Jennifer nods slowly. On the one hand, she thinks selling the inn is a good idea. It’s too much for Mitzi to handle alone, and Kevin and Isabelle now have their business to run and their children to raise. Bart could help if he were at all interested, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. On the other hand, the idea of selling the inn worries Jennifer. At some point over the summer when Kelley’s health took a turn for the worse, Mitzi talked to Jennifer about what she might do next, if the unthinkable happened and Kelley didn’t get better.
“I’d love to do what you do,” Mitzi said. “Become an interior designer. Maybe we can go into business together.”
Jennifer murmured some vague encouragements in response, but she would never, ever, ever go into business with Mitzi. She thought about how kitschy-country charming Mitzi’s taste is. She thought about the Byers’ Choice carolers Mitzi sets out at Christmas. She tried not to shudder.
“It might not be a bad idea,” Jennifer says to Patrick.
“What?” Patrick says. He’s genuinely agitated; the tips of his ears are turning red. “Do you know what that would mean? It would mean we would have no place to stay here on Nantucket. We would no longer be Nantucketers.”
“Oh,” Jennifer says. “Won’t Mitzi buy something else?”
“She says she hasn’t decided,” Patrick says. “But she also said she might buy a condo in Sherburne Commons.”
“Sherburne Commons?” Jennifer says. “But she’s only… what? Forty-nine? Fifty?”
“Whatever she buys won’t be big enough for all of us to come visit,” Patrick says. “And Kevin and Isabelle don’t have room for us.”
“So we’ll rent,” Jennifer says.
Patrick sits on the edge of the bed and drops his head into his hands. “We should have bought when we had the chance.”
Jennifer decides not to point out that when they “had the chance” was back when their accounts were fat with illegally gotten funds. “Please,” she says. “Let’s not ruin tonight by fretting about money. You need to get your business up and running, then we can worry about Nantucket.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Patrick says. “I’m losing my father and I’m losing my home.”
Jennifer is glad she didn’t break her news to Patrick on the way here—but is it going to be any easier on the way home? She blithely suggested they could rent, but without the penthouse project, they’ll never be able to afford it.
She needs another project—and fast. A big client. Who are the five people in Boston richer than Grayson Coker? she wonders.
She takes a deep breath. “Stand up,” she says. “People are waiting for us.”
As they’re driving out to the VFW, Jennifer’s phone pings. She checks the display, expecting it to be a report from the babysitter, but she sees it’s a text from Norah Vale. Kevin is driving, Patrick is sitting shotgun, and Isabelle is seated next to Jennifer in the backseat. Jennifer feels a wave of guilt that she is receiving a message from Kevin’s ex-wife. Why is she the only person among the Quinns who is still tethered to Norah?
Well, she knows why. The drugs.
The drugs, even the flicker of the possibility of drugs in Jennifer’s future, are too much to resist. Maybe if she stays away from the oxy… maybe if she just sticks to the Ativan… then at least she will be able to sleep.
She opens the text. It says: I’m assuming you’re on island for Bart’s party? Any chance you can meet me tomorrow for coffee? I’d really like to talk to you about something.
Jennifer knows she should delete the message. Or not respond. She should definitely not respond with two glasses of wine sitting on top of her anxiety.
Jennifer gives Isabelle a sidelong glance, then she types back: I may have some time early tomorrow. Where for coffee?
Her phone pings a second later: Hub at 8:30?
Okay, Jennifer responds. See you then.
BART
He knows his mother won’t like it, but oh well. He lifts a bottle of Patrón and two Coronas from the bar and leads Allegra Pancik out the side door of the VFW, where there is, conveniently, a small porch with a table and two chairs overlooking the scrub pines of the state forest.
“But it’s your party,” Allegra says.
“We’ll be back before anyone misses us,” Bart says. “My presence isn’t really required. This is a party my mother threw to make herself feel better.”
“Parents,” Allegra says.
Bart isn’t sure what happened, but when he saw Allegra Pancik all dolled up like a geisha, he thought: My siblings are right. I do need a girlfriend.
And.
There.
She.
Is.
She was a freshman at Nantucket High School when he was a senior. So maybe he still has upperclassman allure? She’s not too young for him. At nineteen, she’s an adult, although not old enough to drink.
Legally.
“We’ll each do three shots,” Bart says. “Chased by these beers. Then we’ll go back inside.”
“I’m in,” Allegra says.
Tequila shot #1:
Bart says, “Why are you still on Nantucket? Did you not go to college?”
“Wow,” Allegra says. “Tough questions right off the bat.”
Bart cocks an eyebrow, a trick Centaur taught him while they were still in basic training.
“I went to UMass Dartmouth last year,” Allegra says. “Flunked out. Too much partying.”
“So let me guess,” Bart says. “This wasn’t your first shot of tequila?”
In lieu of answering, Allegra takes a little bow. “Now let me ask you something.”
Bart nods.
“Why are you still on Nantucket? You’re a war hero. Doesn’t the government give you a million dollars and a mansion in Beverly Hills?”
“Hardly,” Bart says. He takes a long draft of his beer. Then he wants to belch, but he holds back, as he is in the presence of a lady. “I’m here on Nantucket for two reasons. One, my father is dying. Two, I don’t know what else to do.” He looks at Allegra. “And by the way, I’m not a war hero.”
Allegra tilts her head, and Bart sees the chopsticks securing her dark bun. “No?”
I let them take my best friend to the Pit, Bart thinks. I tried to save him, but I failed.
“Time for another shot,” he says.
Tequila shot #2:
“Tell me about your family,” Bart says.
“Well,” Allegra says, taking a ladylike sip of her beer. “I have a twin sister.”
“You mean there are two girls on Nantucket as beautiful as you?” Bart asks.
“Hope goes to Bucknell,” Allegra says. “She’s the smart one, I’m the pretty one.”
“But you’re identical?” Bart says.
“Yes,” Allegra says. “I only say that I’m the pretty one to make myself feel better. Hope is at college, and I’m working as a receptionist at my aunt and uncle’s real estate agency. Bayberry Properties, on Main Street.”
Bayberry Properties, on Main Street. Bart makes a mental note. That’s what one is supposed to do with women—notice the little things. Maybe later this week he’ll stop by to see if Allegra wants to have lunch. Maybe he’ll send flowers.
“What about your parents?” Bart asks. “That was your dad you came in with, right?”
“My parents are kind of a sore topic,” Allegra says. “Until three years ago they were normal, boring parents. We lived out on Wauwinet Road in a big house that overlooked Polpis Harbor. My father used to own his own real estate company, and my mother had this enormous garden where she raised chickens.”
“Chickens?” Bart says. His stomach lurches. He can’t talk about chickens.
“My mother was annoying at times, and my father used to complain about how much money we were costing him. But then, over the course of one summer, my mother started having an affair with our landscaper, and my father ran a prostitution ring out in Sconset. He went to jail. He just got out in July. We lost the house in Wauwinet, and now we all live in this tiny cottage in town.”