A few seconds later Trish comes clipping through the lobby with a suitcase and a small backpack. She grabs PJ by the hand and says to Harrison, “We’re going.”
“Okay?” Harrison says. He smiles ruefully at Ava. “Cheerio, then, Ava. Lovely to meet you.”
“And you,” Ava says. She tries to catch Trish’s eye. They’re all adults; there’s no reason why they can’t be civil. But Trish storms through the revolving door to the street without a word or look in Ava’s direction.
“Bye, PJ!” Ava calls out, but it’s too late. He doesn’t hear her.
Ava fills with sadness and—she’s not going to lie—with relief. Meeting PJ was an unmitigated disaster, but at least now it’s over.
For the time being. If she’s going to have a future with Potter, she will need to find a way to relate to Potter’s child.
Ava waves at Keith, the doorman, who has his nose in a book, studiously trying to appear uninterested in the drama.
Sometime tomorrow Ava will have to call her mother, tell her what transpired, and ask her advice.
But wait—no. Margaret knows nothing about being a stepmother, or even a father’s girlfriend. Drake doesn’t have children, and to Ava’s knowledge, Margaret never dated anyone else with children, or at least young children.
The realization dawns on Ava that she does know someone who has been through this. She does know a woman who had no choice but to parent a child not her own. Three children, in fact.
Mitzi. Ava needs to talk to Mitzi.
She could call, she supposes, but the conversation she wants to have would be far better broached in person. As Ava pushes the button for the seventh floor, she makes a decision. She will go home on Tuesday, home to Nantucket. She will go to Bart’s birthday party.
BART
The party has three saving graces. One is there will be plentiful alcohol; it is a Quinn party, after all. Two is there will be meat: tenderloin sandwiches, crumbled bacon at the mashed potato bar, passed pigs in a blanket, and more bacon wrapped around Nantucket bay scallops. Bart isn’t immune to the allure of good food. He has been living at the inn along with Mitzi and Kelley; he has been subjected to the watery spinach soup and the kale–egg white soufflé.
The third saving grace is that his siblings are attending. Patrick and Jennifer are leaving the kids behind in Boston so that they can enjoy an adult evening, and Ava is taking a half day off Tuesday and a personal day on Wednesday so that she can attend. Bart knows his siblings love him, but this party is wholly Mitzi’s idea, and… well, sometimes the elder Quinn children resist Mitzi’s ideas.
It does feel good to wake up on the thirty-first and be met with a purpose. It feels good to take a long shower, to shave, and to put on some nice clothes. Bart is wearing jeans, a white button-down shirt, a navy fleece vest, and his good Chucks, the black ones that Mitzi bought him for Christmas. She bought them without even knowing if Bart was alive or not.
He asks his mother if there is anything he can do to help. He is, after all, an able-bodied twenty-two-year-old Marine, still in pretty formidable shape despite everything. Both his parents treat him like a cracked vessel that must be handled gently or it will break in two.
And aren’t they right, in a way?
The only injury Bart sustained overseas was a puncture wound to his right cheek; he was attacked when he was trying to save Centaur’s life. “Take me, not him!” Bart had cried out. He had tried to pull Centaur from the grip of two Bely, the ones the Marines had nicknamed Grim and Reaper; one of them fought him off with a sharpened piece of rebar, which he caught just under his eye. It knocked him out cold, and when he came to, Centaur was gone.
The only other damage done was to Bart’s psyche. He rode high for about six weeks after his return to America. Everything was a cause for celebration: He was free! He was on Nantucket, with his family! Once he’d been captured, he’d lost hope of ever seeing Sankaty Head Light again, of seeing his mother’s eyes again, of seeing the Civil War monument at the top of Main Street or his childhood bedroom or the Atlantic Ocean again.
But then once the holidays passed and civilian life on Nantucket became his new normal, Bart started having nightmares about the Pit. His nightmares were followed by panic attacks during the day. There were times when he became convinced that Centaur was alive, as long as Bart… what? That was the terrifying thing: Bart didn’t know what he had to do to keep Centaur alive. He would lose control of his breathing to the point of hyperventilation. He would sweat, his vision would splotch, he would feel like he was about to pass out. Then reality would intercede. Centaur was dead. Grim and Reaper had marched him off to the Pit.
