“Honestly, it doesn’t matter,” Margaret says. “I’m happy in whatever.”
Happy in whatever: this throwaway phrase is Mitzi’s life goal. Margaret Quinn is happy in whatever because she is filled to the brim with self-confidence and pluck. She has achieved her dreams a hundred times over. She has nothing to prove to anyone. She would look beautiful in a burlap sack because Margaret’s beauty comes from within.
How might Mitzi achieve this? She looks into the bathroom mirror at her pinched, pale face. Crowding the shelf beneath the mirror are Margaret’s cosmetics: face creams and cleansers, eye pencils and shadows, and half a dozen Chanel lipsticks. But none of these products will help Mitzi. She needs only one thing, and that is to know that Bart is safe. If someone can assure her of that, she will never need another thing. She will exude peace and gratitude all the rest of her days.
Bart Bart Bart Bart Bart.
For a moment, Mitzi is in danger of falling into the usual black pit of despair. She wishes the champagne were tequila.
Atrocities. Burned alive in a cage. Beheaded.
But then, she snaps out of it. Margaret and Drake are waiting. Mitzi puts on the first dress, a luscious amethyst silk slip dress with spaghetti straps and an asymmetrical hem. Margaret has given Mitzi corresponding heels—silver crystal Manolos.
Mitzi puts on the dress and straps on the heels and pins her unruly curls to the top of her head using a silver clip of Margaret’s that Mitzi locates among the jars and tubes.
She steps out into the room. Kelley is standing there now, too, with his own glass of the Krug.
He whistles. “Hot damn!” he says.
“That one works,” Drake says.
“Mitzi, you look stunning,” Margaret says. “Absolutely stunning.”
Mitzi feels weepy. But for the first time in a year, they aren’t tears of sadness. They are tears of gratitude.
Mitzi tries on the silver brocade sheath, the gold beaded flapper dress, and the white goddess gown.
“Dealer’s choice,” Kelley says. “You look captivating in all of them.”
“Agreed,” Drake says.
“Margaret?” Mitzi asks. Margaret’s opinion is the only one that matters. Mitzi knows that Margaret lunches with Anna Wintour once a month at the Four Seasons; she has done 60 Minutes segments with Donatella Versace and Stella McCartney. For the past twenty years—at least before Bart went missing—Mitzi’s most toxic emotion was her jealousy of Margaret. But now she understands that jealousy masked her respect of the woman.
“I liked the first one, the purple,” Margaret says. “It’s a dramatic color, makes a statement. Everyone in the place will be looking at you. Plus… it’s Dior.”
“It is?” Mitzi says. She knows that probably means it costs north of five thousand dollars.
“Designed by John Galliano for me for something, I can’t remember what. But I’m thinking it looks far better on you than on me. I’d love to have you wear it.”
Mitzi doesn’t know how the woman finds it in herself to be so gracious. She’s going to strive to emulate Margaret from here on out. She is going to be a better person.
“The purple it is!” Kelley says. He nods toward the hallway. “Why don’t you come change downstairs. That way we can give these two their privacy.”
“I don’t know how to thank you for this,” Mitzi says to Margaret.
“Let’s all have fun tonight,” Margaret says. “You certainly deserve it.”
Mitzi nods. Margaret says, “Why don’t I come down at about quarter to six and I’ll do your makeup. My stylist, Roger, has taught me a few tricks.”
Kelley carries both of their flutes of champagne and leads the way down the back stairs. “Do you need to call George and tell him about your change of plans?”
“George?” she says.
KEVIN
For the first time since Genevieve has been born, they are getting a babysitter.
Isabelle is, quite frankly, a wreck.
She is sitting on the edge of their tightly made bed. Probably the biggest change since Kevin and Isabelle moved in together—other than fatherhood—is how neat and tidy and clean and correct his surroundings now are. Isabelle makes their bed first thing every morning; they use the same sumptuous sheets and feather pillows as guests of the inn. Isabelle launders their Turkish cotton towels every fourth day and keeps a big, fluffy stack in a woven basket in their bathroom. Without asking, Kevin has new razors and fresh bars of French-milled soap in the shower; he never runs out of toilet paper. He has turned into a proper adult.
