A phone rings. Margaret jolts awake and reaches for the receiver of the rotary phone.
Dial tone.
No, it’s her cell phone. Her cell phone is ringing. Margaret pulls it out from under her pillow. Please, she thinks. Don’t let it be a news emergency.
The display says Mitzi. It’s twenty after five in the morning.
Kelley? Margaret thinks. Has something happened to Kelley? Margaret is seized by panic. Kelley, her children’s father, her partner for half of her adult life, her dearest friend, a man she loves more than she would ever admit. She almost doesn’t answer. She can’t hear the news. Why else would Mitzi be calling her at five in the morning?
“Hello?” Margaret says.
“Margaret?” Mitzi says. “Did I wake you?”
“Yes,” Margaret says. “We stopped in Connecticut. The roads. We’re at a…” She can’t remember the name of the motel.
But Mitzi doesn’t seem to care. “Connecticut?” she says. “That’s fantastic! That’s perfect!” She calls out, “Kelley, Margaret and Drake are in Connecticut!” There’s a pause. “Where in Connecticut?”
Margaret takes a sip of ice water that has been thoughtfully placed next to the rotary phone. “Darien.”
“Darien,” Mitzi says to Kelley.” Then she says, “Can you be in Hartford by eight thirty?”
Margaret and Drake hit the road at six-which is, sadly, too early to enjoy the bacon-and-eggs special on offer at the restaurant. But they can’t risk being late.
Bart Quinn is due to land in Hartford at quarter to nine. Logan is closed until at least noon, but Hartford, being farther west and out of the direct path of Elvira, is open. Margaret and Quinn are to pick Bart up and drive him to Hyannis, where they will meet up with Paddy, Jennifer, the boys, and Isabelle’s parents. They will all take the 2:45 ferry over-assuming the ferry is up and running-and be on Nantucket by five o’clock.
Phew!
The press has gotten wind that five of the missing Marines are landing at Bradley International, and hence, the place is a zoo. Margaret is fairly incognito in sunglasses and a shearling hat but when she needs to slice through the crowd to collect Bart, she takes her glasses off and shakes her famous red hair free of the hat.
A young reporter from WFSB in Hartford turns around, sees Margaret Quinn, and shrieks.
“Oh my goodness,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m seeing you in person! You are… you are absolutely my hero!”
“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.