Elin Hilderbrand - Winter Street

“Yes, baby,” he says. “Of course I promise.” His voice is tender, and for a second it’s like the best of times; it’s an eight or a nine.

“Okay,” Ava says. “Bye-bye.” And she hangs up before anything can change.

When Kelley wakes from his nap, he sends a text to Bart’s cell phone. The text says: Mommy and I are splitting.

No mention of why. In this, Kelley feels he’s being generous.

Kelley is informed by his phone that the message is undeliverable.

Gary Grimstead, Great Guy, says: Compliance had no choice, baby, and now the SEC is involved, and they’re seeing something they don’t like. Anything you want to tell me? If you tell me now, if you come clean, it will be better. Trust me, baby.

Gary Grimstead always uses the diminutive “baby”; he fancies himself an incarnation of Vince Vaughn’s character in Swingers . Patrick has never liked being called “baby” by someone who is actually eleven months younger than him and who went to an inferior college and business school and yet is his boss. But Gary Grimstead is one of those magnetic people everyone loves and falls over themselves to please. Gary has never lorded his authority over Patrick; he treats Patrick like an equal. They are friends who golf together and sit together in the corporate suite at Red Sox games, bonded by the fact that they both hate the Sox. Patrick grew up a Yankees fan, and Gary likes the Angels. Patrick knows Gary has Patrick’s best interests at heart, but, even so, it feels dangerous to tell him the truth. Can he say the words out loud?

“The SEC? ” Patrick says, his tone conveying the maximum amount of incredulity. “Because of the perks? I can see Compliance giving me a slap on the wrist, telling me I have to be more judicious about who I accept favors from, but it’s an industry-wide pathology, Gary. I mean, I’m hardly the only private-equity guy on the East Coast taking perks.”

“It’s not the perks,” Gary says. “It’s the amount you invested with Panagea. It’s a lot of money, baby. It sent up a red flag. They’re looking into all your shit. Now, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Panagea is a gamble,” Patrick says. “That’s what we do in this business. We gamble.”

“So, here’s the thing. Panagea has had nothing going on for years; I mean, how long has their stock been at twelve dollars? I’ll tell you how long-since October 2006. Then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, you pour twenty-five mil into this company? And you think nobody’s going to notice?”

You didn’t notice, Patrick thinks.

“I’ve been reading their R and D reports for years,” Patrick says. “I’ve always had a feeling about them. You know I always go with my gut.”

“They have a new drug,” Gary says. “MDP. Cures leukemia in kids. That’s no secret.”

Patrick holds his breath. He simply doesn’t know how much to admit to.

“Twenty-five point six million is a hell of a gamble,” Gary says. “If that leukemia drug isn’t FDA approved, you’re sunk. If the drug is approved, it looks like you know something. Do you know something?”

“No,” Patrick says, but his voice gives him away. He sounds too defensive. “So, how was the party? You didn’t do any Irish car bombs without me, did you?”

“Patrick,” Gary says. “This is serious. My ass is on the line, too, baby. Tell me what’s going on.”

Tell him, Patrick thinks. Gary’s ass is on the line. He won’t go to jail, but he might lose his job. Patrick sinks to the kitchen floor and rests his elbows on his knees, one hand grabbing a hank of hair, pulling until it really hurts. What has he done? What should he do?

Deny, deny, deny, he thinks. If he tells the truth, he’s cooked. If he continues to lie, there is still hope. They can’t prove anything.

“Nothing is going on,” Patrick says. “They can look, but I’m clean, man. And, seeing as it’s Christmas Eve, I should go. I’m taking the family to church.”

On the other end, Gary is quiet.

Patrick says, “Man, I’m serious. I’m clean.”

Gary says, “Okay, baby, I hope so. I really do. Merry Christmas.”

Patrick inhales all eight eggs and half the caviar; then he feels queasy. He is now not only a cheat but also a liar. He hurries down the hall to the master bedroom; he’s going to be sick. He stands over the sink and presses his forehead against the bathroom mirror. They won’t catch him; they can’t prove anything. Then he thinks, Of course they’ll catch me. They catch everyone.

The Boston bombers got caught in four days.

Twenty-five point six million. If the drug is approved, this number will hit the stratosphere. Patrick was tripped up by greed. It’s a deadly sin; now he knows why. He sees the bottle of Vicodin-ten pills left. Would ten Vicodin be enough to kill him?

He’s too much of a chicken to kill himself. He loves life, he loves Jen and the kids, he loves this house, the city of Boston, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts; he loves America.

He throws some clothes and his Dopp kit in a duffel bag and goes out to the living room. The tree is a sparkling wonder; the entire month of December, people have been gathering on the sidewalk below to point and gaze. And it smells good-rich and piney. It pains Patrick to turn the lights off, but he has no choice.

He is going to Nantucket.

Ten more soldiers killed in Afghanistan. Margaret is breathless with horror, followed by shame. She has been anchoring the national news for over twenty years, she has reported on thousands of deaths of American soldiers, and yet it is only this week, now that her children’s brother has been deployed, that she truly understands how scary and dangerous it is. The sacrifice these kids make (and they are kids-Bart is only nineteen; the last time Margaret saw him, eighteen months earlier, he was in New York City on his senior class trip) is astonishing-as are the sacrifices the parents make, sending their sons and daughters into battle. The parents. Kelley and Mitzi.

“I’m behind on Afghanistan,” Margaret admits to her assistant, Darcy, who is, on any given day, one of the most informed people at the network. “Why all these deaths all of a sudden? Can you explain it?”

“The U.S. wanted to have the majority of their troops withdrawn by year’s end,” Darcy says. “They’ve been pulling out far more troops than they’re sending in. And insurgent forces know this. With fewer U.S. troops, it’s safer for Afghan nationals who support the Taliban to make their presence known. They’re striking out left and right. Quite frankly, I’d be surprised if they don’t attempt a full-on takeover.” Darcy pushes her glasses higher on her nose. “I’d say Afghanistan is more dangerous now than it ever has been.”

“Well, great,” Margaret says. “Bart Quinn just got shipped over.”

“Yes, you told me,” Darcy says. “He isn’t… on the list, is he?”

Margaret scans the list. “No, thank God.” Not today, she thinks.

“Can you imagine the parents who are getting the news… on Christmas Eve?” Darcy says.

Margaret thinks about those parents, and something unusual happens. She tears up. She hasn’t cried over the news since she famously broke down on the air when the first tower collapsed on September 11. Initially, she received all kinds of criticism for losing her composure. But Margaret thinks-actually, she knows-that it was her coverage on September 11 that caught the attention of the big boss, Lee Kramer, and launched her into the evening anchor spot.