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.”
Us too, Jennifer thinks. But those planes hold only nine people, and altogether they are… ten. Well, Paddy can stay behind a few flights, she thinks.
“The airport is closed until tomorrow,” the ticket man says. He delivers this news with a certain relish, as though he’s enjoying quashing people’s hopes and telling them their holiday plans are ruined. A streak of sadism must be a necessary quality for steamship employees. A nice, kind person with feelings couldn’t do this job with any efficacy.
The other two people in front of Jennifer, an older woman and a female college student, leave the line. Jennifer steps boldly up and gives the ticket man her most winning smile. “I have a reservation on yesterday’s two-forty-five boat, which was canceled,” she says. “I think I heard you say that there’s no way I can get on this boat.”
“You heard correct,” the man says. He’s overweight with thinning blond hair and florid skin. His name tag says Walter.
Waltah, Jennifer thinks.
“So there’s nothing I can do?” Jennifer asks. She leans on the desk and smiles wider, thinking she would do anything shy of seducing Walter to get on this boat. “I have my whole family with me because, you see, my brother-in-law Kevin Quinn is getting married. We’re a local Nantucket family.”
“Mazel tov,” Walter says.
“My other brother-in-law, Bart Quinn? He just got back from Afghanistan. He was one of the missing Marines.”
“God bless America,” Walter says. “Wish I could help you.”
“And my mother-in-law? Is Margaret Quinn.” Jennifer hates herself for disclosing this piece of information and trading on Margaret’s fame, but she is capital-D Desperate.
“I don’t know any Margaret Quinn,” Walter says. He puts a finger to his chin. “Actually, I do know her. I watch Channel Four nights I’m off.”
“Great!” Jennifer says, thinking that, once again, Margaret will be their golden ticket.
“But me knowing who Margaret Quinn is doesn’t make any more space on this boat. You get me, sweetheart?” He leans his head closer to her as though he’s going to impart a secret, maybe another ferry line servicing Nantucket that nobody else knows about or the name of a guy who sells car spaces on the black market. “Your only chance is finding somebody who already has a ticket on this boat and getting that person to switch with you. Maybe you offer a few hundred bucks? Or, since you’re local, maybe someone owes you a favor?”
“Right,” Jennifer says. “Thank you.” She tries to imagine Paddy and Bart and Margaret wandering through the vehicles, offering bribes.
“Seriously, sweetheart, I seen it happen,” Walter says. “And it’s the holidays. People are always nicer.”
Jennifer buys a ticket for tomorrow’s nine o’clock boat and decides to go outside and talk to Paddy. From here, the situation looks dire, and Jennifer feels responsible. She should have dealt with the ticket change right away. She’s an idiot!
Jennifer pushes out the door of the terminal just as a woman is pushing another door to come in. Jennifer looks up.
It’s Norah.
“Norah!” Jennifer says. She feels caught.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Norah says. “Are you going to Nantucket?”
“No,” Jennifer says. “It doesn’t look like it. My ticket is for yesterday’s canceled boat, and this boat is sold out, and the eight-fifteen is sold out. And I have the boys and Margaret and her husband and Bart.”
“Bart?” Norah says. “He’s home?”
“Just got home,” Jennifer says. She throws her hands up and starts to cry. “Or not quite home, I guess.” She wipes at her eyes. “Kevin is getting married tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Norah says. “Really?”
“Really,” Jennifer says. She has now spilled the beans to the only person who shouldn’t know. Great. Norah will probably show up and disrupt the proceedings at the moment when people are invited to speak out or forever hold their peace-but Jennifer won’t be there to see it because she will still be here in Hyannis. She will be watching the boys ride the carousel at the mall; their Christmas Eve dinner will be at Pizzeria Uno. “I need to get my car on this boat.”
“Take my spot,” Norah says. “I insist.”
“What?” Jennifer says. “You have a spot on this boat?”