Would Margaret move into Drake’s apartment, or would Drake bring his sheets and quilt and art to Margaret’s apartment? Or would they buy a new place, maybe one of the superluxe apartments in the new high-rise on Park Avenue? Neither of them has time to make these decisions, much less execute a move or go through all the trouble that a new place would entail. Margaret remembers back when she and Kelley moved into the brownstone on East Eighty-eighth Street; Margaret was enthusiastic about renovating it. Back then, she cared about things like stripping flooring down to its original hardwood. She hired a contractor to build a window seat in Ava’s bedroom, and Margaret herself had gone to the fabric store to pick out toile for the cushions and matching silk for the pillows.
Now, Margaret doesn’t have time to give attention to even the smallest home improvement project.
And what about their bank accounts? Certainly those would remain separate? How would they decide who pays for things? When they go out now, Drake always pays, even though Margaret makes more money. At least, she thinks she makes more money. But maybe not. Is it odd that she has absolutely no idea how much money Drake makes? She has never thought to ask. It always seemed like Drake’s personal business.
This gets to the heart of Margaret’s fears. She has an established life, a certain way of doing things, a daily routine, a weekly routine, a yearly routine. And so does Drake. Does Margaret really want to go through the unwieldy process of melding the two together? Her conversations with Drake now are erudite and elevated. Does she want to devolve into squabbling with him about who should pick up the dry cleaning or whether they should keep a TV in their bedroom? (Margaret would say yes, Drake no.)
She isn’t sure how to answer. Accepting a marriage proposal would be so romantic! She loves Drake so much, and nothing elates her more than the thought of heading into her golden years with him by her side.
But a part of her likes things the way they are now. Why mess with perfection?
Drake is watching all these thoughts cross her face-yes, no, yes, no-meanwhile, his patience must be wearing thin. But he has to realize that he’s caught her by surprise, right? He has to realize that the answer isn’t necessarily clear cut.
Margaret’s phone rings, which is embarrassing; she’d meant to turn it off before they entered the museum. When she pulls it out of her gold clutch to silence it, she sees the person calling is Darcy, her assistant.
“Oh no,” Margaret says.
“What?” Drake says. As a surgeon, Drake understands how potentially devastating one phone call can be. Among so many other things, Margaret appreciates his gravitas, his depth, his steadfast and calm focus.
“It’s Darcy,” Margaret says.
“You have to answer it,” Drake says.
Yes, Margaret has to answer it. Darcy has been trained never to bother Margaret when she’s away except in case of absolute emergency.
“Hello?” Margaret says.
“Margaret?” Darcy says. Already Margaret can hear the urgency in Darcy’s voice. What is she going to say? The U.S. has declared war against North Korea? George Clooney was killed in a plane crash? Someone is dead, that much she can assume.
“Talk to me,” Margaret says. Drake wisely takes Margaret’s wineglass from her hand.
Darcy says, “You received a voicemail here at the studio from Neville Grey.”
“What did he say?” Margaret asks. “You listened to it, right? Please tell me you listened to it.”
“I listened to it,” Darcy says. “It was cryptic and pretty bare bones, but apparently there’s news about the missing marines. Bart’s platoon?”
“Yes, yes!” Margaret says. “What is it? What’s the news?”
“He didn’t say,” Darcy says. “Or he couldn’t say. He said he wasn’t able to call your cell or send you an email, he said he was hoping to reach you on a secure landline.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Margaret says. “Can I call him back?”
“No,” Darcy says. “I tried, but the number was blocked. But it sounded like he really wanted to reach you.” She pauses. “I think this might be something real, Margaret.”
“Did you call the DoD directly?” Margaret asks. “The number is in my contacts under-”
“Yes,” Darcy says. “I called but got nowhere. Kingman’s office was quiet on the topic. No change of status, they said. When there is a change of status, the media will be notified, they said.”
“So what Neville gave me was a heads-up,” Margaret says. “Something is coming in on those marines.”
“Yes,” Darcy says. “News is coming. Real news.”
KEVIN
He has to find Isabelle.
Would she leave the party, or would she run to the ladies’ room or a quiet corner to collect herself? Seeing him kissing Norah would have been a shock, but would it have caused Isabelle to go home?
Kevin dispatches Jennifer to check the ladies’ room, and then Kevin goes sifting through the party. Isabelle is wearing white, which means she will stand out. Kevin had never noticed before how many women wear black to events like these. Norah was, of course, wearing black. Norah always wore black.
It looked like you and Norah were kissing.
Yes, Kevin admits to himself. For one split second, they had been kissing.
He has to find Isabelle. He can’t believe Norah Vale torched his night this way. If anything was going to end his evening preemptively it should have been a call from Shelby.
There are couples admiring the trees, there’s a harp player, there’s a line of folks waiting for the tuna tartare with wasabi crème fraîche from the Pearl. Kevin feels a growing sense of panic. He’s not only looking for Isabelle, he’s looking for Norah so he can avoid her.
He sees his father and Mitzi talking to Mrs. Gabler, Bart’s kindergarten teacher. Kevin tries to do an about-face to avoid them, but Kelley catches sight of Kevin and eagerly waves him over.
Kevin says to his father, “I’m kind of on a mission, Dad.”
Kelley doesn’t care. “Say hello to Mrs. Gabler,” he prompts.
“Good evening, Mrs. Gabler,” Kevin says. His father believes in nothing so much as respecting the elderly, and somehow Mrs. Gabler has become the Quinn family favorite. Probably because she put up with Bart’s nonsense-although wasn’t Mrs. Gabler the one who put Bart’s school desk in a refrigerator box so he wouldn’t be quite so “social” with his “neighbors”? Kevin doesn’t have time to make small talk with Mrs. Gabler, but neither can he bring himself to be rude. “How are you?”
“Now who’s this one?” Mrs. Gabler asks. “Is this the one in jail?”
“No, this is Kevin,” Kelley says. “The one who has gone to jail is Patrick.”
If I were the one in jail, Kevin wonders, how could I be attending this party?
Mrs. Gabler tilts her head to indicate she hasn’t heard Kelley.
Kelley shouts, “Patrick is the one in jail! My son Patrick!”
The people standing near Kelley pipe down, possibly hoping they might hear more about the Quinn son who went to jail. The other person who heard that loud announcement of her husband’s guilt is Jennifer, who shoots Kelley a hurt look, then says to Kevin, “She’s not in the ladies’ room.”
“Crap,” Kevin says. Suddenly he knows that she’s left. She wouldn’t want to stay at a party once she saw Norah Vale here. She would go home to Genevieve.
Kevin bows to Mrs. Gabler. “It was lovely to see you, but my fiancée has gone missing and I have to find her.”
Mrs. Gabler turns her attention to Jennifer. “Now who is this one?”