A Slender Thread (42 page)

“Mags, we need to talk,” he'd said.

He stood before her now, holding two glasses of white wine.

“It's the same Chardonnay we had that afternoon in Sonoma,” he said.

She reached out, took the glass, and said, “That seems like years ago now.”

“I wish you'd been with me this summer.” He sat at the far end of the sofa, looking distant, a little removed. He was tanned, but Margot thought maybe the lines around his mouth had deepened. She wanted to push his lips upward into a smile.

She sipped the wine, remembering the feel of the California sun and the gentle landscape outside Grant's house. That had been a perfect afternoon. It had been later, back at the hotel, when they had quarreled and everything had begun to fall apart.

“I'm glad you're home,” she said. She drew in her breath, trying to muster up all her courage. “Every time I walk in Central Park I think about our last argument. I'm sorry, Oliver.” She lowered her head. “At the time I thought I was doing the right thing and—”

“Wait,” he interrupted. “Let's not look backward. It's not a good idea.”

“You're right,” she said.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass, but not looking cheerful at all. After taking a sip, he stared down into his glass. Now that they were together, he didn't seem to know what to say. Finally he spoke. “I was miserable without you, Mags.”

“Oliver,” she said, choking back the start of tears. “I've missed you too.”

“You have?”

“I know I've made it hard for you.”

He moved closer to her and placed his hand on her knee. “I don't want to go into all that.” There was an edge to his voice.

“I'm painting a lot now,” she said. The apartment seemed especially quiet to her. She was aware of the sound of her own breathing.

“You know I've wanted that for you.” He took her hand. It felt warm and solid. “Have you thought about us? I mean the future?”

Margot felt the weight of his gaze upon her. “I kept wondering what you were thinking. You didn't call much.”

“You know I hate the phone. And it was never the right time.”

“I began to think you no longer cared. That I'd ruined what we had.”

“Margot, I love you. I need you to know that.” He stroked her face with his wide hands, and cradling her head, he gently kissed her hair. “Mags, we need to be together.”

Margot nodded and allowed her body to relax against him.

“I want to make plans,” he said.

She put her fingers on his lips. “Please, just hold me.” After more than three months apart he felt immediately comforting, familiar to her. “Let's talk later.”

He pulled her into his arms and it felt so right. Suddenly, loving Oliver seemed simple. He kissed her on the lips. “Okay?” he asked.

“More than okay.”

Oliver smiled fully, looking like his old self. She followed him to the bedroom.

Later that evening he ordered Indian food, saying he'd missed all the great take-out meals available in New York. They had both showered and Margot's hair was still wet and slicked against her head. They sipped the rest of the Chardonnay while waiting for the food to arrive. Oliver rested his hand on Margot's thigh.

“I've got so much to tell you,” he said.

Margot smiled. He looked younger now, his eyes brighter as he launched into his plans.

“I've been thinking of staying in California. That's what I need to talk to you about.”

Margot stiffened.

“I've found another house in Sonoma, one I'd like to rent,” he went on. “I love it out there, Mags.”

Margot's throat tightened. “Wait,” she said. “You just got home.”

“You told me you're painting more now. You loved it when you came out last June.”

“What are you saying?”

“California would be a great place for us to start over. I'm getting closer to sixty. I want to get married.”

“Leave the East?”

“Not totally. I'd keep this place for a while. I can rent out my studio.”

“So I'm supposed to quit my job.”

“Is it all that important? You said you wished you had more time to paint.”

“Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I'm supposed to follow you across the country?”

“Mags, change is good. My work is evolving. I don't totally understand it. In many ways I'm not on solid ground. It's scary. But it's exciting, too. I want that for us.”

“And move to California?”

“We could divide our time. Maybe part of the year there, part here. You could still spend time with Lacey. I know that's important to you, and to her, too.”

“Oliver, I don't know. I . . .”

He took her hands and pressed them between his own. “What don't you know? We love each other, right?”

“Of course.” The words came out jaggedly.

“Mags, are you with me on this? I've found this place. I need to let the guy know if I want to take the house.”

“Wait just a minute. You've picked out a house. You expect me to immediately quit my job, pick up my paints and follow you?”

He dropped her hands. “I don't want to have the same argument all over again. It's time for us. Don't you see that?”

“This is different. You're asking me to move across the country. Not just take an extended vacation.”

“I'm asking you to marry me.”

“On your conditions.” Her irritation grew. That smooth, mellow feeling that came from knowing she was loved began to twist and knot.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Suddenly a loud buzzer came from the intercom. The deliveryman had arrived with their dinner. Oliver pressed the door release button, his face in a grimace. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his billfold, taking out two twenties.

“Oliver—” She started to explain.

“Wait a minute,” he said, turning on the hall light. A moment later, after a soft knock and a mumbled thanks, he carried the bags to the dining table by the window, and set them down. He came over to her, ignoring the food.

“Oliver,” she began, “I want to be with you. I just want some say in it.”

“You said you wanted to be with me. I need to be in California. You want to paint, too. I don't see the problem.”

“That's not fair.”

“Why isn't it?”

“There's a lot to consider. It's almost Thanksgiving.”

“Here we go. I can see it already.” He lifted his arms and gestured dramatically. “We have to be with my poor sister. I need to be near her to help.” He dropped his arms. “We've been down this road before.”

His words stung. “I know I've made mistakes.”

“Do you? You're so stuck in that family, you can't live your own life.”

“That's not true.”

