Beautiful Day(8)

In the kitchen hung a set of four original Roy Bailey paintings that might have been valuable, but they were coated in bacon grease and splattered oil from their father’s famous cornmeal onion rings. At one point, Margot’s mother had said, “Yes, this was a lovely house until we got a hold of it. Now it is merely a useful house, and a well-loved house.”

Margot was shocked at how well loved. She felt euphoric at the sight of the dusty brick of the kitchen floor, the old wooden countertops scarred by 140 years of knives coarsely chopping garden tomatoes, the sound of the screen door slamming as her children ran out back to the green lawn, the seventy-foot oak tree named Alfie—after Alfred Coates Hamilton, the original owner of the house—and the wooden swing that hung from Alfie’s lowest branch.

Margot had lived in the city all her adult life. She loved Manhattan—but not like this. Her adoration of Nantucket was matched only by her adoration of her children. She wanted to be buried here, in the shade of Alfie’s leaves, if possible. She would have to write that down somewhere.

No sooner had Margot entered the house and allowed herself those sixty seconds of appreciation than crisis struck. Jenna stood in front of Margot, holding open her Mielie bag, handmade by a woman in Cape Town, South Africa. Jenna was sobbing.

“What?” Margot said. She had certainly expected tears from Jenna this weekend. Jenna was an idealist, and the world was constantly falling short. But so soon? Ten minutes after their arrival? “What is it?”

“The Notebook!” Jenna said. “It’s gone!”

Margot peered into the depths of Jenna’s bag—there was her wallet made from hemp, the handkerchief Jenna used like a character from a Merchant Ivory film because, unlike Kleenex, handkerchiefs could be washed and reused, her Aveeno lip balm, the package of Dramamine, and her cell phone. There was no Notebook.

“Maybe you put it somewhere else,” Margot said.

“I keep it here,” Jenna said. “Right here in my bag. You know I keep it right here.”

Yes, Margot did know that; she had seen Jenna remove and return the Notebook from that bag a hundred times. Jenna was the kind of person who had a place for everything, and her place for the Notebook was in that bag.

Margot laid her hands on Jenna’s shoulders. “Calm down,” she said. “Let’s think. When was the last time you remember having it?”

Instead of this question focusing Jenna, it caused her to become more scattered. She cast around the kitchen, her eyes frantic. Jenna was the kindest, most nurturing soul Margot knew; the students and parents at the Little Minds school adored her. As the youngest by such a large span of years—there were eight plus years between Jenna and Nick—Jenna had been raised in the warm bath of their parents’ love. Her childhood and adolescence had involved little conflict. The downside to this was that Jenna wasn’t great with crises.

“Think,” Margot said. “Stop and think. Did you have it on the boat?”

“No,” Jenna said. “I haven’t seen it at all today. I had it last night at… Locanda Verde.” Her face dissolved.

“Whoa, whoa,” Margot said. “No big deal. We can call Locanda Verde.”

“Then Stuart and I got into a cab!” Jenna said. “What if I left it in a cab?”

Margot’s heart sank. What if Jenna had left it in a cab? Margot would go through the motions of calling the dispatcher’s office, but they wouldn’t have it. Once you left something in a New York City cab, it was gone forever. How many pairs of sunglasses lost each day? Margot wondered. How many cell phones? How many copies of Fifty Shades of Grey? A massive redistribution of personal belongings took place every day across the five boroughs because of what people left behind in cabs. The Notebook! Like Jenna, Margot had read the Notebook front to back and back to front, focusing most intently on the passages that mentioned her; she felt a piercing loss at the thought of never seeing it again.

Jenna was on her phone.

Margot said, “Who are you calling?”

“Stuart!” Jenna said.

Stuart, of course. Margot thought, with a glimmer of hope, that maybe Stuart had the Notebook. If he didn’t, he would fly out the door of his office and drive to godforsaken who-knows-where-Brooklyn-or-Queens to personally dig through the lost and found at the dispatcher’s office. Stuart would be able to offer Jenna comfort; he was the only one who mattered.

Margot didn’t have anyone like that. She could never call Edge about something like the Notebook. Instead she called her father. No answer. She called again and left a voice mail.