Bart shakes his head to clear it. See how easy it is to get trapped in the black grip of his mind?
“I don’t want you to see the space before tonight,” Mitzi says. “I want you to be surprised. So I’m going to leave now to take care of last-minute details. You can keep your father company.”
Okay, good idea. Bart has been meaning to have a conversation with Kelley, but his mother is always, always around, and now there are also hospice workers, two placid women who float around with nearly holy authority, like nuns. Bart is afraid of the hospice workers. They seem to know something about death that he doesn’t, and he knows a lot about death.
He knocks on his father’s door and peers in. His father is in bed, of course, listening to something on earphones. When Kelley sees Bart, he pulls an earbud out.
“Happy birthday, son,” he says. “I meant to tackle you and give you twenty-two noogies, but I think my tackling and noogie days are on hold for now.”
Bart breathes, blinks. He loves his father for keeping faith that the tackling and noogie days might return. “What are you listening to? Shouldn’t you be sleeping? Getting rested for tonight?”
“It’s a Danielle Steel novel,” Kelley says. “This one is called The Mistress. Want to have a listen?”
“Not really,” Bart says, but Kelley ignores him. He pulls the earphone jack out, and a man’s melodious, British-accented voice starts describing so-and-so’s sweeping desire.
Kelley pats the bed, indicating Bart should sit down, and Bart does so reluctantly. He doesn’t think he can tolerate Danielle Steel, even if it were narrated by John Cleese or Daniel Craig.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Bart says. “Something serious.”
Kelley smiles benignly, his eyes at half-mast. Bart knows his father is heavily medicated, but Bart also sees this as his only chance. Kelley isn’t going to get any better. His ability to comprehend isn’t getting any sharper. Bart reaches over and pauses the book.
This gets Kelley’s attention. “What’s wrong?” He jerks his head, and Bart remembers that Kelley can see him out of only one eye.
“I want to talk to you, Dad,” Bart says.
Kelley sinks back into his pillows and closes his eyes. “Of course, son. I’m sorry.”
“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve made a decision about my future.” Bart pauses. He hates the drama of the moment. He hates the circumstances—it’s his birthday, Kelley is dying—but he needs to say this. Say it!
“I’m going back to active duty. I’m going back to the Marines.”
Bart feels a thousand times better now that it’s out, but he also braces himself for Kelley’s inevitable rebuttal. If Bart goes back on active duty, who will take care of Mitzi? That’s the issue. Bart wants to go back to active duty because it’s the only thing in his life that he’s proven to be good at. He loves the discipline, he craves the camaraderie. He needs to be regimented; otherwise, he falls apart. He started going to the gym on a regular basis after Christmas, but it was a means to no end. Why work out if there is no mission, no goal? Bart thought he would be able to work at Kevin’s beach shack, at least through the summer, but the endless line of people flustered him, and he found the general sense of triviality—beachgoers losing their temper over how long it took to get their fish tacos and Corona
s—off-putting. Didn’t these people realize how privileged they sounded? Did they not realize that people had died—and were dying still—in order to safeguard their freedom? Real things, serious things, were happening in the world. The U.S. was engaged in a war against ISIS, and there were flesh-and-blood soldiers out there fighting it. While Bart and the rest of his platoon had been held prisoner, people in America had been at the beach. While Bart’s fellow soldiers had been randomly selected and marched to the Pit, civilians at home had been going to brunch, then Snapchatting photos of their avocado toast. Bart knows it’s unrealistic of him to think that the entire nation would have hit the pause button on their happy, productive lives and waited with bated breath to find out what had happened to the servicemen gone missing outside of Sangin, Afghanistan, or even that the DoD would have dedicated every cent of its budget to locating the platoon. It was 2014—people went missing but didn’t stay missing. But Bart and the rest of his platoon had been marched off the grid and stayed off the grid for nearly two years.
Kelley hasn’t spoken, but Bart can tell he understands what Bart is telling him.
