Winter Street (7 page)

“I should be home by eight,” Nathaniel says. “Definitely by nine. I’ll call you. What time do you take off?”

“Take off?” she says.

“Your flight.”

“Oh. Midnight, I think?”

“All right,” he says. “I’ll call before you leave.”

“Will you?” she says, hating how desperate she sounds. “Do you
promise?
”

“Yes, baby,” he says. “Of course I promise.” His voice is tender, and for a second it’s like the best of times; it’s an eight or a nine.

“Okay,” Ava says. “Bye-bye.” And she hangs up before anything can change.

W
hen Kelley wakes from his nap, he sends a text to Bart’s cell phone. The text says:
Mommy and I are splitting.

No mention of why. In this, Kelley feels he’s being generous.

Kelley is informed by his phone that the message is undeliverable.

G
ary Grimstead, Great Guy, says:
Compliance had no choice, baby, and now the SEC is involved, and they’re seeing
something
they don’t like. Anything you want to tell me? If you tell me now, if you come clean, it will be better. Trust me, baby.

Gary Grimstead always uses the diminutive “baby”; he fancies himself an incarnation of Vince Vaughn’s character in
Swingers
. Patrick has never liked being called “baby” by someone who is actually eleven months younger than him and who went to an inferior college and business school and yet is his boss. But Gary Grimstead is one of those magnetic people everyone loves and falls over themselves to please. Gary has never lorded his authority over Patrick; he treats Patrick like an equal. They are friends who golf together and sit together in the corporate suite at Red Sox games, bonded by the fact that they both hate the Sox. Patrick grew up a Yankees fan, and Gary likes the Angels. Patrick knows Gary has Patrick’s best interests at heart, but, even so, it feels dangerous to tell him the truth. Can he say the words out loud?

“The
SEC?
” Patrick says, his tone conveying the maximum amount of incredulity. “Because of the
perks?
I can see Compliance giving me a slap on the wrist, telling me I have to be more judicious about who I accept favors from,
but it’s an industry-wide pathology, Gary. I mean, I’m hardly the only private-equity guy on the East Coast taking perks.”

“It’s not the perks,” Gary says. “It’s the amount you invested with Panagea. It’s a lot of money, baby. It sent up a red flag. They’re looking into all your shit. Now, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Panagea is a gamble,” Patrick says. “That’s what we do in this business. We gamble.”

“So, here’s the thing. Panagea has had nothing going on for years; I mean, how long has their stock been at twelve dollars? I’ll tell you how long—since October 2006. Then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, you pour twenty-five mil into this company? And you think nobody’s going to notice?”

You didn’t notice,
Patrick thinks.

“I’ve been reading their R and D reports for years,” Patrick says. “I’ve always had a feeling about them. You know I always go with my gut.”

“They have a new drug,” Gary says. “MDP. Cures leukemia in kids. That’s no secret.”

Patrick holds his breath. He simply doesn’t know how much to admit to.

“Twenty-five point six million is a hell of a gamble,” Gary says. “If that leukemia drug isn’t FDA approved, you’re sunk. If the drug
is
approved, it looks like you know something. Do you know something?”

“No,” Patrick says, but his voice gives him away. He
sounds too defensive. “So, how was the party? You didn’t do any Irish car bombs without me, did you?”

“Patrick,” Gary says. “This is serious. My ass is on the line, too, baby. Tell me what’s going on.”

Tell him,
Patrick thinks. Gary’s ass
is
on the line. He won’t go to jail, but he might lose his job. Patrick sinks to the kitchen floor and rests his elbows on his knees, one hand grabbing a hank of hair, pulling until it really hurts. What has he
done?
What should he
do?

Deny, deny, deny,
he thinks. If he tells the truth, he’s cooked. If he continues to lie, there is still hope. They can’t prove anything.

“Nothing is going on,” Patrick says. “They can look, but I’m clean, man. And, seeing as it’s Christmas Eve, I should go. I’m taking the family to church.”

On the other end, Gary is quiet.

Patrick says, “Man, I’m serious. I’m clean.”

