A Slender Thread (8 page)

Margot thought of the small rituals that she and Oliver shared. A little after seven, he would come into the bedroom carrying a pot of tea for her on a tray. She would drink it while he took the first turn in the shower. She would have coffee later after eating breakfast. Oliver would leave the bathroom door open and, across the steam, call out his plans for the day—going straight to the studio, stopping to see a dealer, meeting up with someone for lunch. Oliver put in long hours at his studio, but like a European, he liked to indulge in a leisurely lunch.

Early in their courtship, they had met most frequently for a meal in the middle of the day. Margot would slip out of the gallery, pick up some take-out food, and ride the freight elevator up to the loft where Oliver worked. It was there, in Oliver's studio, amid the crumbs from a baguette and the remnants of some country-style pâté, that they had made love for the first time. After the mess of her marriage to Teddy, Margot couldn't quite believe the simple joy that came from being so desired.

Margot hadn't reached Oliver in Atlanta last night. It didn't matter now. She would see him tomorrow at home.

She must have fallen back asleep, since the next thing she knew, a pale swath of sun was pouring into her room at the top of the house. A few minutes later she heard footsteps on the stairs, but instead of coming to her room the steps continued into Lacey's studio, followed by the door closing. Lacey had told her that she was trying to finish weaving a set of place mats that she was donating to a charity auction.

Margot got up and hurried to the shower. They were all going to Kate and Hugh's house for a chili lunch and an afternoon hike, an annual tradition rain or shine. Margot smiled, thinking how if Oliver were here he would tease her, saying that he didn't appreciate having to go on a forced march.

After getting dressed she went down to the kitchen. Toni sat slumped at the counter eating an English muffin.

“Am I the last up?” Margot asked, trying to be cheerful.

“Wink's out already. Dad's in his office and Mom's up in her studio.”

“You don't sound too happy.”

“Thanks to me, everyone's in a pissy mood.”

Margot took a mug from the cupboard and poured herself the last of the coffee. It was only lukewarm and had simmered down to a dark sludge. “Is it really that bad?”

“I went out with Ryan last night.”

“But your parents told you not to,” Margot said. It struck her how she sounded like her own father thirty years before, who would admonish her for what he called her “disappointing behavior.”

“I was gone for an hour. I was home before midnight. I'm eighteen. God, Aunt Margot. Don't you think they're ridiculous?”

“It's not for me to say, really.”

“I know. You have to take their side.”

“It's just that your mother told you—”

“She's the one. She's so controlling. It's because Ryan is older and already at UNH. She wants me to go to Columbia. Their journalism program is famous. Blah, blah, blah. She says I shouldn't pick a school to be with a guy.”

“Columbia is a great place.”

“I probably won't get in. But she keeps throwing it in my face. What's with her these days?”

“Tell me more about Ryan,” Margot said. “Is he worth all the parental bad vibes you seem to be getting?”

“Mom's so unreasonable.” Toni pushed back her hair, an unruly tangle that made her look both childlike and vampish. “I met him at a play. Over at UNH. And okay, he's a couple of years older. He's twenty-one, a junior. Mom acts like he's thirty or something.”

“He's almost through college and you're still in high school.”

“But that's what's so great. The guys in my class are such jerks. They never listen. It's all about them. Ryan really pays attention to me. Older guys are so much better.”

“I guess your mom wonders why he's interested in someone younger,” Margot said.

“What about Oliver? You're ten years younger. So what does he see in you?”

“Toni, that's different.”

“How?”

“Well, when you're older, age sort of blurs.”

“Exactly. Ryan treats me like a real person, not like some high school girl.”

“So it's pretty serious?”

“God, Aunt Margot. He's totally hot. But he's smart, too. He reads poetry.”

“I see.”

“I can't stop thinking about him. From the minute I wake up, he's sort of with me—it's like I'm different too, just from knowing him.”

“That's wonderful.” Margot reached over and patted Toni's arm. “It's just that you have so many important things going on right now: your senior year, college applications, lots of decisions ahead. You need to keep your mind on that, too.”