“Every time old Alex calls, you jump into action. That's how it was all winter. I've always wondered if there's something between you two. Now wouldn't
that
be interesting? The poor older sister fades away while the beautiful young one is waiting in the wings.”

Margot felt her face go hot. She stood, flooded with anger. “You are so totally wrong. How could you ever say that?” Her legs felt weak, her knees like jelly. “I refuse to listen to such horrible things.” She started toward the bedroom.

“Now what?”

“I'm going to get some things and go over to my apartment. I can't be with you when you're like this.”

“You're leaving?”

“I need to think. Let's just say you're not too good at marriage proposals.”

“So you're saying no?”

“That's not what I said.”

“It damn well is.”

Margot's pulse raced. “I hate it when you're like this, Oliver. Pushing me. Telling me what to do. I don't know what to think anymore.” She gulped back tears. “I wanted things to work between us.”

“Yeah, right. So go back to your precious little place. Your hideout.”

“Stop it!” she shouted. Margot didn't think she'd ever been so angry. The walls of the room began to spin. She had to get out.

“Wait, Mags,” Oliver said, his tone more placating. “You have to understand what it's been like for me.”

“Me, me, me. Do you hear yourself?”

The Indian food sat cooling on the table. She was no longer hungry. The smell of it sickened her. “I'm leaving,” she said.

Oliver sat hunched forward, his face buried in his hands. He didn't say a word. He didn't try to stop her.

 

Oliver felt someone pinching his elbow in the crowd.

“Mr. Famous doesn't have time for an old friend?”

“Hannah? Sorry. I didn't see you.” The huge gallery space was packed with guests.

“How about a smile? You're looking like a tortured artist. Aren't you a little old for that?”

“You read people pretty well.” He tried to say it jokingly.

They stood facing each other in the Kalvorian Gallery at a reception for a Norwegian artist whose name kept slipping out of Oliver's mind and whose sculpture was composed of twigs, grasses, and hay. The overheated space smelled remotely like a barn.

“Good thing no one's allowed to smoke.” He nodded at the closest piece and grinned. “This place would ignite in a flash.”

“You're a wicked boy, Oliver.”

He shrugged. “I'm strictly a painter. I don't get a lot of this.” “I understand you made waves out in San Francisco.”

“Yeah. It was a good summer.”

“I heard you might not come back to New York.”

Oliver's expression darkened. “Who knows?” All he thought about now was Margot—his anger, her fury, and how now, in the same city, they were further apart than ever. She hadn't answered her cell phone since their argument. When he'd tried to reach her at the Van Engen Gallery, she wouldn't take his call. He was too afraid to stop by the gallery. Yet he didn't want to imagine a future without her.

Hannah seemed to be studying him intently. “California's been good for my work,” he said. “I may spend some more time there.”

“I knew you'd get suckered in.”

“Is June here?” he said, changing the subject.

“Over there, talking to Stanley. I've heard the grand master himself wants to show your work. Rumor has it your prices will be going up.”

“We've had some conversations. These things take time.”

“No Margot?”

“Not tonight,” he said, glancing at the door. Why did he even hope? She didn't know he was here. It had been three days. Three long, painful days without her.

He felt something tickle the back of his neck. He turned. A strange mound of twigs and woven grasses loomed up behind him at nearly eight feet. Was this art? Did it even matter? He thought of his own work. So what if Stanley Kalvorian was finally interested in his paintings? After years of wishing for only that, Oliver didn't seem to care. Without Margot, everything felt purposeless and flat.

Suddenly, he couldn't take it a minute longer. He excused himself from Hannah and worked his way to the door. The cold night air hit him—a relief. He began the long walk north from Chelsea, block after block, stoplight after stoplight, the sidewalks busy, then less so, then busy again.

Why had he let his anger overtake him the other night? He had come home to New York with such hopes. So many plans. A new life with Margot. Had he already blown it? He was ten years older. He had one failed marriage behind him. But so did she. And her adored sister was failing before her eyes. Margot couldn't change that. Yet life went on. Family went on. Toni and Wink were great girls, women really. And Jenna. He smiled at the memory of her visit this summer. You had to find the bright spots. Like a speck of yellow on a canvas, or a shot of light. The small things were powerful.

Close to an hour later he reached his building. Hector was on duty.

“Good evening, Mr. Levin.”

Oliver greeted him and hurried to the elevator, thankful that Hector didn't ask after Margot, though he probably knew that she'd left. The doormen in New York knew everything that went on—a human comedy played out before them every day, he thought darkly. He let himself in at his apartment and tossed the keys on the table. He crossed the living room and stared out at the Hudson River. The wide expanse looked black and cold. Soon it would be winter. He turned to go into the bedroom. The red light of the answering machine blinked, on and off, hidden by a carelessly tossed jacket.

A
lex pushed the leaves into the black trash bag he had fitted around the rusty wire frame. Fall had come to New Castle, and along with the brilliant blue skies and crisp air came leaf season. The front yard of their property was not large and the few leaves that fell there tended to blow away, but he would be raking the back garden periodically until December. He collected the leaves in the backyard, and he and Lacey together would feed them into a shredder before adding them to the compost bins behind the garage.

The repetitive scraping noise of the rake against the hard ground reminded him of doing yard work with his mother. His dad often went to the office on Saturdays and he and Daniel would help her in the yard before being allowed to go off with their friends. When Daniel was away at college Alex continued to help his mother on fall weekends and while he never admitted it, he liked that time of working alongside her; it was the first time he remembered her talking to him as if he were another adult, their easy banter making the time pass quickly.