She bumps into Kelley in the hallway of the back house. It’s still very strange, wandering around the inn—and especially the owners’ quarters—like this, since it has always been verboten by Mitzi.
“I should probably shower before we eat dinner,” she says. “Which bathroom should I use?”
“Use mine,” he says.
Margaret thinks he might proposition her again—and she would be a willing accomplice—but Kelley looks morose.
“What’s wrong?” she says. “Are the Golden Dreams wearing off?”
“I just e-mailed Bart,” Kelley says. “Wished him a Merry Christmas. He hasn’t answered my last two e-mails or the past three texts. Do you have any idea how unnerving that is?”
“No,” she says. “I have no idea. None of our children went to war. I’m sure it’s perfectly awful.”
“Awful,” Kelley says. “There have been double-digit deaths over there this week. I purposely haven’t checked the news today because it’s Christmas, and I just… can’t.”
Margaret gnaws on her lower lip. If ever there were a time to tell Kelley about the missing convoy, it’s now. But the number-one ironclad rule of broadcast journalism is to make sure your news is true. She’s fairly certain a convoy holding forty-five soldiers has been overtaken by insurgent nationals, but whether or not Bartholomew Quinn was on that convoy, she can’t possibly say. Giving partial information to Kelley at this point will cause him anxiety of unknown proportions and will ruin his Christmas.
And yet, Margaret feels like she’s lying.
“We have a saying at CBS,” she says. “No news is bad news—but that’s strictly a network perspective. In your case, no news is good news.”
“I worry,” Kelley says. “These god-awful scenarios go through my head.”
“You’re his father,” Margaret says.
“He’s so young,” Kelley says.
“I’m praying for him,” Margaret says. “And I will continue to pray for him until he’s safely home.”
“Thank you,” Kelley says. “I’m happy to hear that Margaret Quinn still prays.”
“All the time,” Margaret says. She reaches out and squeezes his arm. “Well, I’m off for the shower.”
“Is it wildly inappropriate to admit that I’d really like to join you?” Kelley says.
“Borderline inappropriate,” she confirms. But she’s not surprised. The opposite of death, she supposes, is sex.
“So is that a no?” Kelley asks.
“Bring your own towel,” Margaret says. “I still don’t like to share.”