A Slender Thread (44 page)

“You know where . . .”

He nodded and pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “It's the best thing you've ever done.”

Lacey stepped closer to the loom. She ran her hands over the work, stopping at the silver threads. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

The swath of sun falling on the tapestry reminded him that the afternoon was on the wane. He wanted to take Lacey out and show her his surprise before it got dark. “Can you take a break?” he asked.

She hesitated but he urged her to come with him to the garage.

“The garage?” She looked dubious.

“Wait. You'll see.”

They went downstairs and passed through the kitchen. Toni had the mixer roaring. Empty eggshells were strewn across the counter. A box of brown sugar lay on its side, the lid gaping, the waxed paper interior open to the air. Lacey paused momentarily as if considering whether she should put it away.

“Don't worry, Mom. It's under control. I promise to clean up.” Toni nodded in Wink's direction. “Guess who she's talking to again.”

Wink gave a small wave from the kitchen table, the phone pressed against her ear. She covered the receiver briefly and said, “You're going to like this, Mom.”

Alex took Lacey's hand and led her down the three steps. Beyond the old Volvo, leaning against the shelves of garden pots, bags of fertilizer, and assorted tools was a new blue bicycle with a silver helmet hanging from the handlebars.

“Here it is,” he said.

“For me?”

“What do you think?”

“I always . . . thought of the biking . . . as, as your . . .”

“I thought we could start taking rides together. I know you love running. I just thought, well, why not?”

“Why not?” Lacey picked up the helmet and ran her hand across the seat.

“It's a touring bicycle. I think you'll find the saddle's pretty comfortable. You can see how you like it. We can always have upright handlebars put on if you think you'd like that better.”

“It's like yours.”

“It's good on the back roads.” He studied Lacey's face. Her initial surprise had turned to interest. She put her hands on the handlebars, moving the bike into the center of the garage.

“You want to try it?” It was crazy that he hadn't thought of riding with her before. When the girls were little, neither of them had had much time to themselves. He had always thought his own bike riding was an indulgence, a way to exercise but also a time to be alone and away from his family. Lacey liked to spend her free time learning to weave and he would take the twins off on some expedition to give her time alone in her studio. It had seemed a fair exchange back then.

“Just swing your leg over,” he said. “I think the seat's the right height.”

Lacey nodded. “I hope I can do it.”

“Sure you can. Take it out front. I'll go get our jackets.”

A few minutes later Lacey was pedaling beside him through the village. In the beginning she swayed a bit, and seemed nervous about going too fast. Her helmet listed a little to the left. He would adjust the strap when they stopped. Gradually, as they pedaled away from the village, she became more confident. “Let's go out Hawley's Road toward the seawall,” he called back to her. When he turned again, she lifted her hand and gave a quick but confident wave. He pedaled harder into the slight incline. Lacey was with him. The wind whipped at his face and entered his lungs, filling them with clean ocean air. He looked up at the sky, thankful for this day, this time with Lacey. It was just a simple bike ride on a country road. And it was everything.

 

“Who's ready for seconds?” Jenna emerged from the kitchen carrying a large platter of turkey.

“Count me in. I'll have the dark meat this time,” Oliver said. “Best turkey I've ever eaten.”

“Daddy, you're biased. You say that about everything I cook.”

“I agree, though I'm biased too,” said Leo, his cheeks rosy with wine, and his head a halo of curls. Margot thought he looked like a grown-up cherub. Leo and Jenna had arrived the day before. Margot and Jenna had spent a harrowing afternoon at Fairway Market, where seemingly half the population of Manhattan was hell-bent on raking the shelves for their Thanksgiving feast.

Margot had awakened this morning excited but slightly on edge. She and Oliver were back together. Home, she had thought. Yet she sensed they were both tentative and slightly afraid, as if neither wanted to tip the balance and unravel their newfound happiness. The early-morning rumble had begun. Heavy trucks roared into the city even on Thanksgiving. It might be nice to live with less noise after all these years.

Oliver had rolled over and whispered that he would go make her tea, and indeed he had pulled on his tattered plaid robe and tiptoed out past Jenna and Leo, who were sprawled on the living room sleep sofa. The refrigerator was packed with more food than it had ever contained, though they would be only four for dinner. Mario and his now fiancée, Julie, had promised to come by later in the evening for dessert.

While Margot had sipped her tea, Oliver had showered and gone off to get bagels and the paper. The apartment, usually so spacious, had become cluttered and crowded with Jenna and Leo in their midst. But it was a good clutter. Jenna's running shoes by the door, the extra towels on the hooks in the bathroom, Leo's laptop left casually in Oliver's favorite chair, a duffel bag bursting with clothes next to the sofa, and Jenna's notebook of favorite recipes on the kitchen counter—all signs of visiting family. Why hadn't she and Oliver invited them before?

“Awesome stuffing,” Leo said.

“Jenna's a great teacher.” Margot smiled over at Leo, thinking he and Jenna were a good match. They had been together for over two years. A computer software designer who played the flute in a community orchestra, he was the poet-scientist type who didn't pretend to know his way around the kitchen. He had spent Wednesday afternoon investigating wine shops and had returned with two bottles of Burgundy as his contribution, allowing that Jenna had advised him on his selection.

