Ava heads off to bed first, and shortly after, Isabelle emerges from the kitchen—cleanup is done—and Kevin rises, takes her hand, and leads her to the back of the house.
Kevin and Isabelle are engaged, Kelley thinks. He’s both thrilled and incredulous. And they’re having a baby. He’d always thought Kevin would make a magnificent father, but, after the way Norah Vale left him bruised and bleeding in the gutter, it didn’t seem likely. Not unless something astonishing happened.
Kelley feels like Happy Scrooge again, despite his many troubles. He can’t wait to share the news with Margaret. Tomorrow, when she calls from Hawaii, he’ll get her on the line alone, and they will celebrate the advent of a fourth Quinn grandbaby—a piece of each of them coming together in another human being.
Kelley misses Mitzi; that hurt is fresh and new, like a bad toothache. But he misses Margaret, too, differently, in an older way, like a bone that has broken and never been set properly.
And Kelley misses Bart. That hurt is like a thorn in the soft arch of his foot that he valiantly tries to ignore. He wonders if Bart will be allowed to call home on Christmas.
But now isn’t the time to worry about Kevin or Bart. It’s time to worry about Patrick. Kelley can’t remember a single other time when Patrick has sought advice or counsel, when Patrick has come to him crying in pain or shame. He was born knowing what to do—he slept through the night, he crawled early, he walked early, he started reading early, he was valedictorian of his class, he got in early decision at Colgate, then got into Harvard Business School, and, in a handful of years, was made head of private equity at Everlast Investments. He married the right girl, bought the right house, fathered three noisy, beautiful sons. He is just like Margaret, Kelley thinks, in the way he seamlessly pursues exactly what he wants and gets it. Kelley was more like that before, when he lived in New York and was basically single-handedly responsible for setting the price of gasoline in the United States. Of course, Kelley wasn’t a very nice person back then, and he suspects that Patrick isn’t always very nice, either. The other kids think he’s a relentless bastard.
But here he is, on the sofa with Kelley, as bereft as a sixteen-year-old girl who lost her prom date.
Kelley gives Patrick what he thinks is ample time to explain on his own what the problem is, but Patty says nothing and it’s getting late and it is Christmas Eve, and Kelley has endured one hell of a day and a half. The conversation he had in the master bedroom with George seems like three years ago.
“What happened, Patty?” Kelley asks softly.
“I screwed up,” Patrick says. “Like, really badly.”
Kelley assumes he means he cheated on Jennifer—which is the only reason Kelley can think of for why Jen and his grandsons aren’t here. Kelley feels a piercing disappointment in his son. Kelley is no saint, not by a long shot, but he was never unfaithful to either of his wives. He’s not built like that, though he knows many men are. He’s surprised at Patrick because he thought Patty and Jen were one of those couples destined for forever. They adore and respect each other, and they’re best friends, besides. They finish each other’s sentences. Jen has found a career that dovetails with her role as wife and mother; Kelley has some notion that it’s easier for women to balance home and career now than it was when Margaret was trying to do it.
“Jen is…?” Kelley asks, hoping Patrick will say she’s still in Boston; that way, reconciliation by morning and a chance for Kelley to see his grandsons are both still possible.
“In San Francisco,” Patrick says. “She took the kids to her mother’s.”
Kelley is crushed. “Oh.”
“She’s really disappointed in me,” Patrick says. “And afraid of what’s going to happen. Our financial future.”
Kelley wonders if Patrick did something really stupid and got some girl pregnant.
“Patrick,” Kelley says, “what happened?”
Patrick takes a deep breath, and it all spills out: He tells first about the perks he’s been taking from clients over the years, and then about his Colgate reunion and the conversation with Bucky Larimer, and Bucky’s reassurance that the drug would be approved by the FDA and would change the face of childhood leukemia and possibly of all cancers, and then about Bucky’s request that in exchange for this information Patrick invest money for Bucky himself, his identity obfuscated by a trust. Patrick goes on, telling about how he was feeling giddy about a bright medical future for mankind, but also greedy greedy greedy, so he poured $25.6 million of his clients’ portfolios into Panagea. The good news is that the drug will be FDA approved; the bad news is that Patrick’s investments with Panagea were red-flagged by the SEC. The SEC had been scrutinizing him because of the perks. They have a watch list for people they suspect are weak of character.
“Doesn’t everyone in the business take perks?” Kelley asks. “Isn’t that the way the industry works?” The same was certainly true in Kelley’s day, and, honestly, it was probably worse back then—in the era of the pin-striped suit and the power tie, the age of Wall Street, Ivan Boesky, and Michael Milken.
“Apparently my perks were ‘excessive,’ ” Patrick says. “The SEC had me on this watch list, and my compliance department knew it, but they didn’t tell me. I was basically stung by my own guys! Nobody really likes Compliance; I mean, we all work toward the same bottom line, but we don’t invite them into the football pool or anything. They were waiting around for me to do something they could really nail me on.” Patrick wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Kelley wishes he carried a handkerchief, like George. Instead, he hands Patrick a damp cocktail napkin. “And they were right, I did.” He starts crying again, but more quietly; he is whimpering. Kelley puts a hand around Patrick’s ankle and thinks there is nothing he can say, and nothing he can do except hold on.