He bangs his hands against the steering wheel in frustration, and then he drives home to see if Isabelle has returned.
Isabelle isn’t at the inn, and Kevin has run out of ideas. She doesn’t have any friends with whom she could crash for the night, does she? He can’t think of any. And she wouldn’t want to be out too late driving around with the baby. Has she gone to a hotel? It’s Stroll weekend; certainly, everything is booked. Kevin decides to try the Castle anyway. It’s right down the street from the inn; it would be a logical place for Isabelle to go.
Kevin approaches the front desk. There is a tall, dark-skinned gentleman working. His name tag says Livingston.
“Good evening, Livingston,” Kevin says. “I’m looking for my fiancée. I wonder if she has checked in here? Her name is Isabelle Beaulieu and she would have had an infant with her?”
Livingston is smooth and professional. His facial expression gives nothing away. Maybe Isabelle did check in; maybe she didn’t. Kevin knows immediately that Livingston isn’t going to tell him. “I’m sorry, I can’t provide any personal information about our guests,” Livingston says. “You’re looking for your fiancée, you say?”
“Yes,” Kevin says. He feels vaguely criminal. Why would his fiancée be checking into a hotel without him? Kevin imagines trying to explain to Livingston about Norah Vale. Maybe Livingston has a maleficent witch like Norah in his past?
“Well, I hope you find her,” Livingston says. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Kevin holds up a hand. “No worries,” he says.
And yet, he has so many worries. His fiancée and his baby are missing, and the baptism is a mere twelve hours from now. Kevin needs a beer. He wanders into the restaurant attached to the hotel lobby-and there, at the bar, sitting with the same redhead Kevin saw him with at the pharmacy-is George.
“George?” Kevin says.
George swivels on his barstool and lets out a robust HO-HO-HO! George, it appears, is very drunk.
“Kevin, my boy!” he says. “Come have a seat! Mary Rose, this is Mitzi’s stepson, Kevin Quinn. Kevin, this lovely creature is Mary Rose Garth.”
Kevin smiles politely at the redhead. She has a cosmopolitan in front of her and Kevin, being a longtime bartender, guesses she’s from the Midwest. East Coast people stopped ordering cosmos when Sex and the City went off the air.
Kevin claps a hand on George’s shoulder. Kevin isn’t fond of being called my boy by anyone, including his own father, but he needs George’s help.
“George,” he says, “have you seen Isabelle and the baby? Have you seen them here at the hotel?”
“No,” George says, “can’t say that I have. Of course, I’ve barely been able to tear my eyes away from Mary Rose.”
Mary Rose giggles, then excuses herself for the ladies’ room. George stands as she leaves the bar, then he pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and mops his florid face. “I take it Mitzi is spending the night with your father?”
“Oh jeez,” Kevin says, “I really have no idea.” If he had to guess, he would say yes. Kelley and Mitzi had looked pretty chummy at the party, pretty back together, and if Mitzi isn’t here at the hotel with George, then she must be at the inn. Kevin doesn’t have time to worry about his parents, however. “Listen, George, if you see Isabelle in the morning or later tonight, would you call me, please?” Kevin scribbles his phone number down on a cocktail napkin. George picks it up and looks at it through his bifocals. He’ll never call, Kevin thinks. As soon as Kevin leaves, he’ll blow his nose on the napkin.
George takes a second napkin and writes his number down. “Why don’t you give me a call and let me know if Mitzi is staying at the inn tonight.”
Kevin takes the napkin. “Will do,” he says, though they both know there’s no chance the other will follow through.
Kevin passes Mary Rose as he walks out of the restaurant. He nods. She winks at him. “You’re a cutie,” she whispers.
KELLEY
Kelley’s alarm goes off at six o’clock and he groans. He does not feel well. Mitzi rolls over and grabs him around the middle. “Hungover?” she says.
“I guess,” Kelley says. He had some champagne and a couple of glasses of red wine the night before, but he stayed away from the Jameson. He doesn’t feel hungover so much as achy and unwell. He hopes it’s not the flu, but if it is the flu, he’d like it to hold off until after the baptism and the luncheon.
“I have to get up,” Kelley says. “People want their breakfast.”
“Shall I come with you?” Mitzi asks. “Help out?”
Kelley stares at the ceiling. He had been telling himself this was just for the weekend but now it’s beginning to seem like Mitzi might be back more permanently. He’s not going to lie: He’s happy Mitzi is back. She belongs here. She is his wife. But is he just going to let her resume her old duties, her former role as wife and innkeeper? He isn’t sure what Isabelle will think of this; she’s been very quiet this weekend.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Kelley says.
“Please?” Mitzi says.
Kelley sighs. “Okay.”
Turns out Mitzi is needed in the kitchen because there is no sign of Kevin or Isabelle, which is highly unusual. Isabelle is the steadiest, most reliable worker Kelley has ever known. She was back cooking breakfast for guests when Genevieve was only four days old. Maybe she’s busy getting Genevieve ready for the baptism?
Kelley makes the coffee and Mitzi looks in the fridge. “Sausage?” she says. “And how about my banana French toast?”
“And some broiled grapefruit?” Kelley says.
“Mmmmmm,” Mitzi says.
Kelley is turning sausages on the griddle when Kevin walks into the kitchen. He’s still wearing his tuxedo, minus the jacket. His bow tie hangs loose.
“Whoa!” Kelley says. “Rough night?”
Kevin nods. “Isabelle and the baby are gone.”
“Gone?” Kelley says.
“Gone,” Kevin says.
MARGARET
She wakes up at five thirty in the morning. Honestly, it’s a miracle she slept at all. She checks her phone-nothing. Her laptop-nothing. She is anxious to email Neville Grey, but she doesn’t want to endanger him or compromise his confidence.
She calls her voicemail and listens to his message again: I was hoping to reach you on a secure landline… I can’t email… There is breaking news on the missing marines… I had really hoped to reach you…
That’s it. It is, essentially, nothing. Worse than nothing!
Margaret shoots Darcy a text: Have you heard anything?
She wouldn’t dream of texting any other twenty-six-year-old Brooklynite at five thirty on a Sunday morning, but she’s grooming Darcy for big things, and texts at any hour of any day are a part of their job. The news doesn’t sleep.
Sure enough, Darcy responds within seconds: Nothing. I’ve been up most of the night keeping an eye on the AP wire.
When Margaret gets back to New York tomorrow, she’s going to give Darcy a raise, even if it has to come out of her own paycheck.
Keep me posted, Margaret texts.
What time church? Darcy texts.
Eleven o’clock, Margaret texts. But text me anyway!
Darcy texts: You sure?
Margaret thinks about it. She will not check her phone during her granddaughter’s baptismal Mass. She texts, Just send the text and I’ll check right afterward.