Does Bart know anything about stringing lights or draping garland? He’s only Mitzi Quinn’s son, and Mitzi Quinn is only the biggest Christmas fanatic south of the North Pole.
“I’m your man,” Bart says.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” Allegra’s mother, Grace, says. “Eddie is showing houses all weekend, and he isn’t handy anyway.”
“No problem,” Bart says. He unpacks the artificial tree, and he and Allegra snap its branches into place, then get it covered in white lights. Allegra hangs the ornaments, while Grace sets out a punch bowl, which she fills with juice, ginger ale, and a container of rainbow sherbet, and arranges a platter of homemade sand tarts and peanut butter cookies with chocolate kiss centers.
As Bart hangs the wreaths, the lobby fills with residents, many of whom Allegra walks over to introduce to Bart.
“My boyfriend, Bart Quinn,” Allegra says.
“Is this the war hero?” one gentleman asks.
“Bart Quinn, sir, United States Marine Corps.”
Once the news circulates that Allegra has a new boyfriend, everyone wants to meet Bart, shake his hand, thank him for his service, and tell him what an honor it is to have him right here at Academy Hill. One of the residents served in Korea with the Army; one of the women was a battlefield nurse in Vietnam. Mrs. Hester, who must be nearly deaf, comments very loudly about how handsome Bart is, and Mr. Reinemo says just as loudly that Bart is a lucky young man to be courting someone as fetching as Allegra.
Then Mr. Lazear enters the lobby singing “Deck the Halls.” The next request is for “Jingle Bells,” and Bart thinks of Ava—she really and truly despises this song—but everyone in the lobby belts it out with the enthusiasm of schoolchildren. During the endless, empty hours that Bart was being held prisoner, he used to conjure the faces he was fighting for back home, but he never once thought of the elderly. Mostly he thought about babies, kids, people his age who were the future of the country. But now he feels proud that he was also fighting for people who are living out their final years with purpose and dignity, people who have known enemies other than ISIS and the Bely, people who understand the cost of freedom.
Mrs. Hester rummages through a box until she finds the plastic mistletoe, and as everyone sings, she implores Bart to hang the mistletoe in the doorway. He does so, and then Mrs. Hester directs Allegra and Bart to stand beneath it.
“I think they want us to kiss now,” Allegra says.
“Well, we can’t disappoint them,” Bart says. He leans down to kiss Allegra, and the room erupts in cheers.
JENNIFER
PLEASE JOIN US IN CELEBRATING THE SEASON…
AND THE FORTHCOMING FIRST SEASON OF REAL-LIFE REHAB
STARRING BOSTON INTERIOR DECORATOR JENNIFER QUINN
MANDARIN ORIENTAL HOTEL
DECEMBER 9, 2017
6:30–8:30 P.M.
SINTV
Patrick picks the invitation up off the counter and whistles. “You are the star,” he says. “Your name is on the invite and everything.”
“Mandarin Oriental,” Jennifer says. “Not too shabby.” She kisses Patrick on the lips. “I bought you a new holiday tie to wear. It’s on the bed.”
“Wow,” Patrick says. “It’s starting to feel like the good old days.”
Jennifer knows what he means. She signed the contract for the first season and received a nice fat check, which went right into the bank. Now they have a splashy holiday party to attend, the way they used to when Paddy worked for Everlast Investments. Jennifer bought a red velvet slip dress, as well as a pair of red stilettos from Jimmy Choo at Copley Place. This party will be buzzworthy—the Globe and Boston Common are coming to cover it. All of the show’s sponsors are invited as well as the glittery stars of Boston’s social scene. Jennifer was able to invite Derek and Leanne, which is good because Jennifer will need to see friendly faces. Danko will attend, obviously, as well as Real-Life Rehab’s director, a thirtysomething woman named Layla, who is also a former addict, she confided. In her case, it was cocaine and Valium.
“One to pump me up,” Layla said. “One to bring me down.”
Jennifer said, “I understand only too well.” Still, Jennifer marveled because Layla was even younger than Jennifer. She had unlined black skin, cornrows, the cheekbones of a supermodel, and a degree from Harvard Business School.
On the night of the party, the network sends a car service to pick up Jennifer and Patrick. Alyssa, who is babystting, and the three boys crowd by the bay window to ogle at the car out on the street.
“Be careful of the tree,” Jennifer says. She has been so busy with preparations for the show—she meets Danko and the architect, Matthew, and the contractor, TF, at the house in Dorchester every day—that her own Christmas decorations, which are usually quite lavish, have suffered somewhat. She opted for a slightly smaller tree and used only three thousand of her five thousand ornaments. Christmas Lite, she’s calling it this year.
“It seems silly, sending a car,” Jennifer says. “The Mandarin isn’t that far. We could have walked.”
“Let’s enjoy it,” Patrick says. He buttons his overcoat and slips Jennifer’s wrap over her shoulders.
“Bye, kids!” Jennifer calls out. “Bed by ten!” She takes Paddy’s arm and descends the steps of their townhouse to the waiting car.
“Good evening, Ms. Quinn,” the driver says.
When the car pulls up in front of the Mandarin Oriental and Jennifer steps out, photographers snap her picture.
“I can’t believe this,” Jennifer says to Paddy. She fears that Patrick might take issue with his role as her arm candy. After all, in their former life he was the breadwinner, the big deal; Jennifer was resolutely “the wife,” who did some interior decorating in her spare time. But Patrick is beaming; unless he’s putting up a very good front, he couldn’t seem happier.
He offers one of the photographers his hand. “I’m Mr. Jennifer Quinn,” he says. “But you can call me Patrick.”
They are escorted to a ballroom that is completely decked out for the holidays. There’s a huge tree, swags of garland, white lights, electric candles, and a three-part jazz combo with a scantily clad woman crooning “Merry Christmas, Baby.” Servers circulate with trays of cocktails in champagne flutes. The cocktail is called a Santa Baby and is made with champagne, St-Germain, and blood orange juice. Patrick takes two flutes, one for Jennifer and one for himself.
“Cheers to you,” he says.
“They spared no expense,” Jennifer says. There’s a raw bar set up in a wooden dory, and next to the raw bar are tiered trays of crudités and cheeses, and next to that is an elaborate spread of sushi.
“There she is!” Danko swoops in, wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a Robert Graham velvet blazer. “You look gorgeous,” he says, kissing Jennifer’s cheek and simultaneously fist-bumping Patrick. “You both do. Ready to circulate?”
“Circulate?” Jennifer looks at Patrick.
“You go,” Patrick says. “I’ll find you in a little while and we’ll get some food.”
She is the luckiest woman in the world, with the most supportive partner. “I’m ready to circulate,” she tells Danko.
Everywhere she goes, people fawn. The men kiss her hand, and the women squeal, especially the Millennials, all of whom, Jennifer supposes, watch SinTV and are anticipating a big hit. Jennifer feels like a real celebrity—but all she has done so far is film half a day’s promotional material in which she wore AG cigarette-leg jeans, a black scoop-neck bodysuit, and black suede Gucci loafers, which will be her “uniform” on the show. It’s professional, classy, simple—or, as Danko says, “the essence of Jennifer Quinn.” She also wore bright-red lipstick in all the photos. The shade is Gabrielle from Chanel’s Rouge Coco collection, and Chanel has already promised Jennifer a lifetime supply of the shade.
She meets up with Layla, who is stunning in a silvery-lavender sequin sheath and black cage stilettos, and there are more photographs.
“If only our dealers could see us now,” Layla says.