Elin Hilderbrand - Winter Street

She wears a red dress that clashes with her hair; imploring Roger again for the silver Audrey Hepburn did no good. It’s Christmas Eve; it has to be red. The broadcast is light, so light that it primarily consists of footage of Christmas Eve celebrations from around the world-fireworks over the Eiffel Tower in Paris, Pope Francis I saying Mass in St. Peter’s Square.

Margaret smiles into the camera. Her favorite cameraman, Ernest, is five foot three, and he’s wearing an elf hat and a necklace of glowing chili pepper lights.

“For CBS News, I’m Margaret Quinn, wishing all of you a safe and happy holiday and peace for the coming year.” Margaret holds… she holds… This is by far her least favorite part of the job, smiling into the vacant eye of the camera for all of America when she’s done and ready to move on.

“And… cut!” her producer, Mickey Benz, says. “Good job, Margaret. Enjoy Hawaii.”

Merry Christmas, Margaret, enjoy Hawaii, have fun, you deserve it. She does deserve it! She spends only twelve weekdays a year out of people’s living rooms-five days in August, Thanksgiving Day and the Friday after, and five days at Christmas. Cynthia, the office manager, has left a bottle of SPF 75 sunblock next to Margaret’s computer with a note that says, Protect the most famous face in America. Margaret smiles and throws the sunscreen in her bag. She extends the handle of her suitcase and checks her phone. She has a single text. It’s from Drake. He’s already at Newark, in Terminal C, waiting for her at the outpost of Grand Central Oyster Bar with a dozen Malpeques ordered.

Are you close?

Margaret chuckles. This is exactly what he asks her when they’re making love.

On my way! she texts back. She’s relieved there are no texts from Nantucket. She assumes everyone is carrying on with his or her Christmas Eve festivities. She’ll call tomorrow.

Then Margaret looks up, and, like a Ferrari smashing into a brick wall, she sees Darcy’s face right up in hers, and Darcy is not happy.

“Margaret,” she says.

Margaret’s heart does a free fall.

“What?” Margaret says. She thinks, I am two hundred yards from the exit of the building, where Raoul is waiting for me with the car. I have a dozen Malpeques, a glass of champagne, and a very cute surgeon anticipating my imminent arrival. And then Hawaii, Darcy, a suite at the Four Seasons, a level of luxury you have not yet known in your young life. I deserve this vacation-everyone just said so. Please, don’t tell me that Michelle Obama has filed for divorce, don’t tell me aliens have landed on Soldier Field. I don’t want to know. I don’t care.

Darcy holds out a piece of paper that looks suspiciously like a briefing sheet.

Margaret shakes her head.

“Read it,” Darcy whispers.

A convoy carrying forty-five American troops headed out of Sangin, Afghanistan, was intercepted by insurgent forces. The troops are thought to be alive. They were marched off rather than shot on sight, Margaret thinks. They will be held, treated abominably, possibly tortured, and used as bargaining chips.

Margaret looks at Darcy. “You don’t have names, do you?”

Darcy shakes her head. No names, nothing definite, and yet somehow Margaret knows why Darcy brought this to her. Bart Quinn is among the forty-five; Margaret feels it in her gut.

She calls Drake to cancel.

“Deck the Halls.”

“Frosty the Snowman.”

“Up on the Housetop.”

“Rudolph.”

“Silver Bells.”

“Winter Wonderland.”

“Chestnuts Roasting.”

“Sleigh Ride.”

“The Little Drummer Boy”-this is Ava’s insertion. It would be too religious for Mitzi, but Mitzi isn’t here!

She says to Kelley, “I’ll take one more.” She bows her head and squeezes her eyes shut. Her hands are inadvertently arched over the C chord, which is how “Jingle Bells” starts-although her heart’s greatest desire this Christmas is that tonight will end without her having to play it.

“Jingle Bells,” someone/everyone yells.

Ava plays “Jingle Bells” and even gives it a little extra gusto as she suddenly remembers Claire Frye and her father, Gavin, and Ava’s vow to play the song in Claire’s honor. Besides, she won’t have to play it again for 364 days. Then she segues into “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” signaling the end of the caroling. Her father and Scott are at the piano, arms wrapped around each other.

As soon as the last chord evaporates into the pine-scented air, there is the sound of a spoon chiming against a glass. Ava looks up. This is unusual. Normally now is when people start to file out.

Kevin is standing on top of the Igloo boat cooler. He looks like he has an announcement to make; he is probably trying to take over the reins from their father and thank everyone for coming. This will hasten the exodus even more.

When the room quiets down, Kevin hands the glass and the spoon off to a bystander and says, “Isabelle Beaulieu? Mrs. Claus? Isabelle, where are you?”

Huh? Ava thinks.

Isabelle is now circulating with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, but she turns and gazes up at Kevin.

Kevin pulls a velvet box out of his pocket and says, “Isabelle Beaulieu, will you marry me?”

Kevin and Isabelle- together? As in, lovers? Kevin is proposing?

Then a second thought hits her sideways: Isabelle is pregnant, and THE BABY IS KEVIN’S!

People are shocked, stunned, stupefied! No one more so than Ava. But everyone loves an unexpected proposal, especially at Christmas. The room roars!

Ava sways. Scott materializes at her side. She looks up at him in his Father Christmas hat. She doesn’t know which emotion overwhelms her more-surprise happiness for Kevin and Isabelle, or surprise relief that Scott will not be dating Isabelle. She thinks of Kevin’s reaction when she told him she was setting up Scott and Isabelle- that was why he was so angry.

Together, she and Scott watch as Isabelle-it seems belatedly understanding what is happening-approaches Kevin. She is holding both hands over her mouth, she is trembling and crying-with joy, it seems, unadulterated joy. Watching her, Ava tears up herself. Isabelle and Kevin are in love! She can’t believe it!

She involuntarily compares the expression of Isabelle’s face now-she looks like someone who just won ten million dollars and a dream house in Tahiti-with the expression Norah Vale wore when she was in Kevin’s presence. Which, even on her wedding day, could be most accurately described as somewhere between dour and snarling.

Ava is so happy for Kevin. He deserves this. Even though Ava had hoped to be the one getting engaged tonight, she feels nothing but elation at the turn of events.

Kevin slips the ring on Isabelle’s finger, and the crowd cheers. Scott lets a wolf whistle fly, loud enough to summon every dog in the neighborhood.

Kevin jumps down to kiss Isabelle, and Ava’s father moves for the magnum of champagne. It’s clearly time for the sabering, and now they really have something to celebrate! Kelley pulls his saber out of the umbrella stand, opens the front door, and holds the bottom of the champagne bottle against his belt buckle. In one fluid motion, he slices the top of the bottle off; it flies into the yard. This is a trick he learned one year when he went to Paris with Margaret, supposedly taught to him by the personal sommelier of François Mitterrand. It dazzles every time.

As Kelley pours glasses of the Perrier-Jouët, Ava wonders: Did her father know Kevin and Isabelle were together? Did he know this proposal was in the works? Does he know Isabelle is pregnant?