so far as to wear her Mrs. Claus dress (Ava thinks she has permanently retired it), but she is wearing a Christmas sweater with a reindeer appliquéd on the front.

“Look who’s here!” Mitzi cries out. “It’s Potter! And you must be Gibby!” Mitzi gives Gibby a hug. Over Gibby’s shoulder, she catches sight of Nathaniel. “Oh, and look… Nathaniel!”

“Hey, Mitzi,” Nathaniel says. “I was happy to hear Bart is safe. I prayed for him every day.”

“Well, your prayers worked!” Mitzi says. She beams at Nathaniel as if it were in fact his particular prayers that kept Bart alive. Ava rolls her eyes. In the tug-of-war between Nathaniel and Scott, Mitzi was staunchly for Team Nathaniel. When Nathaniel first entered their lives, it was as the carpenter who was building Mitzi’s pantry doors, which are still the pride of the kitchen.

“We hear there’s cider,” Potter says. He’s grinning and Ava loves that he isn’t letting Nathaniel’s presence ruin his evening. He got completely hoodwinked, accepting a ride from Ava’s ex-boyfriend—ex-fiancé, actually, although they were engaged for all of thirty minutes—and yet he couldn’t look happier.

“There’s also beer,” Ava says quickly. Worse than subjecting Potter to Nathaniel might be subjecting him to Mitzi’s cider.

“I most certainly want cider,” Nathaniel says.

“Me too,” Potter says.

“I’ll have a beer,” Gibby says.

Smart man, Ava thinks. While she’s in the fridge getting Gibby a beer, she pulls out a bottle of chardonnay and pours herself a glass.

“I can’t wait for the wedding!” Nathaniel says once they all have drinks. He raises his glass. “Cheers!”

Ava is quick to mobilize Potter and Gibby. She’s going to take them to the Castle, she announces, so that Gibby can check in.

“Gibby?” Nathaniel says. “What about you, Potter? Where are you staying?”

Ava glares at Nathaniel. “I think someone left his manners on Block Island.”

“I’m staying with Ava,” Potter says.

“Good for you, man,” Nathaniel says. He finishes his cider and deposits his cup in the sink. There is mistletoe hanging above his head. He looks at the mistletoe, then looks at Ava.

Leave now, Ava thinks. Or he can stay and hang with Mitzi. Ava doesn’t care. Doesn’t Nathaniel understand? She likes Potter! She thinks back to the previous December, Stroll weekend, when Nathaniel had returned to Nantucket from the Vineyard and Ava bumped into him at the bar at the Boarding House. He had been relentless then, too, come to think of it, but his persistence had been rewarded. He and Ava had started dating again. Maybe he thinks this time is no different. Ava admires his chutzpah even as she feels sorry for him. This time is different.

“Okay, we’re off!” Ava says to Mitzi. “We’re dropping Gibby at the hotel, then we’re going to Nautilus for dinner.”

“Be careful in this snow,” Mitzi says.

“Nautilus?” Potter says.

“You’ll love it,” Nathaniel says. “Get the blue-crab fried rice, it’s off the chain. Come to think of it, I may go to Nautilus myself. I’ll probably see you guys there. I’ve been missing that rice something fierce.”

Ava barely suppresses her smile. She and Potter aren’t going to Nautilus. They are going to Fifty-Six Union.

“Bye!” she cries out.

 

MARGARET

Because she has to button things up before her weeklong vacation and because her new assistant, Jennifer, has yet to develop mind-reading skills, Margaret and Drake don’t get on the road until nearly ten o’clock on Thursday night. The West Side Highway is a parking lot. There’s an accident at Seventy-Second Street that ties them up for forty-five minutes.

Drake sighs. “Should we just go home and start out in the morning?”

“No,” Margaret says. “We have to get to Hyannis tonight.”

“Margaret.”

“He’s my son,” Margaret says.

“I realize this, Margaret,” Drake says. “I was just thinking about… you know, not dying.”

Margaret bows her head. She is feeling very uptight and anxious. She gets like this every once in a while. It’s not a part of herself that she likes, but it’s a part of herself that she acknowledges. She prefers to be in control; situations that are out of her control drive her crazy.

“Please,” she says. She reaches out to touch Drake’s arm. She loves him so much. She doesn’t want to turn into a witch because of Elvira. “Let’s try.”

Drake straightens up in the driver’s seat. “Only for you.”

It takes them nearly three hours to reach exit 11 on I-95, Darien, Connecticut. By then, it’s a quarter to one in the morning and the road conditions are abysmal and they have seen plenty of accidents and cars abandoned on the side of the highway.

