Ava studies Trish now. She’s pretty in a sneaky way. The glasses are meant to obscure her clear eyes and impeccable skin. But Ava has learned by now—hasn’t she?—that beauty is as beauty does. She has wasted too much of her life fretting over supposedly beautiful women like Kirsten Cabot and Roxanne Oliveria, neither of whom proved to be a threat.
Potter says, “What are you doing here, Trish?”
Harrison steps forward, offering a hand. “Good to see you, Potter.” He has a very posh accent. “Potter” comes out as “Pawtah.” “We heard there was a bit of trouble, so we left that new fellow Simpson lecturing on Trump as King Lear and came straightaway.”
“Trouble?” Potter says.
Trump as King Lear? Ava thinks. She suspects most Shakespeare scholars have run out of things to talk about now, four hundred years later.
“PJ texted me about a ‘bad touch,’” Trish says. Her voice too holds a tinge of British accent, which comes across as an affectation to Ava. She expected a Southern belle. “You took him to the museum? Did someone fondle him?”
PJ buries his face in his mother’s coat. He’s clinging to her like a life buoy.
“The bad touch was me,” Ava blurts out. She cannot believe this is happening. She cannot believe that PJ, a seven-year-old without any discernible social skills, has manipulated four adults this way. She tries a smile. “I’m Ava, by the way. Ava Quinn.”
“That’s right,” Harrison says, returning her smile in spades. “You’re the daughter of Margaret Quinn. I think she’s brilliant, by the way. But I hear she’s retiring?”
“Next month,” Ava says. She is grateful to Harrison for the kindness, but she doesn’t want to veer off topic. “Anyway, I did touch PJ’s arm. I was trying to encourage him to lift his eyes from the game. He was really preoccupied.”
“That blasted game,” Harrison says.
“He only plays it when he feels uncomfortable,” Trish says.
“That’s bollocks and you know it, darling,” Harrison says. “He’ll play it nonstop if you let him.”
“Are you trying to say he feels uncomfortable around me?” Potter says.
“It’s not surprising,” Trish says. “He barely knows you.”
“Because you won’t let him see me,” Potter says.
“You’re welcome to come to California whenever you’d like,” Trish says.
“Right,” Potter says. “Because I’m free to just fly to California every weekend.”
“Not every weekend,” Trish says. “We agreed on one weekend a month. That lasted… what? One month? Two? But I understand you have plenty of time to jet off to Anguilla.” She cuts a glance at Ava. “And Nantucket.”
“Traveling down this road again, I see,” Harrison says. He holds his arms open to PJ, who jumps into them like a spider monkey. “I’ll take this chap down to the lobby so he doesn’t have to endure the parental quarrel.” He winks at Ava. “Care to join me, Miss Quinn?”
Ava doesn’t have much of a choice. Clearly Potter and Trish need to settle things privately. Ava follows Harrison and PJ into the elevator.
“Why is she coming?” PJ asks Harrison.
“‘She’ is Ava, PJ,” Harrison says. “I know you’re enough of a gentleman to address a lady properly, and when we reach the lobby, you’ll let Ava step off the elevator first. That’s what gentlemen do.”
“I don’t like her,” PJ says.
“What?” Harrison says. “You don’t like Ava? Well, I like Ava quite a lot myself. She’s a beautiful woman.”
“No, she isn’t,” PJ says.
“I’m standing right here,” Ava says with a smile. “I can hear you.”
“Maybe you’re not old enough to appreciate Ava’s beauty,” Harrison says. “And that is all well and good. You’re only seven years old, after all. Barely out of short pants.”
This gets a giggle from both Ava and PJ. The elevator doors open, and the gentlemen big and small wait for Ava to exit first.
“Why don’t you like Ava, PJ?” Harrison asks. “Did she lock you in a closet, feed you snakes, and then go and get her nails done?”
“No,” PJ says.
“Then tell me why you don’t like her.”
“Because,” PJ says.
“Because isn’t a reason,” Harrison says. “We’ve been over this a few thousand times, have we not?”
Reluctantly PJ nods. Ava is impressed with how deftly Harrison handles PJ. She likes to think she has solid skills in relating to children, but she was never this good.
“Don’t worry about it,” Harrison whispers to Ava. “He’ll come around.”
“Do you think?” Ava says. She wants to pepper Harrison with questions: How did Harrison first bond with PJ? What are a few of his favorite things, other than Minecraft? What is Ava’s best strategy for getting PJ’s guard down?
Harrison says, “I have an idea, actually. Why don’t you give me your cell number?”
“Okay?” Ava says, though she’s a bit taken aback. Why on earth would Harrison need her cell phone number? Still, she rattles it off and Harrison programs it into his phone.
A few seconds later Trish comes clipping through the lobby with a suitcase and a small backpack. She grabs PJ by the hand and says to Harrison, “We’re going.”
“Okay?” Harrison says. He smiles ruefully at Ava. “Cheerio, then, Ava. Lovely to meet you.”
“And you,” Ava says. She tries to catch Trish’s eye. They’re all adults; there’s no reason why they can’t be civil. But Trish storms through the revolving door to the street without a word or look in Ava’s direction.
“Bye, PJ!” Ava calls out, but it’s too late. He doesn’t hear her.
Ava fills with sadness and—she’s not going to lie—with relief. Meeting PJ was an unmitigated disaster, but at least now it’s over.
For the time being. If she’s going to have a future with Potter, she will need to find a way to relate to Potter’s child.
Ava waves at Keith, the doorman, who has his nose in a book, studiously trying to appear uninterested in the drama.
Sometime tomorrow Ava will have to call her mother, tell her what transpired, and ask her advice.
But wait—no. Margaret knows nothing about being a stepmother, or even a father’s girlfriend. Drake doesn’t have children, and to Ava’s knowledge, Margaret never dated anyone else with children, or at least young children.
The realization dawns on Ava that she does know someone who has been through this. She does know a woman who had no choice but to parent a child not her own. Three children, in fact.
Mitzi. Ava needs to talk to Mitzi.
She could call, she supposes, but the conversation she wants to have would be far better broached in person. As Ava pushes the button for the seventh floor, she makes a decision. She will go home on Tuesday, home to Nantucket. She will go to Bart’s birthday party.
BART
The party has three saving graces. One is there will be plentiful alcohol; it is a Quinn party, after all. Two is there will be meat: tenderloin sandwiches, crumbled bacon at the mashed potato bar, passed pigs in a blanket, and more bacon wrapped around Nantucket bay scallops. Bart isn’t immune to the allure of good food. He has been living at the inn along with Mitzi and Kelley; he has been subjected to the watery spinach soup and the kale–egg white soufflé.
The third saving grace is that his siblings are attending. Patrick and Jennifer are leaving the kids behind in Boston so that they can enjoy an adult evening, and Ava is taking a half day off Tuesday and a personal day on Wednesday so that she can attend. Bart knows his siblings love him, but this party is wholly Mitzi’s idea, and… well, sometimes the elder Quinn children resist Mitzi’s ideas.
It does feel good to wake up on the thirty-first and be met with a purpose. It feels good to take a long shower, to shave, and to put on some nice clothes. Bart is wearing jeans, a white button-down shirt, a navy fleece vest, and his good Chucks, the black ones that Mitzi bought him for Christmas. She bought them without even knowing if Bart was alive or not.