Gary says, “Okay, baby, I hope so. I really do. Merry Christmas.”

Patrick inhales all eight eggs and half the caviar; then he feels queasy. He is now not only a cheat but also a liar. He hurries down the hall to the master bedroom; he’s going to be sick. He stands over the sink and presses his forehead against the bathroom mirror. They won’t catch him; they can’t prove anything. Then he thinks,
Of course they’ll catch me. They catch everyone.

The Boston bombers got caught in four days.

Twenty-five point six million. If the drug is approved, this number will hit the stratosphere. Patrick was tripped up by greed. It’s a deadly sin; now he knows why. He sees the bottle of Vicodin—ten pills left. Would ten Vicodin be enough to kill him?

He’s too much of a chicken to kill himself. He loves life, he loves Jen and the kids, he loves this house, the city of Boston, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts; he loves America.

He throws some clothes and his Dopp kit in a duffel bag and goes out to the living room. The tree is a sparkling wonder; the entire month of December, people have been gathering on the sidewalk below to point and gaze. And it smells good—rich and piney. It pains Patrick to turn the lights off, but he has no choice.

He is going to Nantucket.

T
en more soldiers killed in Afghanistan. Margaret is breathless with horror, followed by shame. She has been anchoring the national news for over twenty years, she has reported on thousands of deaths of American soldiers, and yet it is only
this week, now that her children’s brother has been deployed, that she truly understands how scary and dangerous it is. The sacrifice these kids make (and they are kids—Bart is only nineteen; the last time Margaret saw him, eighteen months earlier, he was in New York City on his senior class trip) is astonishing—as are the sacrifices the parents make, sending their sons and daughters into battle. The parents. Kelley and Mitzi.

“I’m behind on Afghanistan,” Margaret admits to her assistant, Darcy, who is, on any given day, one of the most informed people at the network. “Why all these deaths all of a sudden? Can you explain it?”

“The U.S. wanted to have the majority of their troops withdrawn by year’s end,” Darcy says. “They’ve been pulling out far more troops than they’re sending in. And insurgent forces know this. With fewer U.S. troops, it’s safer for Afghan nationals who support the Taliban to make their presence known. They’re striking out left and right. Quite frankly, I’d be surprised if they don’t attempt a full-on takeover.” Darcy pushes her glasses higher on her nose. “I’d say Afghanistan is more dangerous now than it ever has been.”

“Well, great,” Margaret says. “Bart Quinn just got shipped over.”

“Yes, you told me,” Darcy says. “He isn’t… on the list, is he?”

Margaret scans the list. “No, thank God.”
Not today,
she thinks.

“Can you imagine the parents who are getting the news… on Christmas Eve?” Darcy says.

Margaret thinks about those parents, and something unusual happens. She tears up. She hasn’t cried over the news since she famously broke down on the air when the first tower collapsed on September 11. Initially, she received all kinds of criticism for losing her composure. But Margaret thinks—actually, she knows—that it was her coverage on September 11 that caught the attention of the big boss, Lee Kramer, and launched her into the evening anchor spot.

Margaret wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, and Darcy silently retreats.

Margaret’s cell phone rings.

Drake,
she thinks,
canceling.

But it’s Ava.

“Darling!” Margaret says.

“Mommy,” Ava says.

“Darling, what is it?” Margaret checks her computer: it’s quarter to five. She’s due in Wardrobe in fifteen minutes. Red tonight, for sure, which will make her wish she had a bag over her head; the Nasty Blogger, Queenie229, will have a field day. What would be happening in Ava’s world at quarter to five on Christmas Eve?

“I want to come to Hawaii with you,” Ava says in a small voice. It is a voice from the past, her little-girl voice, and instinctively Margaret fills with guilt.
I want to come with you, Mommy
. This was Ava, every afternoon when Margaret
was getting ready to head to the studio.
I want you. I can’t stop wanting you.
Ava would cry, and Margaret would have to peel Ava off her, and hand her over to Lotus, the housekeeper-nanny. Oh, the guilt! Ava would be home from school for only five minutes before Margaret had to go to work. In the days when she was at NY1, she saw the kids for an average of two hours during the week, and then she tried to make it all up to them on the weekends—but some weekends she was called in to work, too. It doesn’t really matter that Margaret is now sitting on the golden throne of broadcast journalism; she missed so much of her kids’ lives growing up, it tears her apart.

