Elin Hilderbrand - Winter Street

She sneaks down the hall, toward the master bedroom-quickly, quietly, so as not to wake her children.

He wakes up with the headache of a lifetime, but someone has thoughtfully left a giant glass of ice water and a bottle of Advil by his bed. Patrick drinks down the water, and it tastes so good and so cold, and his body needs it so badly, that he decides to start his day feeling grateful.

He checks his phone. Four missed calls late last night from the temporary cell phone of Bucky Larimer and a text from that number that says, Dude, call me. A missed call from Gary Grimstead.

Nothing from Jennifer, which he can’t believe. They have never gone this long without speaking-not ever. He feels like his right side is missing. He can make it through anything as long as she is next to him. He closes his eyes and thinks about her. What is she doing right now? Well, it’s three hours earlier in California, so she’s sleeping. But maybe not. It’s nearly ten o’clock here, meaning seven o’clock there, so everyone is probably awake. The boys are opening presents from Santa Claus and from Grammie. Jennifer’s mother is wealthy and always too lavish; the boys might not even miss the ten million presents that remain under the tree in Boston, or the presents here for them on Nantucket. Jennifer will be drinking coffee, maybe with a splash of Baileys in it, trying to put on a brave face. They will go to the Park Tavern for brunch because Jennifer’s mother doesn’t cook. Patrick dislikes that part of the San Francisco tradition-who goes out on Christmas morning?

He resists the urge to call Jennifer. She probably won’t answer anyway.

He needs coffee, more water, food. He made it from Boston to Hyannis in forty-eight minutes, getting his BMW up to 110 miles per hour on Route 3, which probably would have landed him in jail sooner than he’s already going, but for the fact that the road was free of troopers. Patrick missed one ferry; then he started drinking at the Naked Oyster and missed two more ferries before finally getting on the seven o’clock. He drank Sam Adams on the boat, and then he walked up Main Street to the inn, stopping at Murray’s Liquors and buying and consuming a split of Taittinger champagne on the way. Once here, he was welcomed into the bosom of his family and offered a shot of Jameson.

Patrick stands up. He spent the night in Bart’s room, which is still filled with Bart’s paraphernalia, including a large purple bong-a bag of weed was easily found in Bart’s underwear drawer-car magazines, a poster of Lindsay Lohan on the wall.

Lindsay Lohan? Patrick thinks. He’s relieved Bart has joined the Marines. Anyone who publicly announces himself a fan of Lindsay Lohan needs straightening out.

Tucked into Bart’s mirror are ticket stubs from the Patriots-Broncos game this past October. Kelley probably took him up to Foxborough for it before he shipped out to Germany. Kelley was a good, involved dad like that for Bart.

Patrick steps out into the hallway, and he hears giggling. He turns around to see Kelley and a redheaded woman emerging from Kelley’s room.

Whoa! Patrick thinks. He squints at the redhead. His mind isn’t quite clear, but it looks like his mother. It is his mother. She sees him, and her mouth falls open.

“Are you real?” Patrick asks.

“I’m real,” she says.

He’s not sure how this happened, but Christmas is everything it’s supposed to be and more. To start with, Kelley makes love to his ex-wife. Mitzi was never interested in sex at Christmas-of course, now Kelley knows that’s because for the past twelve years, she was having sex with George.

The lovemaking with Margaret is easy and comfortable and familiar-you forget, but you never really forget. Kelley does the things that Margaret likes, and she does the things that he likes. Afterward, they lie next to each other, sweating and breathless, staring up at the ceiling.

“I read in Esquire magazine that sixty percent of American males over fifty fantasize about sleeping with you,” Kelley says. “But seventy-five percent fantasize about sleeping with Martha Stewart. I never really understood that. Maybe because she can cook?”

Margaret clobbers him with a pillow, and soon the two of them are laughing and wrestling and tickling each other. Margaret is ticklish behind her knees; her laughter soon turns to screams for mercy. Kelley stops because she is making so much noise. It’s a delightful, juvenile hour, the greatest gift he ever could have hoped for.

A big, happy reunion follows. Patrick sees Margaret first-he catches her coming out of Kelley’s bedroom-and he throws her over his shoulder and carries her out to the main room. Kevin and Isabelle wander out, and Kevin gives a whoop and picks Margaret up off the ground also.

She says, “I haven’t been picked up and thrown around this much since my cheerleading days at Michigan.”

Kelley says, “You weren’t a cheerleader at Michigan.”

“Let me have my fantasies,” she says.

“I thought that’s what I just did,” Kelley says.

Ava emerges from the back. She slept with Margaret the night before, but she looks grumpy now at having to share her.

Kelley lights a fire and enlists Kevin to make a batch of Golden Dreams. If they’re going to have a nostalgic Quinn Family Christmas, then they are going whole hog.

Kevin says, “I know you and Mom used to drink them, but I have no idea what goes into one.”

Kevin looks to Margaret. “What’s in a Golden Dream?”

Margaret is curled up on the sofa with a dazed look that Kelley hopes is postcoital bliss.

“Galliano, Cointreau, orange juice, and cream,” she says.

The woman forgets nothing, Kelley thinks. She is the smartest human being he has ever met.

Kevin nods. “On it.”

Ava says, “I dropped the ball on Christmas dinner. I ordered the rib roast, but I forgot to go pick it up. And now I’m sure the store is closed.”

“I picked it up yesterday,” Isabelle says. “They called with a reminder, so I went to get it.”

“Oh, thank you!” Ava says.

“In a little while, I’ll help you prepare it,” Margaret says. “Are we having Yorkshire pudding?”

“Of course,” Ava says. “And roasted asparagus and spinach salad.”

“I’ll do my hot bacon dressing for the salad,” Margaret says.

“What man in his right mind would rather sleep with Martha Stewart?” Kelley says.

They all drink and open presents. One person opens at a time-Quinn family tradition, so that it lasts longer. It’s admittedly easier to accomplish this without the grandchildren around. Patrick’s boys are ten-, eight-, and six-year-old weapons of mass destruction. The other person who never obeyed present-opening protocol was Bart. Even in his late teens, he would come down and rip open all his presents at once.

Mitzi never reprimanded him, of course.

The year they gave him a brand-new Jeep Sahara in metallic royal blue with a massive silver ribbon wrapped around it counts as the worst Christmas on record. Bart was thrilled; he was straight out of central casting, a seventeen-year-old kid jumping up and down, hooting and hollering, hugging Mitzi, hugging Kelley, saying Oh man, oh man, you guys rock! Ava, Kevin, and Patrick, however, had stared at the Jeep in disbelief. None of them had said a word, but Kelley heard their thoughts.

A brand-new Jeep for a seventeen-year-old kid who hasn’t made the honor roll since sixth grade, who smashed up the last car-Mitzi’s Volvo station wagon-so that all it was good for was the demolition derby, a kid who you know drinks and smokes dope. You’re giving HIM a brand-new Jeep, when none of us got so much as a new bicycle?