He says, “Would you be interested in going to the Festival of Trees party at the Whaling Museum with me tonight? Ava has an extra ticket. Scott got caught off-island.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Mitzi says.
“Why not?” Kelley says. “We don’t have to stay long. We can go, take a gander at the trees, enjoy a few appetizers, and then I’ll drop you back off at the hotel.”
“I don’t have anything to wear,” Mitzi says. “I brought a dress for the baptism tomorrow, that’s it. And…” She checks the clock. It’s quarter after four. “It’s too late to go out and get something now.”
At that second, there’s a trill of famous laughter. Margaret and Drake walk into the kitchen, bringing with them the chill and cheer of a good afternoon spent in town. Drake brandishes a bottle of champagne.
“We’ve come in search of flutes,” Margaret says. “The kind one drinks from.” She sees Mitzi and Kelley at the table, and the playing cards scattered about, and her face takes on a composed expression of neutrality. “Hello again, Mitzi.”
“Margaret,” Mitzi says.
“Hello, Mitzi,” Drake says.
Mitzi casts her eyes down. She can’t believe what an incredible ass she made of herself the night before; she practically poured herself into Drake’s lap.
“Margaret!” Kelley says, in that way he has, as if Margaret is the answer to the world’s problems. “I’m going to bring Mitzi to the party at the Whaling Museum tonight as my date. But she’s wardrobe-challenged. Do you have anything she might borrow? You two are about the same size.”
“You know Margaret,” Drake says. “She packs three outfits for every event.”
“That I do,” Margaret says. She smiles at Mitzi. “Are you sure you want to borrow something of mine? I know that, in the past, you haven’t cared for my taste in clothes.”
Mitzi knows she deserves this jab-and worse. For a period of eighteen months or so, Mitzi wrote a blog that criticized each and every one of the outfits Margaret wore on the air. It was, by anyone’s standards, a stupid and cruel pastime. But it was the only way Mitzi could find to exorcise her mighty envy of this woman.
“I’d love to borrow a dress,” Mitzi says. In all honesty, she believes Margaret to have impeccable taste. “And shoes, if you have a spare pair?”
“Ha!” Drake says. “She brought seven pairs of heels.”
Margaret swats Drake. “Come to my room,” she says. “What size shoe?”
“Seven and a half,” Mitzi says.
“Well,” Margaret says to Kelley, “at least you’re consistent.”
Margaret has brought the equivalent of half of Mitzi’s closet in Lenox, only far, far more glamorous. Donna Karan, Diane von Furstenberg, Helmut Lang, Roberto Cavalli-every piece Margaret shows to Mitzi makes her swoon a little more than the last. Room 10 has been transformed from the room that Mitzi dutifully cleaned each day-and, incidentally, the room where she had perennially conducted her Christmas affair with George-to something out of one of Mitzi’s childhood princess dreams.
Drake pops the champagne and hands both Margaret and Mitzi a flute. Mitzi realizes she is a party crasher here. Certainly Drake and Margaret wanted to drink this bottle of Krug (a champagne so fabulous Mitzi has never actually tasted it) themselves as they made love and then showered and dressed for the party. Instead, Margaret puts on some music-the Vienna Boys Choir-and she and Drake sit in matching armchairs with the champagne like judges on America’s Next Top Model while Mitzi takes four dresses into the bathroom.
Before she closes the door, she says to Margaret, “Which one were you planning on wearing?”
“Honestly, it doesn’t matter,” Margaret says. “I’m happy in whatever.”
Happy in whatever: this throwaway phrase is Mitzi’s life goal. Margaret Quinn is happy in whatever because she is filled to the brim with self-confidence and pluck. She has achieved her dreams a hundred times over. She has nothing to prove to anyone. She would look beautiful in a burlap sack because Margaret’s beauty comes from within.
How might Mitzi achieve this? She looks into the bathroom mirror at her pinched, pale face. Crowding the shelf beneath the mirror are Margaret’s cosmetics: face creams and cleansers, eye pencils and shadows, and half a dozen Chanel lipsticks. But none of these products will help Mitzi. She needs only one thing, and that is to know that Bart is safe. If someone can assure her of that, she will never need another thing. She will exude peace and gratitude all the rest of her days.
Bart Bart Bart Bart Bart.
For a moment, Mitzi is in danger of falling into the usual black pit of despair. She wishes the champagne were tequila.
Atrocities. Burned alive in a cage. Beheaded.
But then, she snaps out of it. Margaret and Drake are waiting. Mitzi puts on the first dress, a luscious amethyst silk slip dress with spaghetti straps and an asymmetrical hem. Margaret has given Mitzi corresponding heels-silver crystal Manolos.
Mitzi puts on the dress and straps on the heels and pins her unruly curls to the top of her head using a silver clip of Margaret’s that Mitzi locates among the jars and tubes.
She steps out into the room. Kelley is standing there now, too, with his own glass of the Krug.
He whistles. “Hot damn!” he says.
“That one works,” Drake says.
“Mitzi, you look stunning,” Margaret says. “Absolutely stunning.”
Mitzi feels weepy. But for the first time in a year, they aren’t tears of sadness. They are tears of gratitude.
Mitzi tries on the silver brocade sheath, the gold beaded flapper dress, and the white goddess gown.
“Dealer’s choice,” Kelley says. “You look captivating in all of them.”
“Agreed,” Drake says.
“Margaret?” Mitzi asks. Margaret’s opinion is the only one that matters. Mitzi knows that Margaret lunches with Anna Wintour once a month at the Four Seasons; she has done 60 Minutes segments with Donatella Versace and Stella McCartney. For the past twenty years-at least before Bart went missing-Mitzi’s most toxic emotion was her jealousy of Margaret. But now she understands that jealousy masked her respect of the woman.
“I liked the first one, the purple,” Margaret says. “It’s a dramatic color, makes a statement. Everyone in the place will be looking at you. Plus… it’s Dior.”
“It is?” Mitzi says. She knows that probably means it costs north of five thousand dollars.
“Designed by John Galliano for me for something, I can’t remember what. But I’m thinking it looks far better on you than on me. I’d love to have you wear it.”
Mitzi doesn’t know how the woman finds it in herself to be so gracious. She’s going to strive to emulate Margaret from here on out. She is going to be a better person.
“The purple it is!” Kelley says. He nods toward the hallway. “Why don’t you come change downstairs. That way we can give these two their privacy.”
“I don’t know how to thank you for this,” Mitzi says to Margaret.
“Let’s all have fun tonight,” Margaret says. “You certainly deserve it.”
Mitzi nods. Margaret says, “Why don’t I come down at about quarter to six and I’ll do your makeup. My stylist, Roger, has taught me a few tricks.”
Kelley carries both of their flutes of champagne and leads the way down the back stairs. “Do you need to call George and tell him about your change of plans?”
“George?” she says.
KEVIN
For the first time since Genevieve has been born, they are getting a babysitter.
Isabelle is, quite frankly, a wreck.
She is sitting on the edge of their tightly made bed. Probably the biggest change since Kevin and Isabelle moved in together-other than fatherhood-is how neat and tidy and clean and correct his surroundings now are. Isabelle makes their bed first thing every morning; they use the same sumptuous sheets and feather pillows as guests of the inn. Isabelle launders their Turkish cotton towels every fourth day and keeps a big, fluffy stack in a woven basket in their bathroom. Without asking, Kevin has new razors and fresh bars of French-milled soap in the shower; he never runs out of toilet paper. He has turned into a proper adult.