She missed so much.

“Hawaii?” Margaret says. “Oh, honey.”

“Did you not mean it when you invited me?” Ava says. “I really,
really
want to get out of here.”

“I’m going to Hawaii with my friend Drake,” Margaret says. “When I asked you, I was serious that I wanted you to come, but I was also kidding because we didn’t arrange it. I would love to take you to Hawaii, sweetheart. We’ll plan it for next year, I promise. Would you like to come with me next year?”

“Next year?” Ava says.

“I never thought you would want to leave the island during the holidays,” Margaret says. “It’s such a big deal for you—the inn, the party; I never thought you would seriously consider coming with me, honey. Otherwise I would have asked you in September, when I booked it.”

“So there’s no way I can go?” Ava asks. “Who’s Drake?”

“You met Drake,” Margaret says. “Once, on Nantucket. He stayed overnight with me at the White Elephant? He’s the pediatric brain surgeon…?” Margaret’s voice falters. She doesn’t want Ava to think that she would rather be with some on-again, off-again boyfriend than her own daughter. But to cancel with Drake at this point would be cruel. “What’s really bothering you, sweetheart? Is it Daddy?”

“Yes, it’s Daddy!” Ava says. “He nearly burned the house down, setting Mitzi’s roller disco outfit on fire!”

Oh my,
Margaret thinks.

“He’s smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey and posting toxic things about Mitzi on Facebook. Meanwhile, the party is in two hours and Daddy hasn’t lifted a finger and Kevin is missing and Patrick isn’t coming home, so who gets stuck holding the bag? Me!”

“Oh, sweetie,” Margaret says. She’s a woman with a comprehensive vocabulary, but that is all she can come up with to say. She is thinking of herself and Kelley at a certain bar in the Village, drinking beer and doing shots, smoking cigarettes, Margaret in jeans and a black turtleneck, Kelley in a fisherman’s sweater; after they played Traffic on the jukebox and paid the bill, they had enough money to split a grilled cheese sandwich at the Greek diner. More tears: what is
wrong
with her? She remembers that Margaret and that Kelley, that
couple,
so fondly, like they are dear friends she hasn’t seen in a long time. They were the happiest people she knew.
They didn’t need big careers or their own brownstone or piles of money.

“Poor Daddy,” Margaret says. Mitzi has gone and broken Kelley’s heart—although Margaret knows that she broke it first and she broke it best.

“And that’s not even my real problem,” Ava says.

“What
is
your real problem?” Margaret asks. “Tell me.”

“It’s a long story,” Ava says. “And you must have to go soon?”

It’s five minutes to five. Darcy has suddenly reappeared, indicating that it’s nearly time for Wardrobe and Makeup.

“Please tell me, darling,” Margaret says.

“Nathaniel is in Greenwich, Connecticut, with his family,” Ava says. “His beautiful ex-girlfriend who just got divorced is also there. I’m scared and I’m jealous and I’m lonely. I got on the phone with him and told him I was going to Hawaii with you. I want him to think I’m fabulous, I want to be elusive, I want him to propose, but I’m a straight fail across the board.”

“Ava,” Margaret says, in her serious Mom voice, “you are not a fail.”

“Yes,” Ava says, “I am.”

“I love you, Ava.”

“I love you, too, Mommy. Have fun in Hawaii.” With that, Ava hangs up. Margaret holds the phone for a second. Then, not knowing what else to do, she heads down the hall—toward Wardrobe and the red dress.

S
cott Skyler arrives at six o’clock, and Ava hands him the Santa suit.

“You’re about half the size of George,” Ava says. “I really don’t think this is going to fit you.”

“I’ll make it work,” Scott says. “Don’t worry.”

“You’re a lifesaver and a saint,” Ava says. “I don’t know why you always come to the rescue.”

