A Slender Thread (18 page)

“You know we need the money.” Her voice became placating.

“We'll manage. I've got some local proposals in the works.”

“Nothing right away?”

“No.”

“Then go ahead . . . with Chicago. More than anything I want our lives . . .” She paused. Her lips trembled and she pressed them closed. She sighed deeply. “As long as we can, I want our lives to be normal.”

“Okay,” he said. “Fine.” He felt his anger ease a bit.

Footsteps on the stairs echoed from the hall. Alex stood and shoved back his chair. “Anybody for pancakes?” he called into the void.

 

January. A tight, wet cold had settled into the city. Margot wished for snow, thinking the weather would improve after a storm, as if some precipitation would offer a release from winter's nasty grip. The gallery was closed for the first two weeks of the month. Tomorrow, Monday, she would go in to help hang the next show, the work of a printmaker from Germany. She was not looking forward to it. The works on paper were dark and turgid and had to be handled with great care due to the handmade paper and organic inks.

Oliver had spent all of Saturday with her, but today he had awakened with that distant expression that meant he was thinking about his paintings. He had spent hours studying the illustrations from the book of Greek myths and a few days before he had picked up a copy of Edith Hamilton's
Mythology
, a book he said he hadn't looked at since high school.

Besides the beautiful illustrations in the book Margot had given him, Oliver seemed taken with the stories themselves. He talked about the ancient gods and goddesses and told her a myth about two sisters, Procne and Philomena. Procne's husband, Tereus, was happy with her for a while, but when her sister, Philomena, came to visit, Tereus raped his sister-in-law. To keep her from telling what had happened, he cut out her tongue and threw her in a dungeon. While she was imprisoned she wove a robe for her sister telling of her ordeal. As if suddenly realizing how this story of a mute sister weaving was too close to home, Oliver had quickly launched into the tale of the young Phaeton driving the chariot too close to the sun.

Once Oliver had gone to his studio on Sunday afternoon, Margot went back to her old apartment. After sharpening her pencils she set up a still-life arrangement and spent the afternoon drawing it from multiple angles. Margot was still dragging her heels about putting the apartment back on the rental market. She'd told Oliver she was going to give it a good cleaning and then decide if she needed to repaint.

Today her pencil had felt good in her hand, as if she was regaining her old dexterity for putting line on paper. When the light dwindled and she had to turn on a lamp, she realized that when she was immersed in her drawing she thought of nothing else. While working she forgot about Lacey's illness entirely. She even forgot about Oliver.

Now at home, she decided to surprise Oliver with a nice dinner. His marriage proposal rose up in her mind from time to time, along with a sense of guilt about putting him off. She was relieved he hadn't pushed her further. Feeling suddenly industrious, she chopped green peppers and onions for turkey chili. While not a natural cook, Margot had half a dozen dishes in her repertoire, most of which Lacey had taught her. Oliver jokingly called them her sloppy suppers: a beef stew that cooked for five hours and dirtied only one pot, a vegetable soup with pasta, a spaghetti sauce, a shrimp gumbo she'd copied out of an airline magazine, and her grandmother Winkler's recipe for corn chowder. Winter was her cooking season, as none of these dishes was well suited for hot weather. Oliver was good at assembling salads from odds and ends at the deli, and with that, and the infinite variety of take-out options, they managed.

Margot and Oliver had eased into their living arrangement gradually. There was no one day when she had decided to move in with him, no specific discussions: “Let's give it a try. Maybe this is a good first step?” In the early days of their relationship they had gone back and forth between their two apartments, but as Oliver's place was far more spacious, she ended up staying more and more often with him. Her belongings, her clothes, her favorite books, the jade plant she had tended since college, had slowly crossed the park and taken up residence on Riverside Drive, a migration that seemed to work for both of them. The few times that Oliver had broached the topic of their future, Margot had said there was no need for talk. What would happen would happen.

When she had been with Oliver for almost a year, Carl, her boss, had asked if she'd be willing to sublet her furnished place to a friend of his for a few months. After that, through word of mouth, she had kept her apartment rented most of the time. Technically subletting was against the co-op rules, but if you kept the arrangements quiet and the renters didn't cause problems, the other tenants turned a blind eye.

Since Margot had returned from Thanksgiving, she'd crossed the park frequently, making her way to her old address. She had never forgotten when Lacey stayed with her there after Teddy had left. Lacey had taken charge of everything: changing the locks, hanging curtains to make the place cozier, stocking the fridge, buying flowers, making Margot feel once again safe and secure, creating a sense of home. Now, as then, Margot was grateful to Grandmother Winkler for ensuring that she had a place to live. In some ways, going to her old apartment was like going to her own studio where she could forget everything and work. She was considering buying some new paints now that her drawing was going better.

Margot added the ground turkey to the sizzling onions and peppers. The smell of the browning meat filled the kitchen. The exhaust fan roared above, doing little to draw out the smoke. She used a wooden spoon to move the ingredients around the pan. Granny Winkler's kitchen had always smelled of good cooking—roasting meats, baking bread, Margot's favorite ginger cookies just out of the oven and cooling on the counter. Margot wished now that she had paid more attention and really learned how to cook. When the meat was nearly browned she added the chili powder and cumin. Oliver liked his food with a bit of heat.

A second later he grabbed her from behind. “You scared me to death,” she said, dropping the spoon and turning to him with delight. “I was literally just thinking of you.”

He kissed her neck and seemed to breathe her in along with the scent of the food. His mouth was warm, his coat still cold from the night air. “Great news, Mags.” He kissed her mouth this time.

“Well, tell me. Stop grinning like you've just won the lottery.”

“I've been on the phone with the Croft Gallery. They're sounding serious now. Jack Wallace, the owner, and his partner, the guy who actually runs it, want me to come and see the space.”