“We’re stopping here,” Drake says. “There’s a Howard Johnson’s.”

“Drake.”

“Margaret.”

“I’ll drive if you’re tired. Let me drive.”

“No,” Drake says. “The roads aren’t safe.”

“But—” Margaret says.

“I told you we should have left Wednesday night,” Drake says.

“I couldn’t!” Margaret says. “I asked and got shot down.”

“I understand that, Margaret,” Drake says. “But now we have to deal with the consequences. The roads aren’t safe. I’m making a unilateral decision here. We are stopping and spending the night at the Howard Johnson’s.” Drake pulls into the parking lot of the sad little motel decorated in the signature turquoise and orange. Margaret can’t believe any Howard Johnson’s still exist; this must be the last one left in America. What ever happened to them? Margaret wonders. Would it be worth doing a story on? Maybe a segment for CBS Sunday Morning? Howard Johnson’s makes Margaret think of vanilla milk shakes and cheese dreams with tomato and bacon. Her stomach grumbles.

“I’ll go in,” Drake says. “We don’t need the front-desk clerk seeing you.”

“No,” Margaret agrees. She leans back and closes her eyes. She is suddenly exhausted. She can sleep anywhere, even a Howard Johnson’s.

A few minutes later, Drake knocks on the window, waking Margaret up.

“There’s no room at the inn,” he says.

“Seriously?”

“A lot of wayward travelers tonight. Or so says Mrs. Herbert, the battle-ax at the front desk. But I think she was holding out on me, waiting for me to slip her a bribe.”

“This place really is stuck in the 1950s,” Margaret says. She opens the door and steps outside. She sinks in snow up to her knees.

Upon seeing Margaret Quinn walk into the lobby, Mrs. Herbert, of the exit 11 Howard Johnson’s, blinks her watery blue eyes behind her glasses.

“Are you—” she says to Margaret.

Margaret puts the very last of the day’s energy into giving Mrs. Herbert a smile. “Yes, I am. And I come on bended knee. We need a room, any room.”

Sure enough, Mrs. Herbert says, “I do have one room. I musta overlooked it before.” She cuts a glance at Drake, then hands him an actual key. The turquoise tag says room 42. She softens her expression when she turns back to Margaret. “Do you think I could get an autograph?”

“It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Herbert,” Margaret says.

Room 42 has two twin beds, but the sheets are new and the turquoise blanket seems okay. There’s a rotary phone on the table between the two beds. Margaret stares at it, wondering if she’s dreaming. Then she takes off her boots and lies down. Will Drake get the light? She is asleep before she can even ask.

A phone rings. Margaret jolts awake and reaches for the receiver of the rotary phone.

Dial tone.

No, it’s her cell phone. Her cell phone is ringing. Margaret pulls it out from under her pillow. Please, she thinks. Don’t let it be a news emergency.

The display says Mitzi. It’s twenty after five in the morning.

Kelley? Margaret thinks. Has something happened to Kelley? Margaret is seized by panic. Kelley, her children’s father, her partner for half of her adult life, her dearest friend, a man she loves more than she would ever admit. She almost doesn’t answer. She can’t hear the news. Why else would Mitzi be calling her at five in the morning?

“Hello?” Margaret says.

“Margaret?” Mitzi says. “Did I wake you?”

“Yes,” Margaret says. “We stopped in Connecticut. The roads. We’re at a…” She can’t remember the name of the motel.

But Mitzi doesn’t seem to care. “Connecticut?” she says. “That’s fantastic! That’s perfect!” She calls out, “Kelley, Margaret and Drake are in Connecticut!” There’s a pause. “Where in Connecticut?”

Margaret takes a sip of ice water that has been thoughtfully placed next to the rotary phone. “Darien.”

“Darien,” Mitzi says to Kelley.” Then she says, “Can you be in Hartford by eight thirty?”

Margaret and Drake hit the road at six—which is, sadly, too early to enjoy the bacon-and-eggs special on offer at the restaurant. But they can’t risk being late.

Bart Quinn is due to land in Hartford at quarter to nine. Logan is closed until at least noon, but Hartford, being farther west and out of the direct path of Elvira, is open. Margaret and Quinn are to pick Bart up and drive him to Hyannis, where they will meet up with Paddy, Jennifer, the boys, and Isabelle’s parents. They will all take the 2:45 ferry over—assuming the ferry is up and running—and be on Nantucket by five o’clock.

