The next thing Mitzi says really knocks Kelley’s socks off.

“If we go to Kevin’s, I’ll be able to do the Turkey Plunge.”

“The Turkey Plunge!” Kelley says. “Since when have you been interested in doing the Turkey Plunge?”

“Since forever,” Mitzi says. “It’s a Nantucket tradition! But I’ve always been too busy cooking. This is my year. I’m doing it.”

Kelley is speechless.

“Do you want to do it with me?” she asks.

“No,” Kelley says. The Turkey Plunge is a fund-raiser for the Nantucket Atheneum in which scores of crazy people put on bathing suits and run into the water at Children’s Beach. Nothing sounds less appealing to Kelley. That has always been true, but this year Kelley feels like a husk. He has no energy and lately has been plagued with a headache that never seems to go away. Just discussing the Turkey Plunge exhausts him so much that he wants to lie down in a dark room.

Mitzi harrumphs. She calls Isabelle to accept the invitation for Thanksgiving, then signs herself up for the Turkey Plunge.

Ten o’clock on the day of Thanksgiving finds Kelley bundled up in jeans, duck boots, an Irish fisherman’s sweater over a turtleneck, his navy Barbour jacket over his sweater, a hat, and leather gloves standing down on the green at Children’s Beach along with every other person on Nantucket, locals and visitors alike. One of the visitors is Vice President Joe Biden. Kelley has heard that Biden comes to Nantucket every Thanksgiving but he’s never seen him in person until today. Kelley would love to bend the vice president’s ear about Bart and the other missing Marines but the man is surrounded by a crowd ten people deep. He seems to be more popular than ever now that he’s about to be replaced. If Margaret were here, Kelley would have her make the introduction, but she’s not—and besides, it’s Mitzi’s big moment. She is out and about, chatting and schmoozing with people and reminding them all about the Christmas Eve party at the inn, which will also serve as Kevin and Isabelle’s wedding reception.

“We’re moving all of the furniture out of the living room,” Mitzi says, “and getting a band.”

The spirit of the Turkey Plunge is convivial and festive, the weather freezing cold but sunny. Kelley sees people he has known for so long they feel like family.

Mitzi pulls off her Lululemon yoga pants and her jacket and gives them to Kelley to hold. She’s in an orange one-piece that Kelley has never seen before.

“That’s a great suit,” he says.

“Bought it just for today,” she says. She kisses him on the lips and runs to line up with all the other hardy souls on the beach.

The gunshot sounds and the swimmers charge into the water, laughing and shrieking. Mitzi is easy to pick out in her pumpkin-colored suit. Her curly hair flies out behind her as she runs, then high-steps through the water, then submerges. Kelley winces, imagining the shock and burn of water that cold. He gets Mitzi’s towel ready.

When she approaches, dripping and shivering, he wraps her up and gives her a squeeze. “You are a very brave woman,” he says. “Now I see where our son gets it.”

Mitzi asked Kelley which of her Thanksgiving dishes he can’t live without and his answer was “All of them.” He loves the stuffing, the sour cream mashed potatoes, the corn pudding, the creamed onions, the butternut squash, the fiesta cranberry sauce, the snowflake rolls. But if he has to pick one, he’ll pick the corn pudding, made with Bartlett’s Farm corn that Mitzi bought and froze this past summer and topped with buttery Ritz crackers. To Kelley it’s the ideal blend of island-grown produce and the midwestern-housewife fare that he and Avery were raised on.

And he’ll also pick the fiesta cranberry sauce. Mitzi completely reinvents the dish, adding orange peel, cilantro, and jalapeño peppers. It’s so addictive, Kelley craves it all year long.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll make both.”

When they get home from the Turkey Plunge, Mitzi goes to work in the kitchen. The TV has been left on, and the huge balloon floats of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade roll past on the screen.

Margaret is there, as she is every year. And today, so is Ava. Kelley feels a sharp pain at the back of his skull. He misses Ava. He has taken her for granted all these years and now she’s leaving, possibly for good. Mitzi has also accepted this with equanimity.

