Elin Hilderbrand - Winter Storms

“Good idea,” Mitzi says. “I’ll cook and watch a little pregame, then I’ll come wake you. Isabelle wants us at three.”

Kelley has one of his dreams. He and Bart are in a car; Kelley is driving. They are in a desert. It looks like pictures Kelley has seen of the American Southwest but Bart keeps telling Kelley they’re in Australia.

Australia? Kelley says. That doesn’t sound right. Shouldn’t we be in Afghanistan?

No, Bart says. They got it all wrong. Everyone thought we were in Afghanistan, but we weren’t.

Kelley drives to the edge of a cliff. Far, far below are jagged, red rocks. Is this a gorge? Kelley asks. Bart gets out of the car. He starts to walk away.

“Kelley! Kelley! ”

Kelley opens his eyes. His head is killing him, and that’s not a euphemism. It feels like his head is trying to pull away from the rest of his body.

“Kelley!”

With effort, Kelley sits up. Mitzi? She’s calling for him.

“Kelley!” she’s screaming. Really screaming. Maybe her apron caught on fire or she missed a step and the corn pudding spilled out of the casserole dish all over the floor. Kelley gets out of bed and stumbles to the door. He sees Mitzi at the end of the hallway. She’s wearing an apron-it’s not on fire-she’s crying, she’s sobbing, breathless, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. What? She’s holding something, Kelley sees. It’s the telephone.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he’s always imagined it. They have news.

Kelley falls. He hits the floor, but there is no pain. Not yet, anyway. It is dark. Quiet.

The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, Margaret takes her assistant, Darcy, for a farewell dinner at Eleven Madison Park. Eleven Madison Park was recently voted the best restaurant in America, and although Margaret has long outgrown being impressed by the “best” this and the “best” that, she has to admit, this dinner is pretty unforgettable. Eleven courses with wine pairings, each course based on a food tradition of New York City. The meal starts and ends with a black-and-white cookie. The first cookie is savory; the final cookie, sweet. Margaret’s favorite course is the one they eat in the kitchen -this, the VIP treatment because she is Margaret Quinn-which riffs on the Jewish deli. They are served tiny, open-faced Reuben sandwiches-slow-cooked corned beef with homemade sauerkraut and some kind of heavenly sauce-and a petite bottle of celery soda. When Margaret sees it, she says, “I’m sorry, what is this?”

Celery soda.

It’s bright green and fizzy, and Margaret tastes it tentatively at first, then determines it’s the most delicious, refreshing, original elixir ever to cross her taste buds. It’s bursting with fresh celery flavor and it’s carbonated with just a hint of sweetness. It pairs beautifully with the fatty succulence of the corned beef and the piquancy of the sauerkraut.

When she and Darcy leave, Margaret agrees that Eleven Madison Park is the best restaurant in America, but she won’t be able to explain why-even to Drake-beyond gushing over the celery soda.

Margaret has to bid Darcy good-bye outside the restaurant, a moment she has been dreading. Darcy has been her assistant for four years and four months. They have been a couple longer than Margaret and Drake. Being Margaret’s assistant can hardly have been easy, but Darcy is one of those super-capable, incredibly knowledgeable people who take everything in stride. She is unflappable, and if she made a mistake during her tenure, Margaret hasn’t found out about it. She has never been sick, never been late, never been hungover, cranky, or cross. She has been faithful, discreet, loyal, and funny, and although she has helped Margaret with innumerable details of her personal life, she has never crossed the line into acting too “chummy.” Are they friends? No, Margaret thinks. Not really. This dinner aside, they have never socialized other than at work functions. Even when Margaret was on location and Darcy traveled with her, they kept their private time private. In many ways, Darcy is closer than a friend. She is family-no, not family. She is, somehow, another manifestation of Margaret Quinn, Margaret in another, younger body.

“I’ll never find another assistant like you,” Margaret says. “Never.”

“Margaret, stop,” Darcy says. “I’ll cry.”

“Okay,” Margaret says. She is on the verge of tears herself. “If you need me, any time, for any reason…”

“I know,” Darcy says. “The same goes for me.”

“Good,” Margaret says, and they both laugh because they know Margaret needs Darcy far more than Darcy needs Margaret.

Darcy climbs into the taxi and waves at Margaret through the window. She is heading home to Silver Spring early tomorrow and then to Atlanta on Friday to start her new life.

Good-bye, Margaret mouths. Good-bye.

It’s just after one o’clock the next day when Darcy calls Margaret’s cell phone. Margaret is still at the parade party held every year at Lee and Ginny Kramer’s apartment on Central Park West, thirteen blocks south of Margaret’s apartment and twenty floors closer to the action on the street. Ava and her friend Potter are also at the party; the three of them have consumed no small amount of champagne, celebrating Ava’s job at Copper Hill, which Lee and Ginny’s sons, Adam and Harry, both attend. There are cheers all around, several times.

It’s just when Margaret is gathering her things to leave-Drake is picking up a spectacular turkey dinner with all the trimmings from Citarella-that she sees Darcy’s call come in. There is no reason for Margaret to panic, but she senses Darcy is calling to tell her something. And at one o’clock on Thanksgiving? It’s something big.

“Darcy?” Margaret says. She sees Ava looking at her from across the room and she turns her back and wanders into the dining room, where there are floor-to-ceiling windows. The parade has passed but the street below is flooded with people; Raoul is around the block, waiting for Margaret and Ava. They’ll have to head four blocks west to get thirteen blocks north. “Darcy, what is it?”

“My source at the Pentagon?” she says. “He called me a few seconds ago. Another soldier from the missing convoy escaped.”

“Oh my gosh,” Margaret says, breathless. “Was it Bart?”

“Not Bart,” Darcy says. “I asked specifically. My source couldn’t give me the name but he could confirm it wasn’t Bart.”

“Oh,” Margaret says. Her spirit is in a free fall.

“But Margaret, this soldier has far more information. They’re about to send out a press release. He said when he escaped that half the troops were alive and-”

“Half were dead?” Margaret says.

“Yes,” Darcy says. “He gave them a whole bunch of other stuff too, I guess. Details about the surroundings, how far they’d traveled, what direction they went, what landmarks he remembers. My source says the Pentagon is going to move on the information tonight.”

“Tonight,” Margaret says.

“I’ll call if I get anything else,” Darcy says.

“Yes,” Margaret says. “Thank you, Darcy.”

She hangs up and tries to process what she’s just heard, keeping emotion at bay. She is afraid to turn around; she doesn’t want Ava to see her face until she figures out what to do. Part of her, naturally, wants to let Kelley and Mitzi enjoy their turkey. They are eating at Kevin and Isabelle’s house. But no, Margaret can’t keep quiet, not this time. This is too big. Half alive, half dead. Flip a coin, she thinks. They’re going to find the kids, all of them, either way-of this, Margaret is confident.