“I’ll never find another assistant like you,” Margaret says. “Never.”

“Margaret, stop,” Darcy says. “I’ll cry.”

“Okay,” Margaret says. She is on the verge of tears herself. “If you need me, any time, for any reason…”

“I know,” Darcy says. “The same goes for me.”

“Good,” Margaret says, and they both laugh because they know Margaret needs Darcy far more than Darcy needs Margaret.

Darcy climbs into the taxi and waves at Margaret through the window. She is heading home to Silver Spring early tomorrow and then to Atlanta on Friday to start her new life.

Good-bye, Margaret mouths. Good-bye.

It’s just after one o’clock the next day when Darcy calls Margaret’s cell phone. Margaret is still at the parade party held every year at Lee and Ginny Kramer’s apartment on Central Park West, thirteen blocks south of Margaret’s apartment and twenty floors closer to the action on the street. Ava and her friend Potter are also at the party; the three of them have consumed no small amount of champagne, celebrating Ava’s job at Copper Hill, which Lee and Ginny’s sons, Adam and Harry, both attend. There are cheers all around, several times.

It’s just when Margaret is gathering her things to leave—Drake is picking up a spectacular turkey dinner with all the trimmings from Citarella—that she sees Darcy’s call come in. There is no reason for Margaret to panic, but she senses Darcy is calling to tell her something. And at one o’clock on Thanksgiving? It’s something big.

“Darcy?” Margaret says. She sees Ava looking at her from across the room and she turns her back and wanders into the dining room, where there are floor-to-ceiling windows. The parade has passed but the street below is flooded with people; Raoul is around the block, waiting for Margaret and Ava. They’ll have to head four blocks west to get thirteen blocks north. “Darcy, what is it?”

“My source at the Pentagon?” she says. “He called me a few seconds ago. Another soldier from the missing convoy escaped.”

“Oh my gosh,” Margaret says, breathless. “Was it Bart?”

“Not Bart,” Darcy says. “I asked specifically. My source couldn’t give me the name but he could confirm it wasn’t Bart.”

“Oh,” Margaret says. Her spirit is in a free fall.

“But Margaret, this soldier has far more information. They’re about to send out a press release. He said when he escaped that half the troops were alive and—”

“Half were dead?” Margaret says.

“Yes,” Darcy says. “He gave them a whole bunch of other stuff too, I guess. Details about the surroundings, how far they’d traveled, what direction they went, what landmarks he remembers. My source says the Pentagon is going to move on the information tonight.”

“Tonight,” Margaret says.

“I’ll call if I get anything else,” Darcy says.

“Yes,” Margaret says. “Thank you, Darcy.”

She hangs up and tries to process what she’s just heard, keeping emotion at bay. She is afraid to turn around; she doesn’t want Ava to see her face until she figures out what to do. Part of her, naturally, wants to let Kelley and Mitzi enjoy their turkey. They are eating at Kevin and Isabelle’s house. But no, Margaret can’t keep quiet, not this time. This is too big. Half alive, half dead. Flip a coin, she thinks. They’re going to find the kids, all of them, either way—of this, Margaret is confident.

She swallows, takes a deep breath, and replays Darcy’s exact words in her mind. Then she dials the number of the inn.

JENNIFER

Jennifer comes by her type A personality honestly: She is exactly like her mother. When Jennifer and her mother, Beverly, occupy the same space, there is always a showdown and Jennifer usually loses.

Not this year, however.

Beverly likes to dine out on holidays—Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas. More specifically, she likes to go to the Park Tavern. Jennifer has gently but firmly shot down that idea. This year, Jennifer will cook.

“Why put yourself through so much trouble?” Beverly asks. “You’ve had such a tough year.”

“Because it’s Thanksgiving, Mother,” Jennifer says. She leaves no room for argument, and Beverly backs down.

By ten o’clock, Beverly’s townhouse on Nob Hill smells like home cooking. Jennifer should be humming contentedly along—the meal will be to her specifications and the quality of ingredients one can find in California is far superior to what’s available at home. But Jennifer is bothered by something that happened earlier that morning. She went into her mother’s bathroom to borrow dental floss and in the medicine cabinet she found a brown prescription bottle filled with Vicodin. Twenty-five pills. Jennifer held the bottle in her palm and read the label: Beverly Barrett, for pain as needed. What bothered Jennifer wasn’t that her mother had the pills—Beverly had suffered from chronic back pain for years—but how badly Jennifer wanted to sneak a few out of the bottle for herself. She could take five or six and they would probably never be noticed missing. Right?

Jennifer had set the bottle back where she found it, but she practically hyperventilated with the effort.

And now, she can’t stop thinking about the pills or about how nice it would be to get high and float through the remainder of this holiday.

Jennifer went crazy at the wine store. She bought three bottles of Round Pond sauvignon blanc, three bottles of Stags’ Leap chardonnay, three bottles of Cakebread cabernet, and three bottles of Schramsberg sparkling. That gives them four bottles of wine per adult, she thinks. She also went to Cowgirl Creamery in the Ferry Building and bought an assortment of cheeses, sausages, mustard, quince paste, Marcona almonds, crackers, crisps, bread sticks, olives, pickles, and chutney. She arranges all this on a platter and brings it, along with a chilled bottle of the Schramsberg, to Patrick in the den.

She sinks down next to Patrick on the leather sofa in front of the crackling fire and the enormous TV. The games are already on.

“Whoa,” Patrick says as he digs into the spread. “And you expect me to eat dinner after this?”

She doesn’t need the pills. She sees Sable’s kind face and hears Sable’s soothing voice saying that Jennifer does not need the pills.

She hands Patrick the champagne. “Let’s open this.”

“Why not?” Patrick says. “It’s a holiday.”

He uncorks it and pours, and they raise their glasses in a toast. “I’m thankful for you,” Patrick says.

“I’m thankful for us,” Jennifer says. They clink glasses and drink. Ahhh. There is nothing like the first sip of really cold champagne to make one believe everything is going to be fine.

Jennifer’s phone bleeps. She sets the glass down and checks her display. She coughs. It’s Norah. The text reads: Happy turkey. I need to talk to you about something. Call me please.

Just like that, Thanksgiving is ruined.

Jennifer fakes a smile toward her husband. “It’s Sable,” she says. “Wishing me a happy Thanksgiving.”

“Nice of her,” Patrick says, but his attention is back on the game. The Patriots are playing and nothing comes between Paddy and the Pats—except maybe a Raincoast crisp smeared with Camembert and apple chutney.

Jennifer stands up. “I should get back to the kitchen,” she says. She is going right upstairs to her mother’s bathroom. Three pills, she decides. Only three.

But at that moment, Patrick’s phone rings.

“Hey, Kev,” Patrick says. Jennifer can hear the buzz of Kevin’s voice but no actual words.

“Tell him I said happy Thanksgiving,” Jennifer says. She can’t get out of the room fast enough.

When she is halfway up the stairs, she hears Patrick screaming, “Jennifer! Jen!”

She races back down to the den. She sees the look on Patrick’s face. Thanksgiving is ruined for sure.

KEVIN

Mitzi is speaking quickly but clearly: Kelley collapsed, Mitzi has called 911, she will meet Kevin at the hospital.

“And,” she says, “there has been news about Bart.”