Winter Solstice Read online

  “My last day will be November tenth,” Margaret says. “Friday.”

  “November tenth is only three months from now!” Lee said. “How can I possibly replace the most iconic news anchor the world has ever known in three short months?”

  “Flattery won’t work, Lee,” Margaret said as she turned and walked out of the office.

  “Does this have anything to do with politics?” Lee called after her.

  Margaret’s retirement has nothing to do with politics or the polarization of America or the increasingly dire content of the news Margaret has to report. It has to do with Kelley. Their three kids are grown; they are independent, fully functioning adults. They don’t need their mother. But Kelley’s diagnosis—he’s terminal—has brought certain things into focus for Margaret. There is a long list of things she still wants to do. She wants to travel with Drake. She wants to visit her grandbabies. She wants to practice yoga, grow an herb garden; she wants to read.

  For all of Margaret’s adult life, the news has been a drug. Her broadcasting career started small. She reported car accidents, fires, robberies, strikes. Her big “break”—and she is loath to call it that—came during her coverage on September 11. She was reporting on that tragic day for NY1, and something about her screen presence caught the attention of the executives at CBS. By the end of that unforgettable week, she had been offered a seat at the evening news desk, and a year later she was the sole anchor.

  Since then Margaret has covered the war with Iraq, the death of Saddam Hussein, the tsunami in Southeast Asia, Hurricane Katrina, the election of not one but two new popes, the war against terror, the rise of ISIS, the election of Barack Obama, the legalization of gay marriage, the eradication of Osama bin Laden by U.S. Navy SEAL Team 6, and countless gun massacres—Sandy Hook Elementary, San Bernardino, and Aurora, Colorado. Margaret has announced the deaths of Robin Williams, Whitney Houston, Prince, Philip Seymour Hoffman, James Gandolfini, Heath Ledger, Carrie Fisher, David Bowie, and Michael Jackson. She has covered Darfur, Boko Haram, the war against Ukraine, the civil war in Syria, the earthquakes in Haiti and the Philippines.

  Margaret has had a good run. She does her job faithfully to the very best of her ability each and every night. But now she’s both tired and energized: tired of being tethered to the news cycle, energized by the prospect of joining the civilian world.

  Lee had a hard time finding Margaret’s replacement. The network wanted another woman, preferably a woman of color. Lee enlisted Margaret to help him watch the clips, and even she had to admit, none of them seemed ready. The top two contenders were Stephanie Kane, an anchor with the CBS affiliate in Anchorage, Alaska, of all places, and Catherine Bingham, who currently anchored the evening edition of ESPN’s SportsCenter. Margaret leaned toward Catherine. Somehow professional sports seemed closer in tone and tenor to the news of the world than anything happening in the happy, peaceful Pacific Northwest. Although Stephanie did have the advantage of being half Inupiat.

  And Stephanie it was! Lee made the announcement, and Margaret rallied behind his decision. “It doesn’t matter if she isn’t ready. I wasn’t ready. She’ll grow into the job.”

  Two broadcasts left. Roger in wardrobe asks Margaret what she wants to wear for her final broadcast.

  “Black,” Margaret says. She hasn’t ever been allowed to wear black, but Margaret feels it’s fitting for her final broadcast.

  “Oh, please,” Roger says. “How funereal. How somber and depressing. I thought for sure you would go with purple. Or silver and gold sequins. Or a T-shirt that says Cash Me Outside How Bah Dat.”

  “Black,” Margaret says. It’s a color that will make a statement, it has gravitas, it indicates finality.

  “Black it is,” Roger says. “Let’s hope they don’t complain upstairs.”

  “What are they going to do?” Margaret asks. “Fire me?”

  One broadcast left. On Friday afternoon when Raoul drives Margaret to the studio, she’s nervous. Nervous about what? she wonders. Despite her insistence that she did not want any fuss made, she knows that the producers have assembled photos for a ninety-second montage to end the broadcast. This will follow the sixty seconds they have allotted so that she can say something meaningful to leave with her viewers.

  Something meaningful.

  It’s in Margaret’s nature to be overprepared, but every time she has sat down to figure out what this something meaningful should be, she has drawn a blank. She doesn’t want to make too big a deal out of her departure. After all, she only reports the news; she’s not a pediatric brain surgeon like Drake, saving lives every single day.