Ava’s breaking up with Scott and Nathaniel is the best thing she ever did, Mitzi says now. “Ava needed to find Ava, and the Ava she found wants to move to the city. I lived in the city when I was young, and so did you. The good news is… she’s teaching. I’m sure she’ll come home every summer.”

Summer isn’t enough! Kelley thinks. He knows how unreasonable he sounds, how rigid. His head is splitting. He tells Mitzi he needs to go take a nap.

“Good idea,” Mitzi says. “I’ll cook and watch a little pregame, then I’ll come wake you. Isabelle wants us at three.”

Kelley has one of his dreams. He and Bart are in a car; Kelley is driving. They are in a desert. It looks like pictures Kelley has seen of the American Southwest but Bart keeps telling Kelley they’re in Australia.

Australia? Kelley says. That doesn’t sound right. Shouldn’t we be in Afghanistan?

No, Bart says. They got it all wrong. Everyone thought we were in Afghanistan, but we weren’t.

Kelley drives to the edge of a cliff. Far, far below are jagged, red rocks. Is this a gorge? Kelley asks. Bart gets out of the car. He starts to walk away.

“Kelley! Kelley!”

Kelley opens his eyes. His head is killing him, and that’s not a euphemism. It feels like his head is trying to pull away from the rest of his body.

“Kelley!”

With effort, Kelley sits up. Mitzi? She’s calling for him.

“Kelley!” she’s screaming. Really screaming. Maybe her apron caught on fire or she missed a step and the corn pudding spilled out of the casserole dish all over the floor. Kelley gets out of bed and stumbles to the door. He sees Mitzi at the end of the hallway. She’s wearing an apron—it’s not on fire—she’s crying, she’s sobbing, breathless, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. What? She’s holding something, Kelley sees. It’s the telephone.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he’s always imagined it. They have news.

Kelley falls. He hits the floor, but there is no pain. Not yet, anyway. It is dark. Quiet.

MARGARET

The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, Margaret takes her assistant, Darcy, for a farewell dinner at Eleven Madison Park. Eleven Madison Park was recently voted the best restaurant in America, and although Margaret has long outgrown being impressed by the “best” this and the “best” that, she has to admit, this dinner is pretty unforgettable. Eleven courses with wine pairings, each course based on a food tradition of New York City. The meal starts and ends with a black-and-white cookie. The first cookie is savory; the final cookie, sweet. Margaret’s favorite course is the one they eat in the kitchen—this, the VIP treatment because she is Margaret Quinn—which riffs on the Jewish deli. They are served tiny, open-faced Reuben sandwiches—slow-cooked corned beef with homemade sauerkraut and some kind of heavenly sauce—and a petite bottle of celery soda. When Margaret sees it, she says, “I’m sorry, what is this?”

Celery soda.

It’s bright green and fizzy, and Margaret tastes it tentatively at first, then determines it’s the most delicious, refreshing, original elixir ever to cross her taste buds. It’s bursting with fresh celery flavor and it’s carbonated with just a hint of sweetness. It pairs beautifully with the fatty succulence of the corned beef and the piquancy of the sauerkraut.

When she and Darcy leave, Margaret agrees that Eleven Madison Park is the best restaurant in America, but she won’t be able to explain why—even to Drake—beyond gushing over the celery soda.

Margaret has to bid Darcy good-bye outside the restaurant, a moment she has been dreading. Darcy has been her assistant for four years and four months. They have been a couple longer than Margaret and Drake. Being Margaret’s assistant can hardly have been easy, but Darcy is one of those super-capable, incredibly knowledgeable people who take everything in stride. She is unflappable, and if she made a mistake during her tenure, Margaret hasn’t found out about it. She has never been sick, never been late, never been hungover, cranky, or cross. She has been faithful, discreet, loyal, and funny, and although she has helped Margaret with innumerable details of her personal life, she has never crossed the line into acting too “chummy.” Are they friends? No, Margaret thinks. Not really. This dinner aside, they have never socialized other than at work functions. Even when Margaret was on location and Darcy traveled with her, they kept their private time private. In many ways, Darcy is closer than a friend. She is family—no, not family. She is, somehow, another manifestation of Margaret Quinn, Margaret in another, younger body.