Phew!

The press has gotten wind that five of the missing Marines are landing at Bradley International, and hence, the place is a zoo. Margaret is fairly incognito in sunglasses and a shearling hat but when she needs to slice through the crowd to collect Bart, she takes her glasses off and shakes her famous red hair free of the hat.

A young reporter from WFSB in Hartford turns around, sees Margaret Quinn, and shrieks.

“Oh my goodness,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m seeing you in person! You are… you are absolutely my hero!”

“I shouldn’t be your hero,” Margaret says. “He should be.” She points to Private Bartholomew James Quinn, Ninth Regiment, First Division, who has just stepped off the passenger ramp into the terminal. Cameras flash and microphones are pushed in his face.

It’s Bart. In person. Bart! Margaret feels so humbled, so honored to be the one picking him up. She waves and calls out, “Bart!”

“Margaret!” he says. He shakes the hands of his fellow Marines, and then they all salute one another, creating a magnificent photo op, after which he grabs Margaret and gives her a giant bear hug. More flashes go off.

Margaret ushers Drake forward. “Bart, this is my husband, Dr. Drake Carroll.”

“Husband?” Bart says. “But you promised to wait for me.”

Drake shakes Bart’s hand. “Thank you for serving our country, young man,” he says. “Thank you for defending our freedom.”

“Freedom,” Bart says, touching the scar on his face. He looks up at the ceiling; tears seem to be threatening. “Freedom has a whole new meaning now.”

 

JENNIFER

They are on a tight schedule with no margin for error, so even though Paddy is now coming with them—making for an extremely crowded car—Jennifer puts herself in charge. The Beaulieus are to land at Logan from Nova Scotia at twelve thirty, assuming the runways get cleared in time. Jennifer now sees her tax dollars at work. Hundreds of plows are employed all over Boston, digging the city and its residents out.

“The ferry leaves at two forty-five,” Jennifer says. “I don’t know what Route 3 is going to look like. The Beaulieus will needs to get their luggage, so let’s say we hit the road by one. Can we get to Hyannis in an hour and fifteen minutes?”

“I’ve done it in forty-nine,” Patrick says. “But that was in the middle of the night, no traffic, no severe weather conditions.”

Forty-nine minutes? It’s a miracle Patrick is still alive. Jennifer needs him to be speedy… but safe. She isn’t about to become a holiday-driving statistic.

The Beaulieus’ plane arrives a little early. Très bien! They’re standing out in front of Terminal E with their luggage at twelve forty-five. And they’ve brought only carry-ons. Magnifique!

The only problem is the language barrier. Kevin warned Jennifer that the Beaulieus speak no English, none. Meaning Jennifer will have to rely on her four years of high school French.

“Bonjour!” she says. “Je m’appelle Jennifer Quinn.” She shakes hands with Madame first, a fair beauty like Isabelle with a reserved but elegant smile, and then with Monsieur, who is a large man, hale and hearty. He has black hair with gray at the temples. They are younger than Jennifer expected and chicly dressed. Madame’s camel-colored slacks still hold a crease. How is this possible after twenty-four hours of travel, including a night spent in a Canadian airport? Jennifer helps Madame with her carry-on and introduces Paddy and the boys.

“Mon mari, Patrick, et mes fils, Barrett, Pierce, et Jaime.”

The boys have been asked to say Bonjour when they meet the Beaulieus, but only Pierce and Jaime comply. Barrett says, “¡Hola!”—smart aleck—which makes Monsieur throw his head back and laugh, setting everyone at ease.

“Okay,” Jennifer says as they all get in the car, pleased that this part of the plan has gone better than expected. She pulls her seat all the way forward to give Monsieur maximum legroom, then turns to Paddy. “Step on it.”

Route 3 isn’t bad. It has been plowed and now the sun is out, making the drive very bright.

Jennifer receives a text from Margaret. She and Drake have Bart! They’re going to meet them at the steamship at two fifteen. Jennifer tells Patrick this in a low voice. He adjusts his sunglasses and, Jennifer sees, wipes away a tear.

“I’m going to see my brother,” Patrick says.

Maybe. Almost immediately, they hit traffic; they slow down, then come to a complete stop.

No! Jennifer thinks. It’s one thirty. They really don’t have time for this.

Monsieur Beaulieu, definitely the more loquacious of the two, spews forth a bunch of sentences en français. Jennifer has no idea what he’s saying and she’s too tense to try to figure it out.

Madame says, “Elle ne comprends pas, mon choux.”

