Winter Solstice Read online

  Yes, she’ll do it: There are thousands of interior decorators in the country, and only a couple dozen viable design shows. Jennifer is phenomenally lucky to have been offered a job as the host—not a consultant, and not a pretty accessory to a man. The face, voice, and talent of this show will be Jennifer Quinn. The show has a message; it has a heart. They are rehabbing houses in neighborhoods that desperately need hope. And Jennifer, as a former pill addict, is sending her own message. There is life—a good life—waiting for people out there, postaddiction.

  No, she won’t do it: She doesn’t want to be labeled as a pill addict. It’s shameful. It’s a dirty little secret. Danko said there would be endorsements and that her personal business would take off like a rocket, but who wants a known addict to walk into her home? Who wants a known addict repping his products? Nobody, Jennifer thinks. It will be a stain on her character; it’ll be the only thing people will think of when they see her. If she has a bad day, if she loses her temper, if she’s weepy or goofy or impatient or temperamental, people will wonder: Has she had a relapse? Is she back on the pills?

  But perhaps the darkest reason Jennifer would say no to Danko’s offer is that once she has announced herself to the country as a recovering addict, she can’t go back on pills. That door—which Jennifer thought was opening ever so slightly a few weeks ago—would be slammed shut and locked forever.

  Both the yes and the no arguments are so compelling that she can’t decide between them.

  Patrick—she needs to discuss it with Patrick.

  But first, for a practice run, Jennifer decides to tell Leanne.

  It’s after barre class on Saturday morning, and Leanne has asked Jennifer to go for coffee at Thinking Cup. As soon as they get their coffees, muffins, and yogurt parfaits and sit down at one of the tiny tables, Jennifer leans forward so far that she can smell the cinnamon on the top of Leanne’s cappuccino and says, “I have something to talk to you about, and it’s going to be very difficult for me.”

  Leanne says, “I’m a safe place for you, Jennifer. You know that.” She holds up her palms. “No judgment here.”

  Jennifer couldn’t have hoped for a better response, and yet she fears Leanne will judge her. How could she not? But Jennifer has to start somewhere; she has forty-eight hours to make a decision. Whatever Leanne advises her to do, she decides, is what she will do.

  Jennifer says, “About a year before I met you? While Paddy was in jail? I became addicted to pills. Ativan and oxycodone.”

  Leanne gasps, “Oh, Jennifer!”

  Here comes the judgment, Jennifer thinks. Leanne won’t want to go to barre class or get coffee anymore. She won’t want to be friends anymore. When people ask who decorated her house, she’ll say, “A former pill junkie named Jennifer Quinn.”

  Leanne grabs Jennifer’s hand. “I feel honored that you’ve shared this with me. It must have been a difficult time for you.”

  Jennifer lets a few tears fall into her latte. “It was,” Jennifer says. She blots her face with a napkin and thinks: Of course Leanne knows exactly what to say and how to react. “You don’t think I’m a horrible person?”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Leanne says. “How could I ever think that?”

  Jennifer proceeds to tell her the rest of the story: How she met with Grayson Coker, how he hit on her, how she quit. How Paddy is struggling to get his hedge fund up and running, how both he and Jennifer were depending on the penthouse project for money. How Jennifer has been approached to host a show on SinTV.

  Here Leanne shrieks like a fangirl. “SinTV!”

  “But I’d have to reveal myself as a former addict,” Jennifer says.

  “Do it,” Leanne says. “You have to do it.”

  “I’m not sure that I can,” Jennifer says.

  “Why not?” Leanne says. “This is your big chance. So you tell the world you’re a recovering addict. People will care for five minutes, then they’ll forget. And the people who care longer than five minutes are those who are either recovering addicts themselves or who have addicts in their family—and to those people you’ll be an inspiration. A beacon of hope.”

  “You think?” Jennifer says.

  “You need to choose bravery over shame,” Leanne says. “Humility over pride. Otherwise, you’re hiding in the shadows. You think substance abuse doesn’t affect the affluent? The sophisticated? That addicts don’t live in Beacon Hill or Back Bay?” Leanne leans in. “It affects everyone.” She digs into her yogurt parfait. “I, for one, would be behind you a hundred and ten percent. And I can tell you without equivocation that Derek will be behind you as well. What does Patrick say?”

  Jennifer raises her eyebrows.

