She wears a red dress that clashes with her hair; imploring Roger again for the silver Audrey Hepburn did no good. It’s Christmas Eve; it has to be red. The broadcast is light, so light that it primarily consists of footage of Christmas Eve celebrations from around the world—fireworks over the Eiffel Tower in Paris, Pope Francis I saying Mass in St. Peter’s Square.
Margaret smiles into the camera. Her favorite cameraman, Ernest, is five foot three, and he’s wearing an elf hat and a necklace of glowing chili pepper lights.
“For CBS News, I’m Margaret Quinn, wishing all of you a safe and happy holiday and peace for the coming year.” Margaret holds… she holds… This is by far her least favorite part of the job, smiling into the vacant eye of the camera for all of America when she’s done and ready to move on.
“And… cut!” her producer, Mickey Benz, says. “Good job, Margaret. Enjoy Hawaii.”
Merry Christmas, Margaret, enjoy Hawaii, have fun, you deserve it. She does deserve it! She spends only twelve weekdays a year out of people’s living rooms—five days in August, Thanksgiving Day and the Friday after, and five days at Christmas. Cynthia, the office manager, has left a bottle of SPF 75 sunblock next to Margaret’s computer with a note that says, Protect the most famous face in America. Margaret smiles and throws the sunscreen in her bag. She extends the handle of her suitcase and checks her phone. She has a single text. It’s from Drake. He’s already at Newark, in Terminal C, waiting for her at the outpost of Grand Central Oyster Bar with a dozen Malpeques ordered.
Are you close?
Margaret chuckles. This is exactly what he asks her when they’re making love.
On my way! she texts back. She’s relieved there are no texts from Nantucket. She assumes everyone is carrying on with his or her Christmas Eve festivities. She’ll call tomorrow.
Then Margaret looks up, and, like a Ferrari smashing into a brick wall, she sees Darcy’s face right up in hers, and Darcy is not happy.
“Margaret,” she says.
Margaret’s heart does a free fall.
“What?” Margaret says. She thinks, I am two hundred yards from the exit of the building, where Raoul is waiting for me with the car. I have a dozen Malpeques, a glass of champagne, and a very cute surgeon anticipating my imminent arrival. And then Hawaii, Darcy, a suite at the Four Seasons, a level of luxury you have not yet known in your young life. I deserve this vacation—everyone just said so. Please, don’t tell me that Michelle Obama has filed for divorce, don’t tell me aliens have landed on Soldier Field. I don’t want to know. I don’t care.
Darcy holds out a piece of paper that looks suspiciously like a briefing sheet.
Margaret shakes her head.
“Read it,” Darcy whispers.
A convoy carrying forty-five American troops headed out of Sangin, Afghanistan, was intercepted by insurgent forces. The troops are thought to be alive. They were marched off rather than shot on sight, Margaret thinks. They will be held, treated abominably, possibly tortured, and used as bargaining chips.
Margaret looks at Darcy. “You don’t have names, do you?”
Darcy shakes her head. No names, nothing definite, and yet somehow Margaret knows why Darcy brought this to her. Bart Quinn is among the forty-five; Margaret feels it in her gut.
She calls Drake to cancel.