“Désolée,” Jennifer says. She has a perfectly good Rosetta Stone French at home on the library bookshelves, but who has time to relearn a language she was only mediocre at in the first place?

One thirty-five; one forty. Jennifer hates feeling so anxious, but at this point, she’s certain they’re going to miss the boat. If they do miss it, they’ll have to take the eight-fifteen, which doesn’t get them to Nantucket until ten thirty. No; unacceptable. And yet, what can Jennifer do? She can’t make the hundreds of cars in front of her go any faster.

Or can she? Possibly Jennifer’s mental anguish has some real force, because at that second, traffic starts to move and a few moments later, they’re flying along.

They cross the Sagamore Bridge at two minutes past two. Margaret texts to say that she and Drake and Bart have just arrived. They’re going to park and wait for Paddy and Jennifer outside the terminal.

There’s quite a line of cars, Margaret texts. Do you have a reservation?

Jennifer had a reservation… on yesterday’s boat. With all the excitement, she neglected to call and figure out if her ticket would be valid on this boat; she just assumed it would be. But now she remembers that the steamship has a laundry list of specific rules. Jennifer calls the steamship office in Hyannis. The first time she calls, the line is busy. The second time she calls, she’s told her wait time will be fourteen minutes. She groans.

“What’s wrong?” Paddy asks. “We’re going to make it.”

The steamship parking lot is a mob scene. All of the standby lanes are full. Jennifer’s heart sinks. She never considered that anyone else might want to get to Nantucket for Christmas. She had thought that the islanders would want to leave Nantucket so they could visit family in Vermont or Philadelphia.

Jennifer hops out of the car and hurries into the terminal. She sees Margaret and Drake—and Bart. Her heart lifts like a hot-air balloon and tears come to her eyes unbidden.

“Bart!” she says.

“Jenny!” he says. He comes right over to give her a squeeze and she starts to cry for real. Bart Quinn is the only person other than her long-dead grandfather and, occasionally, Patrick whom she’s ever allowed to call her Jenny. It’s Bart—he’s here; he’s safe; he’s in uniform; he has a dramatic scar on his face; he looks older, more mature. He looks like a man.

She says, “Paddy and the kids are out in the car. I have to go deal with this.” She waves the ferry ticket.

“Go,” Bart says. “Deal.”

There are four people in front of Jennifer in line. All of them want to get their vehicles on this boat.

“The boat is sold out,” the ticket man says. He has the thickest New England accent Jennifer has ever heard, and that’s saying something because she has heard some doozies. “And there’s no space on the eight-fifteen. The next boat with space for vehicles is at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” (Tamarah mahnin’.)

Tomorrow morning? Jennifer thinks.

The woman at the front says, “But I have a ticket from yesterday.”

“You got a ticket, he’s got a ticket, everyone’s got a ticket. Doesn’t matter. We honor”—awnah—“the tickets of people originally scheduled on this boat first. That’s policy. Then we honor the tickets of canceled boats.”

“Can we go as passengers if there’s no room for the cars?” the woman asks.

“Lady, we got half the commonwealth out in that parking lot.” Pawking lawt. “This boat is sold out. The eight-fifteen has four passenger tickets left. I can sell you those.”

The woman’s shoulders sag in defeat. “Yes, please.”

The man two people in front of Jennifer—bald, with horn-rimmed spectacles—steps out of line and says, “Looks like I’m going to the airport.”

Us too, Jennifer thinks. But those planes hold only nine people, and altogether they are… ten. Well, Paddy can stay behind a few flights, she thinks.

“The airport is closed until tomorrow,” the ticket man says. He delivers this news with a certain relish, as though he’s enjoying quashing people’s hopes and telling them their holiday plans are ruined. A streak of sadism must be a necessary quality for steamship employees. A nice, kind person with feelings couldn’t do this job with any efficacy.

The other two people in front of Jennifer, an older woman and a female college student, leave the line. Jennifer steps boldly up and gives the ticket man her most winning smile. “I have a reservation on yesterday’s two-forty-five boat, which was canceled,” she says. “I think I heard you say that there’s no way I can get on this boat.”

“You heard correct,” the man says. He’s overweight with thinning blond hair and florid skin. His name tag says Walter.

Waltah, Jennifer thinks.

“So there’s nothing I can do?” Jennifer asks. She leans on the desk and smiles wider, thinking she would do anything shy of seducing Walter to get on this boat. “I have my whole family with me because, you see, my brother-in-law Kevin Quinn is getting married. We’re a local Nantucket family.”