  “You haven’t told him?” Leanne says.

  Jennifer picks a raisin out of her bran muffin. She shakes her head.

  “Go home now,” Leanne says. She helps Jennifer wrap her muffin and secure the top to her latte. “Go home and tell him, and then call me later so I can hear about how wonderful he was.”

  Patrick is in his office, of course, running through the close of Friday’s markets on the computer. The two younger boys are in the den playing Minecraft, and Barrett is at the Celtics game with his friend Saylor and Saylor’s father, Gregory. Gregory is in AA—he’s very open about this—and Jennifer doesn’t think less of him for it, does she? No. She doesn’t worry about Barrett when he’s in Gregory’s care. Why would she? Getting help is a sign of strength, of wisdom.

  Jennifer closes the door to the office. “I need you to shut down the computer,” she says to Patrick. “I have something to tell you.”

  I quit the penthouse project.

  What? Why? Why on earth did you do that?

  It wasn’t working out.

  Wasn’t working out? For Pete’s sake, Jen!

  Grayson Coker hit on me. He tried to kiss me. He was inappropriate with his hands.

  What?

  So I walked out. And I quit.

  [Deep breath.]

  When was this?

  A few weeks ago.

  Weeks ago? And you didn’t tell me?

  I thought you’d be angry.

  I am angry. How dare he…

  And I knew you’d be upset about the money. I mean, I know we need it. But the good news is, a new opportunity presented itself.

  What is it?

  A show. A design show on SinTV called Real-Life Rehab.

  SinTV, as in the network that produces Swing Set?

  [Pause. Jennifer wonders if Patrick, too, watches Swing Set.]

  Yes.

  Does this design show involve swinging?

  No. They rehab buildings in bad neighborhoods. They’re setting it in Boston. The first house is in Dorchester. They want me to be the host. I’ll get paid thirty-five thousand dollars per episode for the first twelve episodes of the first season.

  Thirty-five thousand per episode? That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you.

  But.

  But what?

  The show is called Real-Life Rehab for a reason. I have to tell everyone that I’m a recovering addict. That’s part of the deal. Nonnegotiable.

  Oh.

  What do you think?

  I… uh, okay. Wow. I don’t know what to think. What do you think?

  I think I’m going to do it. I’m going to choose bravery over shame. Humility over pride. Otherwise, I’m hiding in the shadows. I don’t want to hide in the shadows. I want the spotlight.

  Good for you.

  Really?

  Yes, really. Come here and give me a kiss.

  On Monday morning Jennifer calls Danko and says, “I’m going to do the show.”

  “Yasssss!” he says. “The studio execs are going to be thrilled. Good for you, Jennifer. You won’t regret it. I’ll FedEx the contracts to you today, and we’ll likely start shooting the pilot just after the first of the year.”

  Jennifer hangs up the phone. She feels brave and humble. And excited!

  Now…now she can allow herself t
o think about Thanksgiving. She will make a kale Caesar with homemade dressing and pumpernickel croutons, and an autumn salad of mixed greens, butternut squash, dried cranberries, goat cheese, and toasted pecans with an apple cider vinaigrette.

  Yum.

  Mitzi has decided to keep dinner “just family,” but even that involves quite a crowd. Kelley and Mitzi will be there, obviously, as well as one or both of Kelley’s hospice nurses, as well as Jennifer, Patrick, and the three boys, and Kevin, Isabelle, Genevieve, and baby KJ. Ava is coming without Potter. (Again without Potter? This seems odd to Jennifer and she says so to Patrick. Patrick says, “He’s in California seeing his son.”) Margaret and Drake are coming, just after Margaret’s retirement trip to Barbados. And Bart will be there with his new girlfriend, Allegra, who was the girl dressed up like a geisha at his birthday party.

  Despite the presence of hospice nurses, and despite the fact that Kelley’s speech has slowed down and he can’t eat more than a few bites of food, Mitzi has instructed everyone that the holiday is to be treated as it has always been treated in the Quinn household—as a celebration of family, a day of gratitude.

  Think how lucky we are, Mitzi writes in the group text she sends. Bart is home.

  Then she sends a text that says: There will be no tears, no maudlin toasts, and above all: no family squabbles. There will be turkey with all the trimmings, there will be pie and there will be football.