“Don’t you?” Scott says, and he gives Ava a searing
I want you
look. He has given Ava this look three or four times before, the first time several years earlier, while sitting at the bar at Lola 41. Ava had been out with her girlfriend Shelby, the school librarian, but Shelby left to pick up her teenage sons, and so Ava was sitting alone when Scott wandered in. He told her he had just been promoted from fifth-grade teacher to assistant principal. This came as such surprising news (elementary schools are petri dishes of gossip; Ava couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard any rumor of the promotion) that Ava threw her arms around Scott’s neck and kissed his cheek.

“I’m so
proud
of you!” she said. She was three drinks into the night and as such was overly animated. She was also struck by the novelty of seeing
Scott Skyler
at Lola. Lola was a dark, sexy place that served sushi and ruby red grapefruit martinis; it was a place where Ava normally ran into the divorced parents of her students, not Scott Skyler.

“Thanks,” Scott said. He was a tall guy with superhero shoulders, and that night he’d seemed even taller. He eschewed his usual Budweiser and ordered something called a Poison Dragonfly—and by the time he was at the end of his drink, he was narrowing his eyes in desire at Ava, telling her he was in love with her. He’d been in love with her since the first time he saw her play the piano at school assembly.
And even before that!
he said. Because he’d attended the Christmas Eve party at the Winter Street Inn with his older sister years earlier, and he’d seen Ava ladling out the Cider of a Thousand Cloves and thought she was the most beautiful creature alive.

Ava scoffed. She thought,
The Poison Dragonfly has created a master of hyperbole!
She was
not
the most beautiful creature alive, not by a long shot. She was, like her mother, handsome—or she would be handsome, she supposed, when she got older.

Now Scott is giving her the fired-up look again, and Ava thinks he might try to kiss her. She surreptitiously looks up to make sure she isn’t standing under any mistletoe.

She says to him, “You’re a good egg for coming, Scottie.” She pats him on the shoulder.

He gets it. His face settles into resignation; it’s territory they have covered before. Ava doesn’t reciprocate his feelings. It’s not that she doesn’t
want
to—she does! She likes him and loves him, she admires him, she thinks he is the
owner of a golden heart and an incorruptible character and a solid intellect. He is tall and strong and handsome; he has nice, thick hair, and he looks good in cable-knit sweaters. When he’s using his Assistant Principal Skyler voice, he can silence an auditorium filled with kids; it’s pretty impressive.

But with Scott there isn’t any spark, any juice; that one salient, mysterious ingredient is missing.

“Have you heard from Nathaniel?” Scott asks.

Ava nods. “I broke down and called him.” She pauses, wondering if she should confess that she lied about going to Hawaii and then tried to make it a not-lie by calling Margaret, only to find out that her mother has a doctor named Drake joining her in Hawaii, and, even if she didn’t, it would be really expensive and impractical to include Ava at the last minute.

Ava decides that Scott doesn’t need to know all this. She doesn’t want him to know that she’s resorted to lying to hold on to Nathaniel. “Nathaniel is going over to what’s-her-name’s house. I guess the parents have this cocktail thingy. He said he’ll call me later. Eight or nine.”

Scott gives her a penetrating look that lasts just long enough to throw Ava into self-doubt.

“I’ll go put on the suit,” he says.

And then, Ava remembers her idea!

She has never set anyone up in her life; she knows nothing about it. There used to be a matchmaker on Nantucket
named Dabney Kimball Beech. Dabney had been the closest thing Nantucket had to a local celebrity, but she succumbed to cancer in the fall. Dabney set up Ava’s friend Shelby with her husband, Zack, which practically makes Shelby famous—not to mention lucky. Dabney’s matches always stay happily married.

Ava decides to channel the spirit of Dabney Kimball Beech and try her hand at matchmaking. She finds Mitzi’s sexy Mrs. Claus dress and presents it to Isabelle.

“Would you mind wearing this tonight?” Ava asks.

Isabelle looks confused.
“Ce soir?”

“You can be Mrs. Claus,” Ava says. “You’ll help Scott with the children. All you have to do is keep them in line and then take the photos.”

