A Slender Thread (40 page)

“All set?” Margot asked.

“Uh-huh,” Lacey said, stepping down onto the beach. She looked toward Junior Island and silently picked up her paddle.

Margot got in first, settling herself into the bow. Lacey put one foot in the canoe and pushed off. As she had since their childhood, Lacey took the seat in the stern, her job to steer. Within minutes they moved in an easy rhythm. Reach, lower, pull. Drops of water fell from the paddles and hit the surface of the lake like showers of jewels. Being on the water always made Margot feel free. Leaving the shore made it possible to put aside the ordinary day-to-day world.

Lacey had taught Margot to paddle as soon as she was big enough to manage in the canoe. She had made it look easy. She had shown Margot how to lower the paddle into the water without splashing, with the greatest economy of movement. Now, Margot kept her paddle on the left side, as was their custom, and switched over to the right only when directed by Lacey. Lacey moved her own paddle from side to side as needed to propel the canoe forward and to guide them in the right direction. Like a couple of dancers who never forgot their steps, they skimmed across the lake toward Junior.

“I was thinking,” Margot said, “how Bow Lake is a muse for both of us.” She drew her paddle up and let it rest across the bow in front of her. The trees on Junior looked very dark green against the blue sky. A small breeze now ruffled the leaves just slightly. She lowered her hand into the water and spattered her face, loving the way it cooled her skin in the sun.

“I'm . . .” Lacey paused. “I'm doing . . . ” A second pause. “All the work.”

Margot plunged her paddle down, inadvertently splashing the surface. “Sorry.” She worked to regain her rhythm and move them toward the beach where they would land. “Monet had his water lilies at Giverny,” she called out, “Cézanne did Mount Saint-Victoire, and we have Bow Lake.”

Lacey said nothing. Margot went on. “I mean, look at this day. Have you ever seen another like it? Everything is so clean and pure. This day is absolutely perfect.” Her spirits were high. She lifted her chin, feeling the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. They had put the difficult discussion behind them and had fallen into an easy routine. Both of them took advantage of quiet and serenity for their work. The day after she had arrived Margot had turned her upstairs bedroom into a makeshift studio, while Lacey continued to weave on the porch.

For a while neither spoke. Gradually, the shore of Junior grew nearer, but Lacey seemed to be guiding the canoe too far to the left. That part of the island was rimmed with rocks above and below the surface, making it a difficult place to land. Margot called back, “I think your aim is off,” hoping to make a joke. She lifted her paddle to await Lacey's command for a change in direction and was met with silence. The canoe continued to drift toward the rocky part of the shore. Margot turned. Lacey was not paddling. She had balanced her paddle across the thwarts, and was leaning forward with her hands covering her eyes. She was crying. Her body shook soundlessly.

“Oh, Lace.” Margot's own voice got caught in her throat. The bow of the canoe banged into the rocks, jolting them to a stop. At that moment Lacey began to whimper, at first softly, then louder. Margot looked forward, and when she realized that trying to push out with a paddle would only make it worse, she decided to get out and walk the canoe through the water to the sandy beach. She moved her weight forward, gripping both sides before lowering one leg into the lake. It was difficult to maintain her balance. The water was deep and her shorts got wet immediately. She pulled the canoe across the rocks. The rocks were of different sizes, and her body pitched unevenly with each step.

Lacey didn't move. She sat with her shoulders hunched, her chin to her chest. Her crying tore at Margot's heart.

“It's okay, Lace. I'm taking us over to the beach.” And she continued across the rough shoreline until eventually she hit the shale bottom and then the smooth stretch of sand. She dragged the canoe onto the shore as best she could, not an easy task with Lacey's inert body weighing down the stern.

“It's okay. Come on now.” She took Lacey's arm, and guided her toward the beach. “Let's sit here for a bit. We'll warm up in the sun.”

By now Margot's shorts were wet and cold, like the icy fear that had settled in her heart. Lacey followed Margot and sat beside her on the sand, pulling her legs in and resting her forehead on her knees. Her sobs grew quieter. Margot put her arm tightly around her sister and leaned her head against her shoulder, rocking her gently back and forth.

“Tell me what's wrong.” Margot said. Lacey stiffened and seemed to resist the swaying motion. “Please, tell me.”

Lacey shook her head.

“Come on. You can talk to me.”

Lacey shot Margot a quick glance, almost fearful. “You don't . . .” Lacey said, still crying. “You don't get . . . it.”

“What don't I get?”

“Oh, God. What . . . will happen next? What will happen . . . when I can't talk? When . . . when I can't . . . even understand?”

“That might be years from now.”

“It's so hard.” Lacey wiped at her eyes. “All of this”—she waved her arm in an expansive gesture—“all of this is over.”

“But it's not. Let's think about today,” Margot coaxed gently. “Look out at the water. It's perfect today.”

Lacey lifted her head and stared into the distance. For a while she said nothing at all. Margot kept her arm around her. Suddenly she realized this was the first time Lacey had really cried. All this time she had spared them all the terrible sorrow that was ripping her apart.

Lacey cleared her throat. “Nothing is perfect now. We can't . . . come here and . . . hide.”

“I'm not hiding.” Margot pressed her arm more tightly around her sister.

“We need . . .” Lacey shook her head. “You need to move on. Oliver wanted you with him. But you . . . didn't.”

“I wanted to be near you. It's more complicated than you think. Besides, this is our week together. I've waited all summer for this.” In her heart, Margot knew she had wanted it to be like the summers when they were girls.