  She hopes that inspiration will come before airtime. She doesn’t want to be sentimental; she can’t grow weepy. The fact is, she has a hard time believing this is her last broadcast. If something were to happen at four forty-five in the afternoon on Friday, November 10—if the president declared war on North Korea, if suicide bombers infiltrated Disney World, if Prince George and Princess Charlotte were kidnapped from Kensington Palace—then Margaret would stay planted in her chair for weeks. But then the next story would break, and the next. The news is as relentless as the ocean. There will never be a quiet, uneventful time to exit. She has to do it tonight, no matter what.

  Was there any doubt? Roger has chosen perfectly. Margaret is to wear a black silk Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. It’s simple and elegant yet has no shortage of sex appeal. Margaret loves Diane as a person and counts her as a friend. One of the privileges of Margaret’s career has been all of the legends she has met.

  As far as jewelry goes, Margaret opts for only pearl earrings—and the Cartier tank watch that was a long-ago present from Kelley. She has worn it for every single national broadcast. Part of the reason is pragmatic (she needs to know the exact time), part is style (the watch became a Margaret Quinn fashion statement), and part is symbolism. She means to honor Kelley by wearing the watch, even as she knows that pursuing her career was what undid their marriage.

  She knows Kelley will be watching her tonight from home—along with Mitzi, Kevin, Isabelle, and the kids. Patrick and Jennifer will be watching in Boston with the three boys. Barrett, Pierce, and Jaime will have no interest in watching Mimi deliver the news; they’ll fidget and excuse themselves for the bathroom, where they will sneak in a few minutes of Minecraft. This makes her smile and relax. There’s nothing like grandchildren to keep one humble.

  The network is expecting to double their ratings. Normally, Margaret garners four to five million viewers; Lee is hoping for ten million tonight. It’s not the idea of five million extra anonymous viewers that makes Margaret nervous. It’s only knowing that the people she cares about are watching.

  Especially Kelley.

  She wants to do a good job for Kelley.

  When she’s ten minutes out, she stops by the greenroom. Drake is there, chilling a Rehoboam of Dom Pérignon. It’s equal to six bottles of champagne and costs as much as a vacation in Hawaii but he insisted it was either the champagne or a surprise party, and Margaret opted for the champagne.

  “Where’s Ava?” Margaret asks. She wants to kiss Drake, but she can’t smudge her lipstick. She wants to hug Drake, but she can’t wrinkle her dress. Instead she squeezes the heck out of his hand.

  “She and Potter are on their way,” Drake says. “They had last-minute surprise visitors, and I guess these visitors are coming to the studio as well.”

  “Oh dear,” Margaret says. She wonders if the surprise visitors are Patrick and Kevin. As lovely as that would be, it’s unnecessary. Margaret does not want this to be a big deal!

  “It’ll be fine,” Drake says. “Oh, look, here they are now.”

  Margaret turns to see Ava and Potter enter the greenroom. Behind Ava is a young woman Margaret is sure she doesn’t know, and behind the young woman is… well, for a second Margaret’s heart stops.

  It’s… it’s… Kelley. No, it can’t be. But it looks for all the world like a young Kelley Quinn, Kelley when
Margaret first saw him, standing by the Angel Tree at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It’s Kelley, forty years ago.

  “Look, Mom,” Ava says. “Bart is here!”

  Bart! Margaret thinks. Her heart resumes its regular activity. Margaret hasn’t seen Bart since the previous Christmas, right after he got back from Afghanistan. Now his hair has grown out and he’s gained back all the weight he lost.

  “Bart,” Margaret says, gathering him up in a hug despite the inevitable dress wrinkles. “You gave me a fright. You look… exactly like your father did when he was your age. I had a bit of a senior moment. I thought you were him.”

  “Time to retire!” Drake says.

  Margaret takes another moment to look at Bart. He’s the spitting image of Kelley—it’s uncanny—whereas Patrick and Kevin both favor Margaret’s side of the family. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’m honored you came.”

  “Thank you for having us,” Bart says. He ushers the young woman forward. “Margaret, this is my girlfriend, Allegra.”

  A girlfriend! Margaret thinks. Kelley and Mitzi must be overjoyed.

