He wants to reach out to Mitzi. Should he hug her? He thinks not. That’s how affairs get started. Not that Mitzi would ever be interested in him, although he does think he’s a sight better looking than Santa Claus.

“What can I do?” he asks. “How can I help?”

Mitzi wipes the tears from her face with a dish towel. “You can sell the inn for me.”

“Really?” Eddie says.

“I can’t run it anymore,” Mitzi says. “I won’t be able to run it without Kelley, even if Bart helps.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie says. Obviously, he would love to take on the inn as a listing, but he doesn’t want Mitzi to make any snap decisions while she’s emotional.

“I could probably make it work for a little while,” Mitzi says. “But I don’t want to. Kelley and I were getting burned out on it a few years ago, which is part of the reason why…” Here she stops and waves a hand in front of her face, as if clearing away a cloud of gnats or a bad smell. “Why we had all of our issues. I think Kelley approached you about selling the inn a few years ago, didn’t he?”

“He may have mentioned something about it,” Eddie says. He remembers that at the last Christmas Eve party Eddie attended, Kelley was quite keen to sell the inn. But Eddie never heard anything further, so he assumed it was a dead end, like so many others.

“You’re the only broker Kelley likes,” Mitzi says. “He thinks you’re a hustler.” She blinks. “In a good sense. You hustle. You work hard, nose to the grindstone. You get results.”

“I understand,” Eddie says. He surveys the kitchen for any snacks he may have missed. He’s starving. “I’ve always loved this inn.”

“We’ve made some capital improvements,” Mitzi says. “Kelley’s ex-wife, Margaret Quinn? The news anchor? She lent Kelley some money—gave him some money, really—that he then poured back into the building.”

“I would be happy to sell the place for you,” Eddie says. “And I could get you a wonderful price, I’m sure.” Without seeing upstairs, he’s thinking of listing at seven and a half million, and settling on six-five or seven. If he has the listing and the buyer, he will be looking at a payday of over four hundred grand. “But why don’t we wait until you’re absolutely sure.”

“I am absolutely sure,” Mitzi says, and her voice takes on an affronted tone that Eddie recognizes from Grace. The tone says: Are you not taking me seriously because I’m a woman?

“Okay, then,” Eddie says. “Let’s get together sometime after the party, and we’ll write up a listing sheet.”

Mitzi exhales in a long stream of relief. “Thank you,” she says.

“It’s my job,” Eddie says. He rubs his hands together; his stomach is now seriously rumbling. “I should go.”

Mitzi sees Eddie to the door and waves as he strides down Winter Street. “See you Tuesday,” she says. “With Allegra.”

Eddie waves back. He is so stunned at his good fortune that he’s already back on Main Street before he realizes that he forgot to ask about costumes.

JENNIFER

In theory, Jennifer is too busy to be unhappy. She’s finishing up a project she adores—an 1827 single-family home on Garden Street in Beacon Hill—and she is about to start a from-scratch job on a penthouse suite in the brand-new luxury building Millennium Tower, on the site of the original Filene’s in Downtown Crossing.

The two projects couldn’t be more different. The Garden Street house is owned by one of the most wonderful couples Jennifer has ever known—Leanne and Derek Clinton—who have moved back to the city from the suburbs now that their four children are out of the house. Derek is the head of the actuarial department at John Hancock, and Leanne works part-time as a pro bono civil rights attorney. They are gracious, evolved people who want to restore the house to the glory of its former heyday, but with modern conveniences and decorating vignettes in each room, which Leanne calls “moments of joy.” Jennifer blends classic paint colors and carefully curated antiques with her signature whimsy—a zebra-print rug, a feathered chandelier, a mirror in the powder room decoupaged with pages from Derek’s and Leanne’s old passports.

The penthouse, on the other hand, is owned by a man named Grayson Coker, who goes by the nickname Coke. He’s the fifty-four-year-old, thrice-divorced CEO of Boston Bank. (Jennifer has tried calling him Mr. Coker, but she gets reprimanded every time. “Coke, please, Jen,” he says. He is so insistent on this informality that Jennifer doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she loathes being called Jen.) Coke isn’t particular about how Jennifer decorates his apartment as long as the space is “sleek,” “modern,” and “intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” Jennifer asks, thinking she’s misunderstood. “You want your apartment to frighten people?” She has been decorating for twelve years, and this is the first time she has received this instruction.

“Not frighten, exactly,” Coke says. “But I’d like to put my visitors on edge. I’d like the space to make a statement. I’d like it to convey power.”

“Power,” Jennifer says. She’s already longing for Leanne with her offers of homemade maple-ginger scones.

“I’m thinking sharp angles, bold art. Nothing fussy. Nothing feminine.”

Jennifer nods. She is so far out of her comfort zone that she considers turning the project down. How did Coke end up finding Jennifer in the first place? She decides to ask him point-blank.

“A friend of a friend recommended you,” Coke says. “She told me you’re the best in Boston.”

Jennifer resists the flattery (the “friend of a friend” is likely one of Coke’s lovers; there are many, Jennifer is sure), but she decides to stick with the job because the payday is too phenomenal to ignore. Patrick has launched a new hedge fund, but it’s taking him longer to raise the capital than he initially anticipated. He works around the clock for little or no monetary gain.

Jennifer also hopes that by taking on a project so foreign to her nature she might beat back some of the cravings she’s been experiencing lately.

The cravings have become more frequent and more and more pronounced recently. Jennifer will be perusing fabric samples or making chicken salad for the boys’ lunches, and she’ll think: Something is missing. This niggling thought irritates her further. She has everything she could ever want: her husband is back, her children are healthy, her career is booming. But then Jennifer watches Leanne Clinton move through the world with such ease, such contentment and clarity of purpose; it’s like she’s keeping a wonderful secret, the secret of happiness. Aside from her part-time work on behalf of the commonwealth’s underdogs, Leanne goes to barre class six days a week and to Mass every Sunday.

Does Jennifer need more exercise? Does she need religion?

She misses the pills. There, she’s said it.

Once the house on Garden Street is finally finished, when there is nothing else she can purchase, tweak, or fluff, Jennifer fills with a sense of mournful good-bye like it’s the last day of summer camp. It’s time to get serious about the penthouse project. Before she makes her first big purchase for Coke, she sets up a meeting; the last thing she wants is to order eighty thousand dollars’ worth of furniture only to discover that he hates it all.

Coke works preposterous hours, and he says that the only time he can meet with Jennifer in the space is at eight thirty on Thursday night. Eight thirty is smack in the middle of the hour that Jennifer cherishes the most. It’s after dinner, the boys are doing their homework (or, more likely, playing Minecraft and Snapchatting), Jennifer is well into her third and final glass of wine of the evening as she cleans up dinner and makes the lunches. She is usually wearing her yoga pants and her Patriots T-shirt. The prospect of getting dressed up and going out at that hour is exhausting—but what choice does Jennifer have?

She decides to make the best of it. She encourages Paddy to take the boys out for barbecue at Sweet Cheeks for some father-son quality time. Meanwhile, Jennifer puts on a skirt and boots and takes herself out for a cocktail at Carrie Nation, next to the State House. She gets a few appreciative looks from the businessmen having drinks at the bar, which cheers her up. Why doesn’t she do this more often? She could meet one of her divorced-mom friends for drinks. She could even meet Leanne. But then Jennifer comes to her senses. She doesn’t frequent the Beacon Hill bars because she is busy running a business, raising three boys, and being happily married.