“I don’t want to leave her,” Isabelle says.
“But you want to go to the party, right?” Kevin says.
Isabelle looks up at him with big eyes. She has just gotten out of the shower and is wrapped in one of the pristinely white towels. Her blond hair is soaking wet, dripping on the duvet.
“Yes?” she says.
“And Ava’s friend Shelby is coming to babysit. She’s a school librarian, which means she takes care of dozens of children each day. And she’s pregnant herself, which means she has a vested interest in doing things by the book. She’s a responsible person, Isabelle. Nothing is going to happen to Genevieve.”
“I know,” Isabelle says, then she says something in French that Kevin doesn’t understand.
“Translate, please?” Kevin says.
“I’m going to miss her.”
“I’m going to miss her, too,” Kevin says. “But we can’t take her with us…”
Isabelle opens her mouth—no doubt, she’s about to suggest that they do bring the baby. Kevin can simply strap the Björn on over his tuxedo. But Kevin stops her. “We aren’t bringing her. It’s not fair to her, and it’s not fair to us. She’ll be far happier at home, sleeping in her own crib.”
Again, Isabelle says something in French. It’s beginning to seem like a passive-aggressive tactic on her part.
“What?” Kevin says.
“I won’t be happier,” Isabelle says.
“Sure you will,” Kevin says. “You need to get out. We need to get out together, as a couple. We agreed on this when we bought the tickets. Right?”
Mumbling, in French.
“Right?” Kevin says.
“Right,” Isabelle says, reluctantly.
“Okay,” Kevin says, kissing her. “Go get dressed.”
AVA
She has waited patiently in her room for her mother to get home, half reading the new young adult novel by Meg Wolitzer that Shelby swears is a five-star experience, and half gazing at her beautiful Christmas flowers. I can’t stop thinking about you.
Now she can’t stop thinking about Nathaniel thinking about her. And thinking about Nathaniel leads to thinking about Scott because of the innate betrayal of thinking of Nathaniel.
She needs her mother.
But when Ava finally hears her mother’s voice, it’s commingled with other voices. Ava slips out into the hallway and peers around the corner in time to glimpse her mother and Drake and Mitzi heading up the main stairs of the inn.
Mitzi??? Something very strange must have transpired. Mitzi is here at the inn. Mitzi is heading upstairs behind Margaret, her sworn enemy.
A few seconds later, Ava sees Kelley follow.
Ava can’t even begin to imagine what might be going on with her parents. Their lives are, possibly, more crisscrossed and convoluted than Ava’s own.
It’s five o’clock—time to shower and get ready. Time to put on the green velvet dress that Scott won’t see her in.
Ava doesn’t like losing her sense of self like this. She doesn’t want to identify herself as Scott’s girlfriend or Nathaniel’s ex-girlfriend. She wants to think of herself as Ava Quinn.
She heads out to the main room, to play the piano.
She would like to delve into some Schubert or Chopin. Chopin is so technically difficult that it leaves no room to think of anything else. But it’s Christmas Stroll and a few guests are enjoying the fire and the holiday decorations. Mr. Wilton is admiring Mitzi’s nutcrackers along the mantel. Ava had encouraged her father to leave Mitzi’s nutcrackers in storage, along with her Byers’ Choice carolers. But her father thought the house would look “naked” without them. Possibly, he knew that Mitzi would be back. Was she back? Back back? Ava figures that Mitzi has come to Nantucket for Genevieve’s baptism. That makes sense, sort of. Ava knows that Kelley and Mitzi still talk on a fairly regular basis—and that no steps have been taken toward a divorce—because Bart is missing. But if there is anything else going on between Mitzi and her father, how will Ava feel?