“It's not the same now,” Lacey said, as if reading Margot's mind. Her voice was level, without emotion. She had stopped crying. “I worry about you.”

“Me?” Margot's soggy wet shorts clung to her legs. The dock seemed to be miles across the water and the paddle home looked longer from this direction. “Why would you worry about me?”

“I think you are stuck . . . in the past. Teddy is over. Let it go. It's like you're . . . too afraid to move on.”

“I'm not afraid.”

“Oliver,” Lacey began.

“You haven't always been such a fan of Oliver.”

“He's a good man. He loves you.”

“He wanted me to arrange my entire summer to suit him. It's always about his career. I didn't want to be far from you. And the girls.”

“They love you but they have . . . their own lives.”

“You're saying they don't need me.”

“They will always need you,” said Lacey. She stretched out her legs on the beach and seemed to be considering how to continue. “I think we've . . . made it . . . hard for you. By pulling you into our . . .”

“What?”

Lacey lifted her hand in a motion to stop Margot's question. “We made you so much a part of our . . . family . . . that you've never made your own.”

“You know I can't have children.” Margot's old wound opened. She began to cry. “I ruined things with Teddy. There was no one after that. I always pick the wrong men.” She thought of Alex and how she had once longed for him, thinking he was the love of her life. Shame swelled in her throat. What a fool she had been.

“That's not what I mean.” Lacey shook her head. “We are your family. Yes. But we will be okay. You must think . . . more about what you want. What do
you
need?”

“Me?”

Lacey reached over, putting her arm around Margot, comforting her this time.

Margot couldn't think. What did she want? Was her work at the gallery enough? She loved painting, but she knew she had years of work ahead if she meant to master it. Did she have the desire to truly work at it, the way Oliver did? She stared out at the water and shivered.

All summer Margot had been trying to convince herself that she'd made the right decision. She'd had the weeks to paint, her work at the gallery, her time at the lake. Oliver had been pushing her to make decisions about their future. Lacey was right. She had been hiding—retreating to her old apartment, coming to the lake. “We should go back to the cottage,” she said. “I'm freezing.”

Lacey got to her feet and walked over to the canoe. Margot followed, pulling her wet shorts away from her skin. They took their same places in the canoe, Lacey pushing off from shore the way she always did.

“I hope you can steer this time,” Margot called back, trying to laugh.

Lacey took her paddle, reached out across the water, and gave Margot a splash. Margot turned back to see her sister smile.

It was impossible for Margot to close the cottage for the season without thinking of Granny Winkler. A no-nonsense, down-to-earth, practical person, Granny Winkler always had a plan, a system that made even the most daunting projects seem manageable. She divided the work into the outside chores and the inside chores. Even when Lacey and Margot were little, they would be assigned some task appropriate for their age. At seven or eight they were capable of bringing the life jackets from the storage bin by the lake and putting them on the pegs in the back hall. By the time they were twelve they would help hang the last loads of laundry on the line and fold and store the blankets in the cedar closet in Grandmother Winkler's bedroom.

On the last day of summer everyone at the cottage helped out. Margot remembered how she and Lacey would complain: “Oh, Gran, why does summer have to end? Why do we have to go home?” Their grandmother always responded in her clipped, upbeat voice, “Well, ladies, if you don't go home you can't come back.”

As Margot launched into these final chores she also thought about Alex. She had been here alone with him all those years ago doing these very same tasks. Strangely, over this past year, in the midst of Lacey's awful diagnosis and slow decline, she had finally faced the past. Her first love was over, had been over for years. The idyllic days at the lake that had been a retreat for her as a child were no place to hide. Oliver, with his own imperfections, his own troubles, his marred history, was real. She was ready to go home, and at the moment she didn't care if she ever came back.

She kept remembering the paddle to Junior with Lacey. She thought she knew Lacey better than anyone, yet a whole side to her sister was a mystery to her. How ironic that Lacey, who was ill and facing an uncertain future, actually worried about her.

This morning, just lifting and draining the garden hoses seemed like an ordeal. Her body felt sluggish, as if the muddle in her brain was slowing her down. The hoses kept twisting and knotting as she tried to arrange them into neat coils to hang inside the garden shed. Next she tackled the flowerpots. The largest of these needed to be emptied into a wheelbarrow, since they were too cumbersome to move while filled with dirt.

From the open windows she heard Lacey vacuuming. Her jobs in the house weren't any easier. The porch cushions needed to be cleaned before they were stowed in closets and drawers. Once the living room furniture had been wiped down and covered with sheets, the wicker from the porch had to be moved inside for the winter. What was Lacey thinking while she went about her work?

The heavy gray sky had gradually lifted and a warm wind blew in from the south. The lake, usually smooth and blue, turned brown and choppy, churning in the hot air. The sheets and towels on the line dried quickly. Surprisingly, it never stormed.

At the end of the afternoon the wind died down. Margot went to her room to pack the few clothes she would take to New York. They were both leaving early in the morning. Lacey would drive home to New Castle and Margot would return her car at the Manchester airport and fly to New York. Lacey was right. It was time to figure out what to do with her life.

That night they ate a cold supper in the kitchen. Neither said much. Margot was tired from all the physical work in the heat, and she could see from Lacey's flushed face and the scrim of perspiration on her forehead that she was exhausted as well.

“This is everything,” Lacey said. “The fridge is . . . empty.” They ate the last of a roast chicken, some leftover potato salad, and a platter of fresh tomatoes.