“I’m headed to the airport,” she says.

“You are?” he says.

“I’m flying to Boston,” Ava says. “And then my mom is taking me to Maui for a few days.”

Throat clearing. He gets flustered any time he remembers she is Margaret Quinn’s daughter.

“When did this come about?” he asks.

“This morning,” Ava says. “We’re staying at the Four Seasons.”

“You are?” he says. “When are you coming back?”

“Next week sometime?” she says. “I can’t remember, exactly.”

“Oh,” he says, and she knows that, somehow, she’s reached him. She says, “What are you doing?”

“We’re headed to the Cabots’ for cocktails,” he says.

Ava takes a second to digest this, then feels like she’s been one-upped. She has been one-upped, of course, because she’s not headed to the Four Seasons in Maui with her famous mother. She is headed back to the Winter Street Inn kitchen to make the salted-almond pinecone. And later, she will be banging out “Jingle Bells” on the piano while 150 voices sing along off-key, making Ava want to cry.

She is stuck here, like a partridge in a flipping pear tree.

“What’s going on at the Cabots’?” she asks.

“Kirsten’s parents have a little cocktail thing every year. It’s lots of drinking, basically, and then we order pizza and cheesesteaks from the Pizza Post. Same since I was a kid.”

“I can relate,” Ava says. She wonders how many people will complain because there is no punch bowl with Mitzi’s god-awful Cider of a Thousand Cloves.

“I should be home by eight,” Nathaniel says. “Definitely by nine. I’ll call you. What time do you take off?”

“Take off?” she says.

“Your flight.”

“Oh. Midnight, I think?”

“All right,” he says. “I’ll call before you leave.”

“Will you?” she says, hating how desperate she sounds. “Do you promise?”

“Yes, baby,” he says. “Of course I promise.” His voice is tender, and for a second it’s like the best of times; it’s an eight or a nine.

“Okay,” Ava says. “Bye-bye.” And she hangs up before anything can change.

KELLEY

When Kelley wakes from his nap, he sends a text to Bart’s cell phone. The text says: Mommy and I are splitting.

No mention of why. In this, Kelley feels he’s being generous.

Kelley is informed by his phone that the message is undeliverable.

PATRICK

Gary Grimstead, Great Guy, says: Compliance had no choice, baby, and now the SEC is involved, and they’re seeing something they don’t like. Anything you want to tell me? If you tell me now, if you come clean, it will be better. Trust me, baby.

Gary Grimstead always uses the diminutive “baby”; he fancies himself an incarnation of Vince Vaughn’s character in Swingers. Patrick has never liked being called “baby” by someone who is actually eleven months younger than him and who went to an inferior college and business school and yet is his boss. But Gary Grimstead is one of those magnetic people everyone loves and falls over themselves to please. Gary has never lorded his authority over Patrick; he treats Patrick like an equal. They are friends who golf together and sit together in the corporate suite at Red Sox games, bonded by the fact that they both hate the Sox. Patrick grew up a Yankees fan, and Gary likes the Angels. Patrick knows Gary has Patrick’s best interests at heart, but, even so, it feels dangerous to tell him the truth. Can he say the words out loud?

“The SEC?” Patrick says, his tone conveying the maximum amount of incredulity. “Because of the perks? I can see Compliance giving me a slap on the wrist, telling me I have to be more judicious about who I accept favors from, but it’s an industry-wide pathology, Gary. I mean, I’m hardly the only private-equity guy on the East Coast taking perks.”

“It’s not the perks,” Gary says. “It’s the amount you invested with Panagea. It’s a lot of money, baby. It sent up a red flag. They’re looking into all your shit. Now, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Panagea is a gamble,” Patrick says. “That’s what we do in this business. We gamble.”

“So, here’s the thing. Panagea has had nothing going on for years; I mean, how long has their stock been at twelve dollars? I’ll tell you how long—since October 2006. Then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, you pour twenty-five mil into this company? And you think nobody’s going to notice?”

You didn’t notice, Patrick thinks.

“I’ve been reading their R and D reports for years,” Patrick says. “I’ve always had a feeling about them. You know I always go with my gut.”

“They have a new drug,” Gary says. “MDP. Cures leukemia in kids. That’s no secret.”

Patrick holds his breath. He simply doesn’t know how much to admit to.

“Twenty-five point six million is a hell of a gamble,” Gary says. “If that leukemia drug isn’t FDA approved, you’re sunk. If the drug is approved, it looks like you know something. Do you know something?”

“No,” Patrick says, but his voice gives him away. He sounds too defensive. “So, how was the party? You didn’t do any Irish car bombs without me, did you?”

“Patrick,” Gary says. “This is serious. My ass is on the line, too, baby. Tell me what’s going on.”

Tell him, Patrick thinks. Gary’s ass is on the line. He won’t go to jail, but he might lose his job. Patrick sinks to the kitchen floor and rests his elbows on his knees, one hand grabbing a hank of hair, pulling until it really hurts. What has he done? What should he do?

Deny, deny, deny, he thinks. If he tells the truth, he’s cooked. If he continues to lie, there is still hope. They can’t prove anything.

“Nothing is going on,” Patrick says. “They can look, but I’m clean, man. And, seeing as it’s Christmas Eve, I should go. I’m taking the family to church.”

On the other end, Gary is quiet.

Patrick says, “Man, I’m serious. I’m clean.”

Gary says, “Okay, baby, I hope so. I really do. Merry Christmas.”