“I need to go back, Dad,” Bart says.
Kelley opens his mouth to speak. Bart knows what he’s going to say. What about your mother? Bart has to stay on Nantucket and take care of Mitzi. There will be no one else.
Kelley reaches out to squeeze Bart’s hand. “It’s okay,” he says.
What’s okay? It’s okay if Bart returns to active duty? Or maybe Kelley meant that Mitzi will be okay. This is what Bart wants so badly to believe: that his mother is stronger than anyone imagines, that Mitzi will not fold, crumple, or flail. She will bounce back—resilient, strong, capable. If she wants to run the inn, she will hire competent help. If the inn is too much, she’ll sell it and buy a smaller house, maybe even a house on the beach.
Kelley’s eyes close and Bart feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s one of the hospice workers. Laura, he thinks her name is.
“Your father needs to sleep before the party,” she says.
Bart nods in agreement and stands to leave.
“Your brother and sister-in-law are in the kitchen,” Lara says. “They’re anxious to see you.”
Bart heads to the kitchen expecting to see Kevin and Isabelle, a prospect that doesn’t exactly excite him. Growing up, Bart always sensed that Kevin resented him—loved him, of course, because they were brothers, but maybe didn’t like him. Bart, after all, had turned Kevin into more of a middle child than he already was. Since Bart has gotten home, Kevin alone has been tough on him. What are Bart’s plans for the future? What is he going to do with his life? Does he plan on making a career out of sitting in his room and smoking dope? This feels hypocritical coming from Kevin, because back when Bart enlisted, that’s what Kevin was doing. He was living at the inn, managing the Bar, licking his wounds from his disastrous marriage to Norah Vale, doing pretty much nothing productive or worthwhile—and he was far older then than Bart is now. Among the biggest surprises for Bart upon returning home was discovering that Kevin had gotten married, sired a child, moved into a rental cottage, and started a successful business that had nothing to do with the inn.
Probably, Kevin and Isabelle come bearing gifts, and Bart feels slightly more eager. Isabelle is French; she always chooses good presents. For Christmas she gave Bart a sterling silver shaving kit, which he never uses but is happy to have.
When Bart pushes through the French doors into the kitchen, he sees his brother Patrick and his sister-in-law Jennifer. Patrick has two beers in front of him, and Jennifer is pouring herself a glass of wine. When they see him, they start singing “Happy Birthday” in two-part harmony, and Bart smiles in spite of himself. These two are the perfect couple. They may have flaws as individuals, but you can’t beat them together.
When they finish, Jennifer hands Bart a card.
“Aw, guys,” Bart says. “The song was enough. I said no gifts.” He opens the envelope. It’s a $150 gift certificate to Fifty-Six Union, a restaurant here on Nantucket that Patrick and Jennifer love. “Thank you!” he says, trying to muster enthusiasm. What is he supposed to do with this?
“Figured you could take a girl out on a date,” Patrick says.
“Girl?” Bart says. “It’s October, man. There aren’t any girls on Nantucket.”
“What about Savannah Steppen?” Jennifer asks. “She was cute.”
Bart looks at Patrick. “I hope that other beer is for me.”
“It is, man,” Patrick says. “Happy birthday. And thank you for giving us a chance to get away from our kids for the night.”
“What was wrong with Savannah?” Jennifer asks. “She was cute.”
“She was my prom date,” Bart says. “My junior prom date. And she’s in college. She went to, like, Cornell.” Bart takes a sip of his beer. Savannah Steppen was cute, no argument, but she is stuck firmly in Bart’s past. High school. Which might as well have taken place a few millenniums earlier, so irrelevant is it to who Bart is now. All of his friends from high school are now in college—or, hell, out of college—and those who stayed here to work, Bart has no interest in fraternizing with. Which is the other reason he needs to go back into the Marines.
Bart is saved from having to explain this—which he would have done badly, especially since both Patrick and Jennifer believe Bart should apply to college himself—by the side door to the kitchen slamming. They all turn to see Ava walk in. She’s wearing jeans, an ivory cable-knit sweater, and her old brown corduroy jacket.