  And at midnight Mitzi will proceed with her tradition of decorating the inn for Christmas.

  That means nutcrackers! Mitzi says. And the Byers’ Choice carolers!

  Jennifer is so happy about her decision and her new career that she doesn’t even roll her eyes.

  Patrick, Jennifer, and the boys put the BMW on the ferry Thursday morning. The boys go up to the top deck with money for hot dogs and chowder, and Patrick pulls a bottle of Schramsberg sparkling wine and a half gallon of fresh-squeezed juice from the cooler in the back of the car.

  “Surprise,” he says.

  Jennifer beams. He must have sneaked the champagne and juice in alongside the salad fixings. He’s the sweetest, most thoughtful man alive; Jennifer loves mimosas on Thanksgiving morning.

  “This’ll keep us from engaging in family squabbles,” Jennifer says as she and Patrick do a cheers with their plastic cups.

  “Either that,” Patrick says, “or it will make us engage in family squabbles.”

  Jennifer laughs. It’s anyone’s guess.

  She senses something off as soon as she walks into the inn—but maybe she’s imagining it. She had three mimosas on the ferry; she’s a little bit buzzed. That must be it. The house is already filled with people, the parade is on TV, and there’s the rich, savory aroma of turkey coming from the kitchen. Mitzi doesn’t start decorating until midnight, but there’s a fifteen-foot Douglas fir in its usual place in the corner of the room next to the fireplace, so there are added scents of woodsmoke and pine.

  Jennifer doles out kisses:

  Margaret (“I can’t tell you how happy I am not to be at that parade!”).

  Drake (“When you and Paddy go to Barbados, you have to stay at Cobblers Cove. It’s like something straight out of 1957”).

  Ava (“I made Potter go to Palo Alto. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later”).

  Mitzi (“Did you bring two salads? I hope you brought two salads”).

  Bart (“This is my girlfriend, Allegra. We used the gift certificate to Fifty-Six Union, so thank you again”).

  Allegra (“Yes, thank you so much. You’re married to Patrick, right? And you have three boys—Barrett, Pierce, and Jaime. Bart made me memorize the family tree”).

  Kevin (“Hi, Sis. Can I get you a glass of wine?”).

  “Yes, please,” Jennifer says. She can’t figure out what it is, but something doesn’t feel right. It’s as though she’s standing in a pocket of cold air. Maybe it’s Kelley. His light is fading. Everyone must feel it. “Where’s your father?” Jennifer asks Patrick. The boys have vanished upstairs to their room, which has a TV and a PS4. They’ll play Minecraft until the first football game comes on, then it’ll be all about their fantasy teams. Jennifer won’t hear from them again until dinner.

  “He’s sleeping,” Patrick says. “He normally wakes up between four and five, Mitzi says. Dinner is at five thirty.”

  Kevin returns, holding Jennifer’s wine. “For you,” he says. He raises his bottle of beer. “I would make a toast about this being the last Thanksgiving at the inn, the last Quinn family Thanksgiving…”

  “But nothing maudlin,” Jennifer says. She notices Kevin’s eyes shining. She tries to change the subject. “Where’s Isabelle?”

  “Kitchen,” Kevin says.

  As soon as Jennifer walks into the kitchen, she understands what’s off. Isabelle is standing at the stove, basting the turkey. It’s a light golden brown with a puff of savory stuffing at the cavity. Jennifer likes to put everything but the kitchen sink in her stuffing—sausage, pine nuts, dried cherries—but Isabelle is a stuffing purist. She uses only onion, celery, thyme, and sage. She also puts white wine in her gravy—lots and lots of wine.

  “Hey, you,” Jennifer says. She lays a hand on Isabelle’s back and kisses her cheek. “Everything smells très bon.”

  She feels the muscles of Isabelle’s back tense under her silk blouse, and although Jennifer knows it’s crazy, as they’re standing directly in front of the oven, a chill comes off Isabelle. It’s the icy pocket that Jennifer felt earlier.

  Isabelle turns around and seems to address Ava, Mitzi, and Margaret—but not Jennifer—in French. Something about “le bébé.” She returns the turkey to the oven and dashes up the back stairs.