“You sound like Mom.”

“I understand her concern.”

“I thought you'd be on my side.” Toni pursed her lips into a little-girl pout and sighed.

“We all want the best for you.”

Toni leaned toward her aunt. “Yeah, yeah.” Her face softened. “Since I've known Ryan, it's like everything is clearer. I'm more focused on things, not less.”

“Well, I'm glad.”

“Isn't it like that with Oliver?”

Margot nodded. Life with Oliver was focused. In the last five years with him her life had taken on more meaning. “I need you, Mags,” Oliver often said. “Painting uses me up. I couldn't do this without you.”

“Please talk to Mom,” Toni said.

“Why don't you talk to her?”

“But I do. I talk and talk and all I get is the silent treatment.” Toni got up from the table. She lifted the hair off her neck and arched her back. “God, Aunt Margot, don't you remember the first time you fell in love? It's like so impossible. You can't help it.”

Margot stood and gave Toni a hug. “I don't know what to tell you.” She rocked Toni for a moment in her arms. What could she say to her niece? It didn't seem all that long ago when she was almost the same age, when she had experienced for the first time the very same thing—swamped with feelings, overcome that summer at Bow Lake. Had it been a crush, or had she really been in love with Alex? Margot grew still. What a ridiculous question. She hadn't allowed herself to think of that for years. She stepped away from Toni. “Give it time, sweetie. Things have a way of working out.”

T
he next day Margot surveyed her bedroom, or what she thought of as her bedroom, across the hall from Lacey's studio. Her suitcase was packed and she had put fresh sheets on the bed. The pillowcases, old linen ones that required ironing, had embroidered sprigs of lavender along the edges. Lacey collected antique linens and textiles, and actually used them. Now the bed was ready for the next guest, or for her, when she returned, whenever that might be. The bittersweet berries had started to fall from the branches on the dresser, so she had carefully carried the arrangement to the kitchen trash.

She was leaving today with a heavy heart. The time with Wink and Toni, the family meals, the hike in the woods—all the makings of a happy family Thanksgiving were now tinged with sadness for Margot. She likened the last few days to a brilliant painting that had been covered over with a thick varnish, rendering the colors dull and joyless. The way she saw the world had changed. As Lacey had asked, she pretended nothing was amiss, yet in her mind the apparently perfect Thanksgiving had been a charade.

It was after two. Lacey had made brunch for the family late that morning, a good-bye meal in honor of Margot on her last day. Afterward Alex went to his home office to work and Margot helped Wink and Toni with the dishes, telling Lacey to go have some time in her studio to weave. Margot stepped across the hall, knocked lightly, and opened the studio door. “Okay if I come in?”

Lacey nodded while continuing to thrust the shuttle back and forth on her loom. The sound of harp music drifted from a CD player on the shelves along the wall and the airy melody contrasted with the even, mellow thumping noise from her weaving. She sat in the center of the room, her shoulders rounded slightly, her eyes focused on the project before her. Her feet worked the loom's pedals in a steady rhythm as her hands shot the shuttle from side to side, a controlled dance in point/counterpoint. Strands of light wool flew through the open area called the shed, not making contact, like a hovercraft across the water.

“I just want . . . to finish this part,” Lacey said.

“No hurry,” Margot replied.

This space was nearly twice as large as the guest room across the hall, and with the white walls and wide-planked pine floors it had the spare, open feeling of a dance studio. Margot blinked in the unexpected brightness. Besides the two dormer windows that faced the front of the house, three skylights flooded the room with light. Lacey's brow was furrowed in concentration. Her upper teeth periodically ran across her lower lip, a rhythmic biting that appeared to have gently bruised her mouth.

The loom, dominating the middle of the room, was like an anchor keeping the ethereal space tethered to the earth. On the opposite wall, a lavender-colored hollow-core door resting on bookshelves at each end served as a desk, and a wicker settee painted an apple green was placed next to the front windows. The back wall was covered with shelves. Along with several rows of books, the rest of the space was filled with spools of wool in a rainbow of shades lined up in meticulous order. The colors, all clear and bright, made Margot think of flowers, sun, and blue skies. All was immaculate, and other than a few wisps of dust from the wool that floated across the floor like dandelion heads in spring, nothing seemed out of place.

