Winter Storms (20 page)

“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.

 

B
ecause 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.”

 

T
hey 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.