Kelley and Mitzi are on Nantucket, and Kevin and Isabelle are on Nantucket, and the priest, Father Paul, is on Nantucket. He arrived on the noon boat that day and is staying at the church rectory.
The Beaulieus’ plane has taken off; they’re scheduled to land in Boston at midnight. Paddy volunteered to go get them, and in the morning, Jennifer and the boys and the Beaulieus will drive to Hyannis and put their car on the 2:45 slow boat. Paddy will stay in Boston and wait for Bart.
Bart’s flight from Germany was rerouted to Reykjavik, Iceland, because Dulles was shut down due to the storm. Kelley was able to talk to Bart, but only briefly. Bart wasn’t sure what the flight status was; he and the other guys were planning to hit the airport bar.
“All the chicks here are blond,” Bart said.
Kelley was cheered by the fact that Bart finally sounded like himself, but he had wanted to remind Bart that no matter how cold the beer or how beautiful the blondes, Bart needed to focus on getting home.
Margaret is in New York. Drake is going to drive her up Thursday after her broadcast, so they should be on Nantucket first thing Friday morning.
Assuming the boats go. And the planes.
Mitzi holds out the last of her cigarette. “You want?”
He does want, very much, but he has a vision of one puff hurrying his cancer along to the point where his head shatters like a glass ornament hitting the stone floor.
“No, thank you,” he says. He walks out onto the deck to look up into the sky at the thousands of descending snowflakes, no two exactly alike. If you can believe that, then why not also believe that Santa Claus and his reindeer might pick Bart up in Reykjavik and deliver him home?
He leads Mitzi inside and closes the door behind them. “Sit down,” Kelley says. “I’ll make grilled cheese.”
JENNIFER
She has a reservation for her family and their BMW X5 on the steamship leaving Hyannis at 2:45 on Thursday but then that boat gets canceled, as does the 8:15 p.m. boat, and the Beaulieus haven’t arrived anyway. Their flight from Orly was rerouted to Nova Scotia.
Bart, meanwhile, is in Reykjavik, Iceland.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Reykjavik,” Paddy says. “Maybe we’ll just blow off Kevy’s wedding and I’ll meet Bart there.”
“Not funny,” Jennifer says. She is presently without her sense of humor. Paddy is in the home office wearing a Santa hat. He seems perfectly relaxed. He doesn’t have to worry about three rambunctious boys killing zombies in the family room or the missing parents of their soon-to-be sister-in-law or a car whose backseat and Thule carrier is crammed full of presents, compromising the crisp beauty of Jennifer’s wrapping and the perfection of her bows. Jennifer had everything packed and ready to go and now she’s being delayed, maybe for as long as twenty-four hours. She is going to have to run to Whole Foods to get groceries for dinner, but Beacon Hill is experiencing a whiteout. She’s not sure she can make it the three blocks to Cambridge Street on foot.
She turns on the TV but that just makes things worse. NECN is showing footage of the long snake of cars on Route 3, tractor-trailers jackknifed, all of the carnage barely visible through the snow.
Jennifer rummages through the fridge and cabinets; she has eggs, a pound of bacon, half a gallon of milk. They could always have breakfast for dinner.
Then the power goes out.
There is a shout from Patrick—his computer!
There is a blended shout from the boys—the TV! Their game!
Jennifer goes to the big picture window in the living room. She stands next to their now-dark Christmas tree, looking across Boston Common. The common is dark; every house up and down Beacon Street is dark. The cars on Park Street and Tremont honk in unified panic. Have the traffic lights gone out? Does that ever happen? All Jennifer can see is snow and more snow.
Her phone pings. She jumps, then checks the display. It’s Norah.
No, Jennifer thinks.
The text says: Are you coming to Nantucket for Christmas?
Paddy’s voice out of the darkness makes Jennifer jump again. Instinctively, she tucks her phone in her pocket.
“Do we have candles?” he asks.
KEVIN
They should have eloped. They could have left Genevieve with Kelley and Mitzi, flown to St. Barts for four or five days, and come home a married couple.
Genevieve is teething; whenever Kevin or Isabelle puts her down, she starts to cry.
Isabelle has spent at least fifteen minutes every hour for the past ten hours on the phone with one or the other of her parents. They are stuck in Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia! The good news is that they have befriended a couple from Montreal who speak French; the bad news is that Logan is closed for the foreseeable future, and even if Logan were open, Nantucket is unreachable—no boats, no planes, coming or going.
They should have eloped.
Kelley and Mitzi are, predictably, worried about Bart. Bart is in Iceland, getting drunk and wooing women with his uniform and his war wounds. Kevin doesn’t have the luxury of worrying about Bart right now. He has two females crying in his house; both of them want their parents.
Kevin picks up Genevieve and rubs her back. He takes the teething ring out of the freezer; this works for thirty seconds as Genevieve mad-gnaws on the thing like a dog with a bone, which is just long enough for Kevin to pour three fingers of Jameson into a highball glass, dip a clean washcloth into the whiskey, then rub the cloth on Genevieve’s gums. Jameson was what worked when Paddy and Kevin were teething, Kelley has confided. This explains some things.
“Kevin, mon dieu!” Isabelle says. She snatches the whiskey washcloth out of his hands.
Caught, Kevin thinks.
Genevieve starts to cry.
Before Isabelle can admonish him, her phone rings. It’s her father. They will be in Nova Scotia overnight, he says. Sleeping in the terminal. Logan will not open until tomorrow morning at the earliest.
Isabelle takes the phone into the bedroom and shuts the door.
Kevin is tempted to give the whiskey another try, but instead, he brings Genevieve into the living room and turns on the TV. His mother is broadcasting and immediately Genevieve quiets down. She points at the screen.
“That’s right,” Kevin says. “It’s Mimi.”
Margaret has been joined this evening by some kid who looks like he’s stepped off the pages of GQ. It’s the meteorologist Dougie, and he is delivering the bad news. The blizzard will reach its maximum force tonight or tomorrow morning. Hardest hit will be New York City, Long Island, coastal Connecticut, Rhode Island, Boston, Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard, and Nantucket.
Ha! Kevin thinks. He feels a childish joy any time Nantucket is mentioned on TV. It’s absurd.
“These areas can expect eighteen to twenty-four inches of snow,” Dougie says. The kid looks positively aglow. Margaret, although lovely in an ivory wrap dress, looks exactly like a woman who is about to sit for ten hours—minimum—in atrocious traffic inching northward in a car piloted by an inexperienced driver.
During the final seconds of the broadcast, when newspeople usually smile inanely at the camera, the meteorologist Dougie bursts into song: “White Christmas.” He does sound a little like Bing Crosby. Kevin snaps off the set, and Genevieve starts to cry.
They should have eloped.
GEORGE
He’s no stranger to New England winters and he’s been coming to Nantucket at Christmastime for nearly fifteen years, so he’s learned a few things. He and Mary Rose stay ahead of the storm. They drive George’s 1931 Model A fire engine onto the steamship at 2:45 on Wednesday, and the man who helps them park it on the boat says to George, “You’re smart. This is the last boat that’ll go for days.”
“You think?” George says.
“I know,” the man says, looking up at the sky, which does indeed look white and heavy, like a feather pillow about to burst.
George and Mary Rose check into their room at the Castle. The hotel is cheerfully decorated for the holidays. Johnny Mathis sings “Sleigh Ride.” The front-desk clerk, Livingston—George remembers him from last year—says he has a suite available and Livingston can offer it to George at the same rate as the room he booked because George is a return guest. “Wonderful!” George says, and he lets out a robust “Ho-ho-ho!” turning every head in the lobby.