A Slender Thread (41 page)

“I've got everything off the dock,” Margot said. She took a drink of lemonade. “There's just the canoe left,” she said. “I'll bring it up first thing in the morning.”

Lacey nodded. She was carrying the last load of sheets and towels home to wash there and bring back the following summer, though neither of them said anything about what might happen in the future.

It grew dark. Margot insisted on doing the dishes and Lacey said she'd walk down to the dock to check on the moon. When she had finished in the kitchen Margot went out to sit on the porch steps. The air was filled with the sound of crickets with their end of season song.

“Margot.” Lacey's voice came from the shore. “Full moon.”

“Coming,” she called, and headed to the dock.

The night was warm. In the near dark she had no trouble finding her way to the lake. All the years of running to the shore, following the well-worn path, were ingrained in her. She could find her way there blindfolded. The wind had died down. The end of summer, and knowing this might be her last day here with Lacey, brought tears to Margot's eyes.

When Margot reached the dock, Lacey was standing at the very end, facing Junior. The moon was full, casting a brilliant path onto the water. A perfect moon path. How could she have forgotten? All those nights of working on her painting and here, finally, was the full moon she had been waiting for. Margot wiped her eyes and stood still. She'd never seen one quite so definite. The moon path led straight to Junior.

Suddenly, Lacey bent down and untied her sneakers. She kicked them off and unfastened her jeans, pulling them down.

Margot moved quickly to the end of the dock. “What are you doing?”

Lacey laughed. “What do you think?”

“Swimming the moon path?” Margot was amazed. “But our bathing suits are packed.”

“So?” Lacey laughed, more a giggle this time. “No one . . . is here.” She gestured toward the lake and pulled her T-shirt over her head, removed her bra, and slipped out of her underpants. She raised her arms straight over her head, then dove into the lake.

Margot began to cry and laugh at the same time. It was as if her sadness and joy were woven into one great emotion. She yanked off her own clothes, not wanting to waste a second, and jumped out into the darkness, aware of the delicious sensation of the cool air on her hot skin. When she hit the water, the initial sting of cold melted into pure pleasure. She surfaced and began to swim the moon path toward Lacey. Her arms felt strong. She kicked hard, propelling herself forward, feeling wild and reckless. After a few minutes she grew tired and switched to the breaststroke, keeping her head above water.

Lacey, well ahead of her, stopped swimming and began to tread water. She called back to Margot, “We're . . . almost to the end.”

Margot paused. She wasn't afraid. The thrill of being naked, of swimming the moon path in the night was exhilarating, like nothing she'd ever felt. Her body tingled and for a moment she felt the water's chill. She stretched her arms out ahead and continued to swim, moving her arms in sync with her legs in an easy rhythm.

Lacey's voice, unhesitating, carried across the lake. “Follow me, Margot Winkler. Follow me.”

A
n instant energy came into the city with the first wave of cooler air. It was as if the inhabitants were tired of the long, lazy summer days and glad to resume life at a faster pace. Now, in late October, New York grew chilly in the early evening. The leaves had turned color—the blue sky in brilliant contrast to the burnished oranges, reds, and bold yellows. They even looked beautiful clumped together in wet clusters on the sidewalks after a rain. Margot needed to wear more than a heavy sweater outdoors. Soon it would be the season of hats, woolen scarves, and boots.

She had come home to New York with a new resolve. Her final glimpse of Bow Lake had been in the rearview mirror of her rented car. How fitting, she had thought. For the first time in years she wasn't sad that the summer was over. Lacey was right. Margot knew it was time to decide what should come next in her life. Over the last months she had come to the conclusion that painting truly mattered to her. As though it was a foreign language that she hadn't spoken in many years, she discovered that much of what she once knew was still there. Her skills, along with tubes of paint, brushes, and a simple blank canvas, were helping her discover another voice, a voice she hadn't known she had.

Oliver was supposed to have returned in mid-September, but at the last moment he'd decided to stay on in Sonoma for another month to complete a commission for his new collector. When he'd called her with news of his delay, she hadn't fully concealed her disappointment and anger.

“You could have been here all this time,” he had replied bluntly, his tone acid.

Planning their future wasn't the kind of discussion they could have on the phone. She could tell that he was distracted and thinking about his painting. How simple it had been when they first met—those early months together, when she was sure they were in love. She and Oliver had been swept up in the early energy of romance, a time of discovery, excitement, and pleasure. Later, as they blended their lives together, the relationship had become more complex. She thought of Lacey's weaving, combining the warp and weft to create a tapestry, a smooth whole. But she and Oliver brought past stories with them, like threads unraveled from a different cloth that were impossible to weave into a smooth, effortless new design. Or was it possible?

Margot stepped into Joe's, the new coffee place where Toni had suggested they meet. The rich aroma immediately carried her back to Oliver's elaborate coffee rituals—grinding the beans, pouring filtered water into a certain gold cone best suited for the perfect brew, the dark blue ceramic mug he preferred.

Despite her annoyance and hurt feelings over Oliver's delayed return, Margot missed him. The sound of an elevator door sliding open reminded her of his step in the hall coming home in the evening. The smell of paint or the sight of a blank canvas brought to mind his intense feelings about art—bemoaning the difficulty of creating tension between positive and negative space, or even his frustration in trying to mix the right shade of purple to create the shadow on a wall. Art wasn't his job, it was his passion. Late at night, Margot thought about the feel of his hands, warm and solid, reaching for her in the dark.

“Over here,” Toni called out. She was sitting at a table along the wall. Her hair had grown longer and she wore it in a ponytail anchored on top of her head, flopping every which way like an elaborate bird plume. Margot pushed aside her momentary nostalgia and smiled at her niece, then motioned that she would get a drink at the bar before joining her.