“Ava!” Bart says. He rushes to hug her. God, he’s missed her and that familiar ugly jacket.
She squeezes him tight, and when she pulls away, her eyes are shining with tears. “I can’t believe I thought about skipping this,” she says. “Also, I can’t believe you let Mitzi throw you a party. You hate your birthday.”
“Please,” Bart says. “Do you think I had a choice?”
“No,” Ava, Patrick, and Jennifer all say at the same time.
Ava takes off her jacket and slips it over one of the stools at the counter. She drops her overnight bag to the floor and pulls an envelope out of her purse. “For you,” she says. “Happy birthday.”
It’s two round-trip Acela tickets from Boston to New York.
“I left the dates open,” Ava says. “Figured you could either come twice by yourself and stay with me, or you could bring a date and stay at Drake’s apartment, which is a three-million-dollar piece of real estate sitting empty.”
A date? Bart thinks. Why are his siblings suddenly so keen to set him up with a girl? Girls are the farthest thing from Bart’s mind. Still, the idea of going down to New York appeals, sometime before he goes back on active duty.
He’ll have to pass a battery of tests before he’s allowed to reenlist. The physical ones he’ll pass. The psychological ones…?
“Thanks, Sis,” Bart says. He studies the train tickets. First class! “This is a great idea.”
Kevin and Isabelle walk in the side door next. “Look,” Kevin says. “It’s a party.”
“Want a beer?” Patrick asks.
“Pope, funny hat,” Kevin says.
“Ava, Isabelle, wine?” Jennifer asks.
“Isabelle is nursing,” Kevin says.
“Une biere, s’il vous plait,” Isabelle says. She hands Bart a garment bag. “Pour toi. Bon anniversaire!”
“Thanks, Isabelle,” Bart says. The garment bag is from Saks Fifth Avenue, which means it’s not a navy blazer from Murray’s. Bart has no fewer than eight such blazers in ascending sizes hanging in his closet. Mitzi won’t let Bart take them to the thrift shop. They’re a record of his growing up, she says.
Bart unzips the garment bag to find a slate-blue cashmere jacket, the cut and beauty of which Bart cannot believe. It’s the most beautiful article of clothing he has ever seen, certainly more sophisticated than anything he owns. It’s an adult jacket, an adult civilian jacket. Still, Bart feels a thrill as he slips it on. It fits perfectly.
Patrick whistles. “Looks great, bro.” To Kevin he says, “What’d that run you, six bills?”
Kevin says, “Isabelle got it and she’s too elegant to disclose the price.”
Jennifer swats Patrick. “How much it costs doesn’t matter. What matters is that you look gorgeous in it, Bart.”
Ava claps her hands. “You can wear it to New York City.”
“Tu peux le porter ce soir,” Isabelle says.
“Ce soir?” Bart says.
“A la soirée,” Isabelle says.
Bart shoots his cuffs. Maybe he will wear it to the party tonight. Why not? He looks around the kitchen at his siblings and he raises his beer.
“Thanks, you guys,” he says, but he is too overcome with emotion to say anything more. He doesn’t even need to go to the party, he thinks. The real party is right here.
EDDIE
Allegra is ready to go—she has been ready for nearly twenty minutes, despite the two-hour preparation to do her hair and makeup and to get into her kimono, obi, and silk slippers. The costume looks authentic… and very, very expensive.
Meanwhile, Eddie is torn.
He has two ideas for costumes and he can’t decide between them. His first idea is to go dressed as a pimp—fur coat, wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, diamond rings. It’s outrageous because, technically, Eddie used to be a pimp. Dressing as a stereotypical one now would be Eddie poking fun at himself. Everyone would be talking about him and his costume—but would the other partygoers think the costume was hysterical, brave, and appropriately self-effacing, or would they think it was in atrocious taste? Eddie would like to believe the former, but he fears the latter. It’s probably too soon to go dressed as a pimp. Next year enough time will have passed that absolutely everyone will think it’s funny.
And so Eddie defaults to his second idea: he will go dressed as Fast Eddie. What this means is that he will dress as his former self—in a beige linen suit and a Panama hat.
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