  Jennifer feels stung. She hesitates before turning to face the rest of the women in Patrick’s family, but when she does, no one seems to notice anything amiss. Ava is opening a bag of marshmallows; she has been put in charge of the sweet potatoes. Margaret is pouring a glass of wine; she has been assigned appetizers, which Jennifer is sure she brought up from Dean & DeLuca. And Mitzi is perusing her spice rack.

  “Where are my cloves?” she says.

  Ava throws Jennifer a quick look. “You could try making the cider without cloves this year, Mitzi.”

  Jennifer nearly asks if Isabelle seems okay. Maybe she has postpartum depression. Maybe she is annoyed that while everyone else in the family has been given cushy assignments—salads, cheese and crackers, a vegetable or two—she has been left with the heavy lifting, the turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and three kinds of pie. As though she’s still the help!

  But Jennifer knows what’s really wrong. It’s Norah Vale. Isabelle saw Jennifer talking to and hugging Norah Vale.

  Kelley makes an entrance fifteen minutes before dinner is served. When his hospice nurse Lara pushes Kelley into the room in his wheelchair, everyone cheers. Patrick takes over for Lara and encourages her to help herself to the artichoke dip, the smoked oysters, and the tapenade. To Lara’s credit, she digs in and asks the score of the Cowboys game.

  Hospice nurses are people too! Jennifer thinks.

  She is on her third glass of wine.

  The last time Jennifer went into the kitchen for a refill, Isabelle was at the stove making gravy, and Mitzi was out on the side porch smoking a cigarette.

  “Do you need any help, Isabelle?” Jennifer asked.

  “Non,” Isabelle said.

  Kelley can still talk—slowly—and he can eat a few bites of food. He asks for a smoked oyster. Genevieve is awake from her nap, and when she sees Grandpa eating a smoked oyster, she asks for one as well.

  Jennifer turns to Patrick and says, “I have ten bucks that says she spits it out.”

  There’s an angry whisper in Jennifer’s ear. “Ma fille est Française.”

  It’s Isabelle, who is standing next to Jennifer while Genevieve pops the oyster into her mouth, swallows it happily, and asks for another.

  Isabelle picks up people’s empty glasses, crumpled nap
kins, and the cheese platter, which has been all but demolished.

  Jennifer says, “You shouldn’t have to do that, Isabelle. You’re doing too much as it is. Let me help you.”

  “Non,” Isabelle says. Her voice is like a warning shot, but no one else in the family notices. They are too busy celebrating the two oyster eaters. And that, Jennifer supposes, is as it should be.

  Jennifer goes up to lasso the boys, and when they come down, everyone is moving toward the table. The TV has been turned off and replaced with Vivaldi. The table sparkles with fine china, crystal, and candlelight. In the center of the table is a horn of plenty, spilling forth gourds and tiny pumpkins, lady apples, pecans and walnuts in the shell. Jennifer snaps a quick picture with her phone as she wonders who arranged it. She couldn’t have done it better herself.

  Kelley is seated at the head of the table as always. Jennifer finds herself between Allegra and Drake—or In-Law Alley, as she likes to think of it. Isabelle is all the way across the table in the seat closest to the kitchen.

  Isabelle glowers at Jennifer, then disappears into the kitchen. She reappears with the turkey, which she sets in front of Kevin. They have agreed that Kevin will carve and Patrick will say the blessing.

  Patrick stands and raises his glass. “Our family has so much to be grateful for that it’s difficult to know where to start. This time last year I was in San Francisco with Jennifer and the boys, and my baby brother was still missing in Afghanistan. Bart has now been returned to us safely, and I know we are all grateful for that. Kevin and Isabelle have grown not only their business but also their family. Ava has moved to New York and has started a new job. My mother capped off sixteen years as the voice of this great nation and now, I know, hopes to put her considerable talents to even more noble pursuits. I believe I speak for all of us, Mom, when I say how proud we are of you.”

  Margaret bows her head and smiles at her plate.

  “But mostly, today, I am grateful for the man who brought us all here together. Dad, you brought me and Kevin and Ava to this island when we were at impressionable ages. You married Mitzi, bought the inn, and gave us a little brother. You had moments when you were tough, stubborn, and sometimes a real jerk. But not a day passed while I was growing up that I didn’t feel loved. It’s only now that I have three sons of my own that I can appreciate what an admirable job you did with us. I would like to thank God for this meal, and for this home, and for all of us at this table. But above all, I would like to express my gratitude, now and forever, that you are my father.”