“I’m freezing too,” Nathaniel says. “I wonder if Mitzi has made any of her world-famous mulled cider?”
Has Mitzi made any of her Cider of a Thousand Cloves? Why, yes, she has! Mitzi is thrilled to see everyone-because what is Christmas without visitors? She hasn’t gone so far as to wear her Mrs. Claus dress (Ava thinks she has permanently retired it), but she is wearing a Christmas sweater with a reindeer appliquéd on the front.
“Look who’s here!” Mitzi cries out. “It’s Potter! And you must be Gibby!” Mitzi gives Gibby a hug. Over Gibby’s shoulder, she catches sight of Nathaniel. “Oh, and look… Nathaniel!”
“Hey, Mitzi,” Nathaniel says. “I was happy to hear Bart is safe. I prayed for him every day.”
“Well, your prayers worked!” Mitzi says. She beams at Nathaniel as if it were in fact his particular prayers that kept Bart alive. Ava rolls her eyes. In the tug-of-war between Nathaniel and Scott, Mitzi was staunchly for Team Nathaniel. When Nathaniel first entered their lives, it was as the carpenter who was building Mitzi’s pantry doors, which are still the pride of the kitchen.
“We hear there’s cider,” Potter says. He’s grinning and Ava loves that he isn’t letting Nathaniel’s presence ruin his evening. He got completely hoodwinked, accepting a ride from Ava’s ex-boyfriend-ex-fiancé, actually, although they were engaged for all of thirty minutes-and yet he couldn’t look happier.
“There’s also beer,” Ava says quickly. Worse than subjecting Potter to Nathaniel might be subjecting him to Mitzi’s cider.
“I most certainly want cider,” Nathaniel says.
“Me too,” Potter says.
“I’ll have a beer,” Gibby says.
Smart man, Ava thinks. While she’s in the fridge getting Gibby a beer, she pulls out a bottle of chardonnay and pours herself a glass.
“I can’t wait for the wedding!” Nathaniel says once they all have drinks. He raises his glass. “Cheers!”
Ava is quick to mobilize Potter and Gibby. She’s going to take them to the Castle, she announces, so that Gibby can check in.
“Gibby?” Nathaniel says. “What about you, Potter? Where are you staying?”
Ava glares at Nathaniel. “I think someone left his manners on Block Island.”
“I’m staying with Ava,” Potter says.
“Good for you, man,” Nathaniel says. He finishes his cider and deposits his cup in the sink. There is mistletoe hanging above his head. He looks at the mistletoe, then looks at Ava.
Leave now, Ava thinks. Or he can stay and hang with Mitzi. Ava doesn’t care. Doesn’t Nathaniel understand? She likes Potter! She thinks back to the previous December, Stroll weekend, when Nathaniel had returned to Nantucket from the Vineyard and Ava bumped into him at the bar at the Boarding House. He had been relentless then, too, come to think of it, but his persistence had been rewarded. He and Ava had started dating again. Maybe he thinks this time is no different. Ava admires his chutzpah even as she feels sorry for him. This time is different.
“Okay, we’re off!” Ava says to Mitzi. “We’re dropping Gibby at the hotel, then we’re going to Nautilus for dinner.”
“Be careful in this snow,” Mitzi says.
“Nautilus?” Potter says.
“You’ll love it,” Nathaniel says. “Get the blue-crab fried rice, it’s off the chain. Come to think of it, I may go to Nautilus myself. I’ll probably see you guys there. I’ve been missing that rice something fierce.”
Ava barely suppresses her smile. She and Potter aren’t going to Nautilus. They are going to Fifty-Six Union.
“Bye!” she cries out.
MARGARET
Because she has to button things up before her weeklong vacation and because her new assistant, Jennifer, has yet to develop mind-reading skills, Margaret and Drake don’t get on the road until nearly ten o’clock on Thursday night. The West Side Highway is a parking lot. There’s an accident at Seventy-Second Street that ties them up for forty-five minutes.
Drake sighs. “Should we just go home and start out in the morning?”
“No,” Margaret says. “We have to get to Hyannis tonight.”
“Margaret.”
“He’s my son,” Margaret says.
“I realize this, Margaret,” Drake says. “I was just thinking about… you know, not dying.”
Margaret bows her head. She is feeling very uptight and anxious. She gets like this every once in a while. It’s not a part of herself that she likes, but it’s a part of herself that she acknowledges. She prefers to be in control; situations that are out of her control drive her crazy.
“Please,” she says. She reaches out to touch Drake’s arm. She loves him so much. She doesn’t want to turn into a witch because of Elvira. “Let’s try.”
Drake straightens up in the driver’s seat. “Only for you.”
It takes them nearly three hours to reach exit 11 on I-95, Darien, Connecticut. By then, it’s a quarter to one in the morning and the road conditions are abysmal and they have seen plenty of accidents and cars abandoned on the side of the highway.
“We’re stopping here,” Drake says. “There’s a Howard Johnson’s.”
“Drake.”
“Margaret.”
“I’ll drive if you’re tired. Let me drive.”
“No,” Drake says. “The roads aren’t safe.”
“But-” Margaret says.
“I told you we should have left Wednesday night,” Drake says.
“I couldn’t!” Margaret says. “I asked and got shot down.”
“I understand that, Margaret,” Drake says. “But now we have to deal with the consequences. The roads aren’t safe. I’m making a unilateral decision here. We are stopping and spending the night at the Howard Johnson’s.” Drake pulls into the parking lot of the sad little motel decorated in the signature turquoise and orange. Margaret can’t believe any Howard Johnson’s still exist; this must be the last one left in America. What ever happened to them? Margaret wonders. Would it be worth doing a story on? Maybe a segment for CBS Sunday Morning? Howard Johnson’s makes Margaret think of vanilla milk shakes and cheese dreams with tomato and bacon. Her stomach grumbles.
“I’ll go in,” Drake says. “We don’t need the front-desk clerk seeing you.”
“No,” Margaret agrees. She leans back and closes her eyes. She is suddenly exhausted. She can sleep anywhere, even a Howard Johnson’s.
A few minutes later, Drake knocks on the window, waking Margaret up.
“There’s no room at the inn,” he says.
“Seriously?”
“A lot of wayward travelers tonight. Or so says Mrs. Herbert, the battle-ax at the front desk. But I think she was holding out on me, waiting for me to slip her a bribe.”
“This place really is stuck in the 1950s,” Margaret says. She opens the door and steps outside. She sinks in snow up to her knees.
Upon seeing Margaret Quinn walk into the lobby, Mrs. Herbert, of the exit 11 Howard Johnson’s, blinks her watery blue eyes behind her glasses.
“Are you-” she says to Margaret.
Margaret puts the very last of the day’s energy into giving Mrs. Herbert a smile. “Yes, I am. And I come on bended knee. We need a room, any room.”
Sure enough, Mrs. Herbert says, “I do have one room. I musta overlooked it before.” She cuts a glance at Drake, then hands him an actual key. The turquoise tag says room 42. She softens her expression when she turns back to Margaret. “Do you think I could get an autograph?”
“It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Herbert,” Margaret says.
Room 42 has two twin beds, but the sheets are new and the turquoise blanket seems okay. There’s a rotary phone on the table between the two beds. Margaret stares at it, wondering if she’s dreaming. Then she takes off her boots and lies down. Will Drake get the light? She is asleep before she can even ask.