Isabelle seems unsure.

“Are you feeling better now?” Ava asks.

Isabelle nods decisively.

“Great!” Ava says. “Just put on the dress and some black shoes. I’ll show you what to do. It’ll be fun!”

Ava then goes to check on things in the kitchen. The salted-almond pinecone is done, as are the cheese board, the smoked salmon dip, the hot sausage dip, the sugared dates stuffed with peanut butter, the red, green, and white crudité tray, and the tea sandwiches. Isabelle has already preheated the oven, and she lined up the hors d’oeuvres on hotel pans.

Kevin set up the bar the night before, and he went out to get ice a while ago, but it’s taking him a long time. In general, Ava would say that she feels almost completely abandoned: Her mother is going to Hawaii with a doctor named Drake (he sounds like a character from a soap opera), Patrick is…? Kevin is…? Bart is… in Afghanistan somewhere? Nathaniel is on his way to Kirsten Cabot’s house. Her father is locked in his bedroom. And Mitzi is…? Ava wouldn’t have thought herself capable of missing Mitzi, but, oddly, as Ava stands in the warm kitchen, listening to the
Nutcracker
Suite playing on the whole-inn sound system, the person she misses is Mitzi. Ava’s relationship with Mitzi was troubled from the start; it’s safe to say that Ava tolerated Mitzi on a good day and was openly hostile on a bad day. But this is Mitzi’s party, and in years past, Mitzi has made it sparkle with her own irrepressible Christmas spirit. She wore the Mrs. Claus suit, she sang along loudest to the carols, and her enthusiasm, although at times over-the-top, was contagious.

In years past, this party was the closest Ava came to the true Christmas spirit of her youth. Nantucket Island, by anyone’s standards, is a wonderland at the holidays. Ava remembers her first Christmas here. She and her father had gone into town alone to shop for last-minute presents. It was dark at four thirty in the afternoon, and Ava had stood at the base of Main Street, marveling at the trees, with their colored lights running up either side of the street all the way
to Pacific National Bank, where the giant tree with its 1609 white fairy lights twinkled. The shopwindows were decorated with evergreen boughs, candy canes, and blown-glass ornaments. Her father bought her a hot chocolate with one pillowy, homemade marshmallow that left powdered sugar on her lip—and then on his lip too, when she kissed him to say thank you. They had bought Patrick and Kevin neckties from Murray’s—which they would be expected to wear to Mass—and then, with her own allowance, Ava had bought their dog at the time, Lucy, a new collar and a bag of rawhides. As Ava and Kelley walked home, they sang carols. First, Ava’s favorite, “Angels We Have Heard on High,” and then Kelley’s favorite, “Silent Night.”

Ava wanders out to the living room now and tries to feel the emotions she felt then. The tree is a Christmas narrative unto itself because of the ornaments Mitzi has collected. Growing up, Mitzi’s mother was part of a Christmas club, where all the women made ornaments to exchange. There is a mama hedgehog made from a thistle, a baby mouse nestled in half a walnut shell, and a Santa made from a hollowed-out egg. Some of the ornaments are over forty years old; Mitzi has taken excellent care of them. When Ava was younger, she was fascinated by the stories behind the ornaments—there’s a reindeer face crafted out of the nipple of a baby bottle that Mrs. Wilson made in honor of Mrs. Glass the year Mrs. Glass gave birth to triplets. There is a stuffed felt Snoopy with paper-clip ice skates made by Mrs. Simon, who
was Jewish but who wanted to be included in the Christmas Club anyway. In later years, other ornaments were added—there is a surfboard for Kevin, skis for Patrick, a tiny piano that plays—
sigh…—
“Jingle Bells” for Ava. There is a papier-mâché roller skate that Kelley got for Mitzi their first Christmas together.

Ava inhales the scent of fragrant evergreen; then she studies the nutcrackers—the scuba diver is her first favorite, followed by the fisherman. She admires the silver bowls of enormous pinecones that Mitzi buys every year from a fir farm in Colorado, and the glass apothecary jars filled with ribbon candy. There are birch logs stacked neatly in the fireplace. The room is more Christmassy than the North Pole. Why isn’t this working?