“Mazel tov,” Walter says.

“My other brother-in-law, Bart Quinn? He just got back from Afghanistan. He was one of the missing Marines.”

“God bless America,” Walter says. “Wish I could help you.”

“And my mother-in-law? Is Margaret Quinn.” Jennifer hates herself for disclosing this piece of information and trading on Margaret’s fame, but she is capital-D Desperate.

“I don’t know any Margaret Quinn,” Walter says. He puts a finger to his chin. “Actually, I do know her. I watch Channel Four nights I’m off.”

“Great!” Jennifer says, thinking that, once again, Margaret will be their golden ticket.

“But me knowing who Margaret Quinn is doesn’t make any more space on this boat. You get me, sweetheart?” He leans his head closer to her as though he’s going to impart a secret, maybe another ferry line servicing Nantucket that nobody else knows about or the name of a guy who sells car spaces on the black market. “Your only chance is finding somebody who already has a ticket on this boat and getting that person to switch with you. Maybe you offer a few hundred bucks? Or, since you’re local, maybe someone owes you a favor?”

“Right,” Jennifer says. “Thank you.” She tries to imagine Paddy and Bart and Margaret wandering through the vehicles, offering bribes.

“Seriously, sweetheart, I seen it happen,” Walter says. “And it’s the holidays. People are always nicer.”

Jennifer buys a ticket for tomorrow’s nine o’clock boat and decides to go outside and talk to Paddy. From here, the situation looks dire, and Jennifer feels responsible. She should have dealt with the ticket change right away. She’s an idiot!

Jennifer pushes out the door of the terminal just as a woman is pushing another door to come in. Jennifer looks up.

It’s Norah.

“Norah!” Jennifer says. She feels caught.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Norah says. “Are you going to Nantucket?”

“No,” Jennifer says. “It doesn’t look like it. My ticket is for yesterday’s canceled boat, and this boat is sold out, and the eight-fifteen is sold out. And I have the boys and Margaret and her husband and Bart.”

“Bart?” Norah says. “He’s home?”

“Just got home,” Jennifer says. She throws her hands up and starts to cry. “Or not quite home, I guess.” She wipes at her eyes. “Kevin is getting married tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Norah says. “Really?”

“Really,” Jennifer says. She has now spilled the beans to the only person who shouldn’t know. Great. Norah will probably show up and disrupt the proceedings at the moment when people are invited to speak out or forever hold their peace—but Jennifer won’t be there to see it because she will still be here in Hyannis. She will be watching the boys ride the carousel at the mall; their Christmas Eve dinner will be at Pizzeria Uno. “I need to get my car on this boat.”

“Take my spot,” Norah says. “I insist.”

“What?” Jennifer says. “You have a spot on this boat?”

“Yes,” Norah says. “For my truck. I’ve been in Boston. I tried to reach you…”

I deleted all your messages, Jennifer thinks.

“If we could take your spot…” Jennifer says.

“It’s happening,” Norah says. “Let’s go switch right now with my buddy Walter.”

“Your buddy Walter,” Jennifer says.

Walter switches the tickets in a matter of seconds. Jennifer is now on the boat that’s about to depart and Norah, using Jennifer’s ticket, will be on the nine o’clock the next morning.

Walter says, “Told you, sweetheart. Things like this usually work out. Have a merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Walter,” Jennifer says. She turns to Norah. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. You are… saving the day. And I mean really saving it. Not just for me—for the whole family.”

“Tell Kevin I said congratulations,” Norah says. “Sincerely. I want him to be happy.”

“I’ll do that,” Jennifer says.

“And that thing I wanted to talk to you about?” Norah says.

“Yes?” Jennifer says. Her stomach tenses as if a punch is coming.

“I’m applying to business schools,” Norah says. “I want to go legit, start something real. But I’d like to get an MBA. I was hoping you would write me a letter of recommendation.”

Jennifer laughs. A letter of recommendation? That is what Norah wanted this whole time? A letter of recommendation for business school?

“I understand if you don’t want to…” Norah says.

“Of course I want to!” Jennifer says. “I’d be happy to. I just… well, I thought you wanted to talk about… I don’t know… the stuff we were into before.”

“I’m finished with all that,” Norah says. “Moving onward and upward. But the letter is due January first, so I’ll need it next week.”

“Consider it done,” Jennifer says. She hugs Norah and kisses her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Norah, and thank you.”

She hurries out the door with her new ticket and waves at her family. They have a boat to catch.