  Margaret takes Allegra’s hand. “Allegra is one of my favorite names. I’ve loved it ever since I read ‘The Children’s Hour,’ by Longfellow.”

  “‘Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,’” Allegra quotes. “It’s my mother’s favorite poem.”

  “Two minutes, Margaret,” Mickey, the producer, calls out.

  Margaret blows everyone in the greenroom a kiss. “Off to work,” she says.

  One last time.

  Margaret greets the world with a smile and says, “It’s Friday, November tenth, two thousand seventeen. From the CBS studios in New York City, I’m Margaret Quinn.”

  The news is serious as always—the president, Congress, Syria, Russia—but there is nothing earth-shattering. No surprises. Margaret feels the minutes pass in seconds, and when they break for the last commercials, she experiences a moment of pure panic. She has made a mistake! She doesn’t want it to end!

  She hears a whisper—her name—and she looks out into the darkened studio to see Darcy, her former assistant, standing next to Camera 1. Darcy waves like crazy, and Margaret fights to keep her composure. Darcy works for CNN now. Did she fly all the way up from Atlanta just to be here for Margaret’s last broadcast? She must have. It’s an incredible gesture.

  There is one last human-interest story—at the National Zoo a baby gorilla who lost his mother has cottoned to one of the zebra mares—and then it’s back to Margaret to say her final words. She has nothing written down. It’s every nightmare come true: Margaret is in a play but didn’t memorize her lines. Roger forgot to dress her and she’s naked on camera. The teleprompter falls over and smashes, and Margaret has to talk about the new Republican health care bill off the cuff.

  She focuses on Darcy, who looks impossibly chic and professional in her pencil skirt and sling-back heels.

  “Tonight marks the end of my broadcasting career,” Margaret says. “When I first started out as a copy girl in the newsroom of WCBS, I never dreamed I would someday be sitting in this chair.”

  But that’s a lie, Margaret thinks. She did dream about it, constantly. She had grown up idolizing the great newsmen of her youth—for back then, they had all been men: Dan Rather, Mike Wallace, Peter Jennings, Tom Brokaw, Ed Bradley, Harry Reasoner, and the greatest of all time, Walter Cronkite. And then, as Margaret was coming into her own, she looked up to Diane Sawyer, Lesley Stahl, Connie Chung, Jane Pauley, and Christiane Amanpour.

  Like any dream, hers has required sacrifices. Why that seems true for women more than men, Margaret isn’t sure. All she knows is that when Kelley came to her saying he wanted to move the children up to Nantucket, Margaret let him go. She could have insisted he stay in New York. Or she could have left New York and taken an anchor job at the CBS affiliate in Boston. But she didn’t do either. She let Kelley go with her blessing; she praised him for quitting his high-powered job trading petroleum futures. She was happy he was taking over the parenting duties.

  And yet the most horrible, awful day of Margaret’s life was the day she kissed the kids good-bye. Ava was only ten years old. A ten-year-old girl needs her mother. Everyone knew that. Margaret had convinced herself that she would still be Ava’s mother; she would just take care of things from afar. She had decided that the best way to parent—especially with Ava—was to lead by example. She would strive for excellence. The kids would see her and then they would be inspired to strive for excellence.

  Did it work out? Maybe—but there were innumerable lonely nights and countless days where the only word Margaret could find to describe herself was selfish. She wanted to be in front of the camera. She wanted to fly to Port-au-Prince, to Fallujah, to Islamabad. She let Mitzi and Kelley do the drudgery, the heavy lifting. Mitzi packed Ava’s lunch and delivered Ava to piano lessons. Mitzi bought Ava her first bikini, filled her Easter basket, chaperoned her first girl-boy birthday party at the Dreamland Theater.

  Margaret tried to compensate with Ava and the boys by being the Disneyland parent. She spared no expense in taking the kids on lavish trips during her limited vacations, and in buying them whatever they wanted.

  She lived with guilt, night and day.

  One night during the holidays, when the kids were teenagers, Margaret called the inn from the back of the car; it was after a broadcast and Raoul was delivering Margaret to her apartment. The kids were decorating the Christmas tree, hanging ornaments, eating popcorn, and drinking hot cider in front of the fire. That they sounded so happy only made Margaret feel more lonely and miserable. It was Kevin, her sensitive child, who noticed something melancholy in Margaret’s tone, because he dropped his voice to a whisper and said, “The cider Mitzi made is really terrible, Mom. I’m only drinking it to be polite.”