The four of them sat at the table by the window overlooking the Hudson. The candles and the glittering lights across the river added to the festive feel. Margot had purchased new linen napkins and place mats for the occasion and Oliver had come home yesterday with an enormous bouquet of flowers that towered over them from the middle of the table.

Margot took more brussels sprouts. Jenna had shown her how to cut them into fine ribbons before sautéeing them in olive oil and butter. Margot had been astonished at how simple and delicious this vegetable could be. Maybe she could learn to cook after all.

Jenna told them that she and Leo would be in Florida with his family for Christmas. Oliver raised his eyebrows in Margot's direction, as if to send a signal that this might mean something important.

“What are you guys doing for the holidays, Daddy?”

Oliver leaned back in his chair. “Mags and I are going to San Francisco for a week.” He turned to her now as if in need of confirmation.

“I'm looking into art schools there. We may drive down the coast and explore. We're both ready for adventure.” She met his gaze and smiled.

“Sounds great,” Jenna said. “That's if you like school.” She laughed.

“I still have to apply. So far my portfolio's pretty slim,” Margot explained.

“She'll get in,” Oliver said.

“More wine?” Leo asked.

Margot shook her head. Oliver had taken her hand and clutched it right there on the table. His grip was firm and warm. Her heart seemed to grow large in her chest. The flurry of questions she tossed around in her head just before sleep hadn't lessened. She didn't expect they would. But she was thankful—thankful for this dinner, this day, and this family.

“Are we ready for pie?” Jenna asked.

Margot glanced at her watch. “Mario and Julie won't be here for another hour.”

“How about we go out for a walk before dessert?” Oliver suggested. He released Margot's hand and gestured toward the window. “It's a beautiful night. Margot's sister and her family always take a walk to the ocean before dessert. A Thanksgiving tradition, I've been told.” He met her gaze, his eyebrows lifting hopefully. She smiled back.

Within a few minutes, they'd carried the dishes and platters to the kitchen. Oliver handed out their coats. Margot went to the window and looked at the river. The water glistened in silver light. The moon was full.

“Mags, I want you with me,” Oliver called, heading into the hall to call the elevator.

She put on her coat and reached for her scarf hanging on the chair by the door. It was the blue one Lacey had woven in multiple shades. All the colors in Margot's eyes, she had told her. Margot ran her fingers over the soft threads and brought it to her face. The night was mild, she thought, putting the scarf down. She would be fine without it. She caught up with Oliver and took his arm.

 

Katharine Davis
is also the author of
Capturing Paris
and
East Hope.
She grew up in Europe, taught French for many years, and worked as a docent at the National Gallery of Art. She lives in New York City and York Harbor, Maine. She can be reached at
www.katharinedavis.com
.

CONVERSATION GUIDE

KATHARINE DAVIS

 

 

 

 

Q.
A Slender Thread
is your first novel since
East Hope
, published in February 2009. What idea first inspired you, and how did the book come together after that?

 

A. While I was completing
East Hope
a good friend invited me to a luncheon and tour of a photography exhibit at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. Included in our group was a dear college friend of hers who was suffering from a degenerative brain disease. This woman, in her early fifties, walked around the museum, smiled and seemed to enjoy what she was seeing, but she had lost the ability to speak. I was greatly moved by her courage in the face of such a tragedy. I couldn't stop thinking about her and wondered how her condition affected her husband, her children, and her friends. I did not want to invade this woman's privacy in any way, nor did I want to tell her particular story. Instead, I began to contemplate a fictional character. What if that character suffered from a similar plight? How would those around her be affected? Suddenly, a story began to grow in my mind, and before I knew it I was completely absorbed in writing a new novel.

 

 

A. I researched this kind of degenerative illness, and the woman I met may have had this or a similar disorder. Primary progressive aphasia alters speech first; later the small muscle skills deteriorate, making it difficult to communicate by writing. Eventually, one loses the ability to read or understand. The symptoms and progression vary widely. I have learned since that the woman I met in the museum needs full-time care now and is unable to manage life on her own. In
A Slender Thread
I decided to focus not on the illness itself but on the effect that such a diagnosis might have on a family. The idea of communication began to permeate all aspects of the story I was writing. How do we communicate? What do we choose to communicate and why? We communicate by what we say or don't say, and by our actions. In my research I learned that people suffering from this illness are capable of activities not requiring language and often excel in the areas of art or music—both of which are forms of communication.

 

 

A. I've been drawn to the art world all my life from visiting museums, taking classes in art history, and my work as a docent at the National Gallery of Art. Some of my friends are artists and I particularly love to hear their thoughts on the creative process. Artists sometimes have a hard time putting into words what they are trying to say in their work. They communicate visually, just as musicians communicate through sound. I've also had the pleasure of going on studio visits with my sister, who is the curator of an art gallery in Maine. I'm fascinated by the creative energy that artists bring to their work. The variety of talent and the diversity of the work are inspiring. In the beginning of
A Slender Thread
Oliver experiences the fear of losing his creative edge, in a sense his own way of communication, while Margot, who hasn't painted for years, seems to have lost her artistic energy entirely.