Well, as Mitzi herself has long said, what makes a tradition special is who you share it with.

Scott steps out of the powder room in the suit and a white wig and beard. “How do I look?” he asks.

Before Ava can comment—he needs help straightening his beard—the doorbell rings.

Ava panics. It’s six thirty. There have indeed been years when guests have appeared early—but not this early.
And, please, not this year.
Ava isn’t even dressed. This year, she bought a black velvet cocktail dress, thinking Nathaniel might propose and she might possibly be the center of attention.

She goes to the front door, Scott trailing behind her. “No early birds,” she says to Scott. “You’ll back me up?”

“Always,” he says.

Ava swings open the big oak door to see a portly, white-haired man in a flannel shirt and an unzipped parka.

“Ava,” he says.

It takes her a minute.

It’s George. George the Santa Claus.

Ava opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She feels Scott standing right behind her, and she watches George take in the sight of Scott in his Santa suit. Ava feels an apology forming in her mind; then she thinks,
No!
She does not owe George an apology.

“What…” she says, “can I do for you?”

“Is your father at home?” George asks. “I’d like to speak to him, man-to-man.”

“Uh…,” she says. Ava is thrown by the phrase “man-to-man.” Is there another way they would speak to each other? She hates herself for floundering. But really, it’s unfair that she alone has been left to navigate the emotional land mines this family has created for itself.

Suddenly, Isabelle appears out of nowhere. “
Bon soir,
George,” she says. “Come in, please? I will get monsieur.”

Ava can’t decide if she should feel angered or relieved by Isabelle’s intervening. She chooses relieved. She and Scott/Santa step aside so that George can enter.

George says to Scott, “You look good in the suit.”

Scott says, “I’m a big guy, but I have to say, I’m glad this came with a belt.”

Ava bites her tongue to keep from laughing. Scott is her hero.

Isabelle vanishes into the owners’ quarters, and Ava notices an awkward silence between George the Old Santa Claus and Scott the New Santa Claus.

George says, “Place looks great.” He eyes the mantel. “There are the nutcrackers. I have to say, I always enjoyed looking at them. I’m fond of the bagpiper.”

“Scuba diver,” Ava says.

Scott says, “Hmm… I’m partial to the pirate.”

George scans the rest of the room. “So, you must be getting ready.”

There is genuine rue and longing in his voice, and Ava realizes that George is going to miss being at the party. He is going to
miss
being Santa. He is, probably, very jealous of Scott right now. He is, probably, assuaging his jealousy by thinking that, being a portly man, he is a much more natural-looking Santa.

After a long, long moment, during which Ava takes only six metered breaths, Kevin bursts in from the back, holding an Igloo boat cooler full of ice.

He says, “The iceman cometh!” with a hilarious grin. He takes in the sight of George and Ava and Scott dressed as Santa with his usual equanimity. “Hey, George.”

“Kevin,” George says.

Kevin takes the cooler to the back corner of the room, where he starts to set up the bar, whistling.
Oh, to be Kevin,
Ava thinks. Happy and oblivious.

Isabelle emerges from the owners’ quarters. “Monsieur says you can go back.”

Everyone seems shocked by this pronouncement. Ava’s roommate at Berklee College of Music was an opera singer, and when she became, in her words,
verklempt,
she would sing the highest note in her range. Ava hears the note now, in her head; it’s shrill enough to break glass or summon every dog in the neighborhood.

George clears his throat. “Back…?”

“To
sa chambre,
” Isabelle says. “His room? You do know where it is,
n’est-ce pas?
”

Despite the fact that English is her second language, there is unmistakable innuendo in Isabelle’s voice, and Ava feels a surge of admiration. Isabelle has just proven herself to be on
their
side, even though it was Mitzi who brought her into the fold.

“Yes,” George says, “I think so.” He tugs at the bottom of his flannel shirt and heads down the hallway. Ava, Scott, Isabelle, and Kevin watch him go.

“Tequila shot, anyone?” Kevin asks.