  Margaret stares into the camera. She wants to somehow convey that her career has not been all glory. It has entailed an equal amount of heartbreak. Margaret is a broadcasting icon now, but she is also a person—one who made choices, one who made mistakes. She wants Darcy and every other Millennial woman out there watching—many of whom idolize Margaret and think of her as a pioneer who broke through very thick, very real glass ceilings—to know that success always comes with a price and that greatness often doesn’t allow for balance.

  In the end Margaret defaults to her trademark qualities: she is calm, she is reserved, and most of all, she is professional. To nail the landing here doesn’t require a display of emotional fireworks. It requires only gratitude and grace.

  “It has been my privilege to bring you the news each evening. Thank you for allowing me into your homes and into your lives. Over the past sixteen years, I have visited faraway places. I have dined with presidents and princes. I have seen unspeakable horrors—those inflicted by nature, and those inflicted by man. But I have been buoyed and inspired by the people of this diverse and magnificent country, and by the indomitable strength of the human spirit. God bless each and every one of you. For the CBS Evening News, I’m Margaret Quinn. Good night.”

  The montage plays, but Margaret can’t watch. She tells everyone that if she sees photographs of herself from sixteen, twelve, even five years ago, she’ll bemoan how much she has aged, but the truth is that the magnitude of what she is leaving behind will make her cry. After the montage ends, the screen goes black. A second later one sentence appears, written in white type: THANK YOU, MARGARET QUINN.

  “And… we’re out,” Mickey says.

  There is silence, during which Margaret stares at her desk.

  Then Darcy gives a resounding whoop, and the studio bursts into a round of applause.

  It’s over.

  BART

  It takes him three days to come to his senses. He doesn’t call Allegra and doesn’t text her, although her name starts with A and is right there at the top of his contacts.

  He knows he’s being stubborn, stupid, and rude. When he dropped Allegra off at her house on Lily Street after his birth
day party Tuesday night, following some pretty serious kissing in the front seat, he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” By “tomorrow” he meant Wednesday. But Wednesday came and went and Bart didn’t call, and then Thursday came and went.

  What was his problem? Was he being a typical male, playing games? Was he enjoying the thought of Allegra Pancik wondering what had happened, checking her phone in anticipation, possibly even pining for him?

  No! Not at all! It was something else; it was the same old thing, his neuroses, his mind sickness. He didn’t call Allegra because he didn’t feel he deserved to be happy. If the eighteen fallen Marines couldn’t feel the sweet sensation of a woman’s lips meeting theirs, then Bart didn’t deserve to feel it either.

  Centaur. He kept thinking of Centaur.

  Bart’s very best friend in his platoon—his brother, for all intents and purposes—had been Centaur, baptized Charles Buford Duke. Centaur was born and raised in Cosby, Tennessee, in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. He was a huge Volunteers fan; he bled orange and white, he said, and he told Bart about the boats that would line both sides of the Tennessee River on game days. You could walk a mile at least, going bow to stern on those boats, and be enthusiastically offered a cold Budweiser on each one. Centaur didn’t have the temperament or the grades for college himself, but when Centaur and Bart met at basic training, Centaur had a girlfriend named Ruby Taylor, who was a freshman at UT, rushing Chi Omega.

  How many hours did Bart listen to Centaur talk about Ruby Taylor—how pretty she was, how sweet, how devoted? Centaur had fallen in love with Ruby in third grade at Cosby Elementary. She had kicked him during recess and left a dark-purple bruise, and that was that. Bart had never known a person as blindly besotted as Centaur. Bart saw Ruby’s picture. She was no beauty; she had red hair, as expected, but her skin was pasty, her eyes sunken a bit too far in her face, like raisins pushed into dough, her smile too wide, her hips a little wide as well. But that, somehow, made Bart admire Centaur’s devotion even more. When they were running around Munich hooking up with buxom blond fräuleins right before they deployed to Sangin, Centaur remained true to Ruby Taylor. It wasn’t a hardship to resist temptation, he said, when you were in love—and he hoped that someday Bart knew what that felt like.