“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.”
JENNIFER
They 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.
Jennifer receives a text from Margaret. She and Drake have Bart! They’re going to meet them at the steamship at two fifteen. Jennifer tells Patrick this in a low voice. He adjusts his sunglasses and, Jennifer sees, wipes away a tear.
“I’m going to see my brother,” Patrick says.
Maybe. Almost immediately, they hit traffic; they slow down, then come to a complete stop.
No! Jennifer thinks. It’s one thirty. They really don’t have time for this.
Monsieur Beaulieu, definitely the more loquacious of the two, spews forth a bunch of sentences en français. Jennifer has no idea what he’s saying and she’s too tense to try to figure it out.
Madame says, “Elle ne comprends pas, mon choux.”
“Désolée,” Jennifer says. She has a perfectly good Rosetta Stone French at home on the library bookshelves, but who has time to relearn a language she was only mediocre at in the first place?
One thirty-five; one forty. Jennifer hates feeling so anxious, but at this point, she’s certain they’re going to miss the boat. If they do miss it, they’ll have to take the eight-fifteen, which doesn’t get them to Nantucket until ten thirty. No; unacceptable. And yet, what can Jennifer do? She can’t make the hundreds of cars in front of her go any faster.
Or can she? Possibly Jennifer’s mental anguish has some real force, because at that second, traffic starts to move and a few moments later, they’re flying along.
They cross the Sagamore Bridge at two minutes past two. Margaret texts to say that she and Drake and Bart have just arrived. They’re going to park and wait for Paddy and Jennifer outside the terminal.
There’s quite a line of cars, Margaret texts. Do you have a reservation?
Jennifer had a reservation… on yesterday’s boat. With all the excitement, she neglected to call and figure out if her ticket would be valid on this boat; she just assumed it would be. But now she remembers that the steamship has a laundry list of specific rules. Jennifer calls the steamship office in Hyannis. The first time she calls, the line is busy. The second time she calls, she’s told her wait time will be fourteen minutes. She groans.
“What’s wrong?” Paddy asks. “We’re going to make it.”
The steamship parking lot is a mob scene. All of the standby lanes are full. Jennifer’s heart sinks. She never considered that anyone else might want to get to Nantucket for Christmas. She had thought that the islanders would want to leave Nantucket so they could visit family in Vermont or Philadelphia.
Jennifer hops out of the car and hurries into the terminal. She sees Margaret and Drake—and Bart. Her heart lifts like a hot-air balloon and tears come to her eyes unbidden.
“Bart!” she says.
“Jenny!” he says. He comes right over to give her a squeeze and she starts to cry for real. Bart Quinn is the only person other than her long-dead grandfather and, occasionally, Patrick whom she’s ever allowed to call her Jenny. It’s Bart—he’s here; he’s safe; he’s in uniform; he has a dramatic scar on his face; he looks older, more mature. He looks like a man.
She says, “Paddy and the kids are out in the car. I have to go deal with this.” She waves the ferry ticket.
“Go,” Bart says. “Deal.”
There are four people in front of Jennifer in line. All of them want to get their vehicles on this boat.
“The boat is sold out,” the ticket man says. He has the thickest New England accent Jennifer has ever heard, and that’s saying something because she has heard some doozies. “And there’s no space on the eight-fifteen. The next boat with space for vehicles is at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” (Tamarah mahnin’.)
Tomorrow morning? Jennifer thinks.
The woman at the front says, “But I have a ticket from yesterday.”
“You got a ticket, he’s got a ticket, everyone’s got a ticket. Doesn’t matter. We honor”—awnah—“the tickets of people originally scheduled on this boat first. That’s policy. Then we honor the tickets of canceled boats.”
“Can we go as passengers if there’s no room for the cars?” the woman asks.
“Lady, we got half the commonwealth out in that parking lot.” Pawking lawt. “This boat is sold out. The eight-fifteen has four passenger tickets left. I can sell you those.”
The woman’s shoulders sag in defeat. “Yes, please.”
The man two people in front of Jennifer—bald, with horn-rimmed spectacles—steps out of line and says, “Looks like I’m going to the airport.”