On the wall above Lacey's desk was a huge bulletin board filled with an inspirational collage of photographs, clippings, and pictures from magazines. There were postcard reproductions of paintings. Margot recognized the work of most of the artists: an impressionist painting of a woman with two children in her lap by Mary Cassatt, an image of clouds on a blue sky by Georgia O'Keeffe, and an abstract work by Helen Frankenthaler that looked like washes of color poured onto the canvas.

Margot leaned closer to study a photograph tucked into the edge of the frame. It was a snapshot of the three of them at Bow Lake: Lacey on the right, about sixteen; Margot, still childlike, on the left, squinting into the sun; and Alex between them, the summer he got tall. Margot thought wistfully of that time—the endless summer days when they were so young and happy, the three of them together all day long. Who had taken the picture? Granny Winkler, or their father on one of his rare visits to the lake? Who had captured the three of them at that fleeting stage of innocence? If only she could jump back in time to the very moment of that photograph.

“I'll be done in a minute,” Lacey said.

Margot looked away from the picture and went over to the loom. Different from the colorful assemblage of fibers along the walls, Lacey's current project appeared to be all white. Then she saw that the place mat was actually not pure white; there were shades of cream, and even a bluish white that formed even triangular shapes every few inches. When she looked more closely she noticed slender threads of silver woven in at regular intervals.

“Who are these for again?” Margot asked. “They look too elegant to actually use.”

“The . . . scholarship fund at the high school. The auction is next weekend. I hope I can get them done in time. I promised to make six.” Unlike the vivid display around her in the studio, Lacey wore faded jeans and a gray T-shirt along with the beige fleece vest that she always kept on the back of her chair.

“Listen, Lacey, I can get one of the girls to drive me to the bus. Or Alex?”

Lacey's hands stopped. “I want to take you. I always do.”

“I know that, but . . .”

Lacey looked at her watch and stood up. “Sorry. Forgot the time. I get lost sometimes.” She glanced back at the design on her loom. “I don't know if they'll like them.”

“You usually use so much color.”

“I'm after a . . . different effect now.”

“It reminds me of snow. The silver is like sparkling flakes.”

“Last winter . . .” Lacey paused and drew her fingers across the upper part of the cloth, as if she were a blind person reading a story in Braille. “Last winter in one storm there were huge drifts. It came so . . . fast. One could easily have been buried in it.” She pulled her hand away. “We'd better go.”

They went down to the kitchen, where Lacey put on her coat and picked up her handbag and car keys. Margot had already said good-bye to the girls and Alex. No one seemed to be about. The house was quiet.

“You'll be happy to get back to Oliver,” Lacey said.

Margot glanced quickly at her sister. Lacey had not always been a fan of Oliver. After Margot's divorce Lacey had fixed her up with a series of “eligible men.” She had been particularly unhappy when Margot chose Oliver over Frank, a friend of the Georges' from Boston who had moved to New York. Lacey had thought Frank was perfect for Margot. He was a pediatric surgeon and the widowed father of a little girl the same age as Lacey's twins. Instead, Margot had chosen Oliver.

Margot remembered Lacey asking, “What sort of future does an artist have?” Lacey kept urging Margot to go out again with Frank, who had called several times after their first date. She knew he liked her, and by the end of their dinner together, he was already talking about how he wanted Margot to meet his daughter. Frank was kind, serious, and very much in the market for a wife. After her failed marriage with Teddy, Margot was afraid of making a second mistake. As hard as she tried, she just couldn't get her nerve up to fall into that kind of life, a doctor's wife in a pretty house in Connecticut, and having to make a commitment. Being with Oliver was easier. He had suffered from one bad marriage and a few longer relationships and seemed content to let things roll along in a sort of romantic limbo. And what was wrong with that? Once Margot had moved in with Oliver, Lacey stopped questioning her choice and seemed to accept her decision.