He plopped down on a chair next to eight-year-old twins, a cute-as-a-button tow-haired British boy and girl totally immersed in a video game and puzzle book respectively while their parents kept looking alternately at their watches, then at the arrival and departure board.

Frankel took a swig from the Fiji water he’d bought at a kiosk and took out his laptop. His first inclination was to log on to the airport wireless and catch up on the slew of emails he’d ignored since being in the UK, figuring it would eat up time.

Suddenly he had a different thought. He reached into his carry-on for the Gone with the Wind DVD Everett had given him. Frankel flipped it over to check out the running time—three hours and forty-one minutes. Or, three hours and fifty-four minutes allowing for the overture, intermission, entr’acte (whatever the hell that was), and exit music.

It certainly beat responding to people he was in no hurry to get back to. He placed the DVD in the disc drive, plugged in earbuds, and hit play. Frankel settled in to see what the big deal was with Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler. He’d been maybe eight when his father dragged him to a Jersey retro house to see it. The only thing he remembered was it being super long and Clark Gable saying he didn’t give a damn to someone.

It took Grant five minutes to pack a bag once he returned to the Maida Vale house. Given his dislike of higher elevations, he wasn’t a winter sports enthusiast, so he didn’t need to cram a parka or ski clothes in his luggage. He settled for a sweater Allison had given him five Christmases ago and the overcoat he had on.

He spent more time looking for Everett’s blasted house key.

Right before they’d hung up, his brother had asked if Grant could stop by the Hampstead house. Everett and Rachel had been in such a hurry to catch their flight the previous day, his brother had forgotten to take his ski boots. “They’re custom made and it’s not like I can head down the slope in my tennies,” Everett had said.

Why anyone would want to hurl themselves down the side of a mountain was lost on Grant, but he wasn’t going to argue with Everett. It was easier to just get the house key, pop up to Hampstead, grab the damn shoes, and head to Heathrow.

His brother told him where to find them in the basement and said while Grant was there, he should pull the bottle of ’96 Dom Perignon out of the fridge down there, as he’d been saving it for a special occasion.

“Seriously?” Grant had asked.

“It has a ninety-seven-point rating, worth a small fortune. If I’m not going to pop it open to ring in the New Year and celebrate your retirement, when else?”