Margot scanned the blackboard. When the man in front of her stepped aside, she ordered a mocha drink. She paid her $4.60 and wondered how so many young people could afford coffee habits at prices like these, though once the cup was in her hand the fragrant chocolate mixed with coffee made her think she should indulge herself more often.

She sat opposite Toni, who was just closing her phone.

“A text from Mom,” she said.

“How's it going?”

“I'm almost afraid to say it, but she's better than she was this summer.”

“Her speech?”

“That's pretty much the same. I guess that's a good thing.” Toni paused as if to reflect. “I think it's like her attitude has changed.”

“Her attitude?”

“Well, sort of her outlook. She seems calmer, more accepting of what she can and can't do. Being home seems more important to her than before.”

“How do you mean?”

“Her weaving, for one thing. No more place mats, or those table runners. She's not even doing the juried craft shows. It's like she's making art. She has this giant project going on the floor loom. And”—Toni's eyes began to tear and her voice became more childlike—“some days it seems like she's almost normal again. Not her speech, but more like her old self.”

“Really?” Margot said. Her heart lightened at this news. “What kind of project?” she asked.

“A huge tapestry. I saw some of it when I went home for a weekend. She's been spending hours in her studio. It's like she's putting herself into her weaving.”

“She's always done that,” Margot said.

“This is different. In the spring, it was like Mom was hiding up there, angry all the time. She was making some weird stuff.”

Margot felt her own eyes begin to well up. She reached for Toni's hand. “That's so good. I mean, I'm happy she's found a way to express herself.”

Toni nodded and sniffed. She wiped her eyes. “Yeah, it is good.”

“I'm glad you're staying in close touch with your mom.”

“We text all the time. And she's really okay about Wink being home.”

Margot sipped her drink, the hit of caffeine and sugar going right to her veins.

“Have you heard?” Toni smiled fully, looking happier.

Margot shook her head.

“Wink's dating some guy. Mom says he's ‘adorable.' Wink loves that he's interested in astronomy too. And wait till you hear this—he's a lepidop . . . something. He actually collects butterflies.”

“Is it lepidopterist?”

“Yeah, that's it. Can't you just see Wink and her boyfriend holding nets and stalking around the woods?”

Margot laughed.

“She assures me he's totally cool, very cute, and not geeky at all.”

“What about you? Any cool new guys in your life?”

“Funny you should ask.” She grinned. “I've sort of been seeing this guy.” She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “We met the second week of classes. I didn't think I could ever feel anything after Ryan. It's so weird. Sometimes I can hardly picture him. Ryan, that is. Aunt Margot, I'm sure you figured out, he was . . .” She paused. “Well, you know, my first.”

“I'm glad you've met someone new. I had a feeling you would,” Margot said, not wanting to seem to lecture Toni on how she was so young, and that there would probably be many men in her life. Sitting in this coffee bar surrounded by all the students made Margot feel middle-aged and fading.

“Do you think I'll forget Ryan one day? Like totally? I didn't think that could ever happen.” Toni took a sip of her latte. “Do you ever think about your first guy?”

Margot felt her breath catch in her throat. She stared into her cup. “Oh, I guess some part of you . . .”

“Did I tell you that Mom's running in this year's Turkey Trot?”

Margot glanced up, relieved that Toni hadn't waited for her answer. And why should Toni care about her own first love? She turned her attention to Toni's lively chatter and plans for Thanksgiving. Kate and Hugh were hosting the dinner this year. Their sons would be there, too. “I'm dying to meet Wink's butterfly dude. She invited him for dinner, so you'll get to meet him too. You are coming, aren't you?”

“Not this year.”

“No? But you always come.”

“It's good to mix things up for a change.”

“Mom counts on you. Dad, too. Thanksgiving won't be the same without you, Aunt Margot.”

“Toni, you're so sweet. I love you all dearly, but I may do something different this year. It sort of depends on Oliver.”

Toni had finished her latte. She drew her teeth across her lower lip. “I was wondering what was going on. I know he's been out in California. Maybe I shouldn't ask.”

“No, that's okay. I hope he'll be back soon. We need to sort some things out.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's kind of complicated.”

“I understand if you don't want to talk about it.” She stared into her now empty latte cup.

“It's been a hard year in lots of ways.”

“You don't have to explain. Still, he's a wonderful guy, Aunt Margot. Wink and I always loved it when he came home.”

“Thanks for saying that.”

“I hope things work out okay.”

“I hope so too.” She reached across and brushed her hand across Toni's upright ponytail.

“You like the hair?”

“Pretty funky,” she said, and smiled.

After leaving Toni, Margot waited on the corner for the crosstown bus. She had decided to go over to her old apartment. It was too late in the day to paint, but she wanted to look over her recent work. It was the evening rush hour. The wind had picked up and she turned up the collar on her jacket. Two older ladies sat on the bench inside the bus shelter, both with shopping bags gathered around their feet. A cluster of teenagers huddled at the far end, several with backpacks, one on a cell phone, two more wearing earphones, their bodies moving slightly to their separate music.

She reached into her handbag for her MetroCard. Slipped into the side pocket next to it was Oliver's postcard. She had found it with the mail on her return from Bow Lake. Diebenkorn's portrait of a woman. On the reverse side he had written, “I love you, Mags. Like they say on postcards—wish you were here.” He had signed it with his large letter “O.” She knew the message by heart. She had carried the card with her ever since.

 

A few days later Margot sat at the edge of the living room sofa, tense and very aware of Oliver's presence. He had arrived home that afternoon from California and Carl had given her the rest of the day off. When she had come through the door they had hugged and kissed each other awkwardly, more like a couple at the early stages of a relationship, when you weren't quite ready to give in to the pleasure of it, uncertain of what your partner's response was going to be.