“They want to represent you?”

“It's not definite yet.” He stepped away and took off his coat, then got a beer from the fridge. “It sounded like it, though. He kept saying that my work would show well there. They've got my digital images and they're really enthusiastic. Jack saw the work I sent out to the guy in LA last year.”

Margot turned down the burner. It was time to add the canned tomatoes. “That does sound promising,” she said.

“How about a long weekend in San Francisco at the end of the month?”

“Both of us?” A small part of her wondered if this was too good to be true. Oliver had pretty much given up on showing at that gallery. Maybe the busy holiday period had kept the curators from getting in touch before now.

“Of course. Come on, Margot. We need a vacation. Just you and me. Away from everything.”

She didn't disagree. Oliver had been upset when Carl Van Engen hadn't sold his large painting by the end of the last show. The art market was slow, and she knew his sales were down to nothing. Margot hadn't seen Oliver so happy in a long time. She was pleased for him. And yet . . .

She thought about calling Lacey later to share the news. That morning Lacey had phoned to tell Margot about the storm in New Castle. Margot hadn't noticed any further problems with her sister's speech. She had almost seemed like her old self.

“I'd love a trip to San Francisco,” Margot said. “What's the weather like in January?”

“Nothing worse than this,” he said.

 

Two days later, a second snowstorm followed the first. Alex sat at his desk in his home office, leaned back in his chair, and stared out the window. The sky had turned a hard, dull gray. Alex had never minded winter. He liked rising to the challenge of the weather. On stormy mornings he enjoyed being the first out, clearing the walk, shoveling from the garage door to the street. Others might complain of being stuck inside on the rare days when the weather made it impossible to travel or when school was canceled, but he thought there was something rare and old-fashioned about gathering around the fire on a late afternoon after an unexpected day of being at home. After sledding or building snow forts, his daughters would have pink cheeks from the cold. When the sky grew dark and Lacey closed the curtains to the rest of the world, an intense feeling of privacy seemed to cloak their family, inside and safe from the cruel weather. Often on cold nights, while he was falling asleep, his mind would drift to memories of summer. After long New England winters, summer came each year like a gift.

It was impossible to think about summer without thinking of Bow Lake. Alex, Lacey, and Margot had gone there year after year since childhood. Summer was what brought them together. The New Hampshire lake was home to the cottages, known as “camps,” which remained in the same families for generations, though once Alex's father had died, the George family had decided to let their place go. During their growing-up years Lacey and Margot stayed with their grandmother Winkler, and Alex's mother spent the entire summer at their camp next door with Alex and his brother. His dad came up to be with the family on weekends.

Alex had few memories of Lacey when they were small, though certainly they had played together. He could conjure up vague images of a bigger girl in pigtails running with a group of children. Lacey was always the pied piper, leading the younger ones on hikes through the woods, organizing a puppet theater or putting on actual plays, setting up relay races in a neighbor's field. Eventually, she left Bow Lake for six weeks at a time to attend sleepaway camp in Maine, where her grandmother had gone as a girl.

He remembered more clearly the summers when they grew older. One particular day with Lacey was still vivid. He was fifteen and had finally started to grow. It seemed as if overnight he had reached nearly six feet. At last Lacey, a year older, was shorter than he was.

That late August afternoon they swam out to the raft together. Her arms, smooth and tanned, cut through the water in what appeared to be an effortless crawl. His own body, long, skinny, and awkward, thrashed alongside her, working hard to keep up. She climbed the ladder and the water streamed off her as she stood. Her hair was slicked to her head and down the length of her back like the pelt of a seal.

Alex clambered up next to her, grinning foolishly, trying to keep his focus on her face. Her skin sparkled with wetness. His eyes wanted all of her. They both smelled of the lake, mossy and clean. The sun sparkled on the water, and he remembered thinking it was as if he were seeing her for the first time.

On that one perfect afternoon they stood bobbing on the raft out in the lake with the breeze cooling their skin for what might have been only a few minutes. Alex had no memory of what they might have said. What he would never forget was the sun, the feeling of goose bumps forming on his skin, the blue lake, the sky without a cloud, the sweetness of Lacey's laugh, her eyes looking into his. Had he ever been alone with her before? He remembered wishing that instead of rocking and swaying on the raft, they were on a desert island, or better yet, set adrift in a small boat headed out to sea.

Lacey may have challenged him to race back to the dock. He may have said, “Sure, but you'll win.” She may have answered, “Don't worry. You'll win when it matters.” Or had he invented that?

All these years later, Lacey and Alex were still together and on an island, New Castle, set adrift in the snow on a January afternoon. Alex had decided to accept the contract with the company in Chicago. Lacey was right. They should try to keep their lives normal. He had made the call. That was the easy part.

Still, the thought of spending so much time far from home made him uneasy. How many years would they have together living like a regular family? The girls would be leaving for college in the fall. Alex felt he was cheating his daughters by not letting them in on the knowledge that their lives would change dramatically over the next few years. He remembered Hugh's urging him to talk to Margot about convincing Lacey to tell the girls about her illness. Would Margot think it was right to accept Lacey's wish to keep her illness a secret?

From upstairs he heard the distant sound of Lacey's loom clanging and thumping, periodically filling the silent house. He got up from his chair. The winter day suddenly felt confining, bearing down on him like a low-pressure weather system. He wanted to talk to someone. He'd given up on Lacey. Her mind was made up and any further discussion would only lead to another argument. Hugh had a point. Why not call Margot? She, too, was threatened by the eventual loss of her sister. Surely she would understand what he was going through, how hard it was to keep withholding the truth. He would ask her what she thought. Just thinking about confiding in Margot made him feel less alone.

 

Oliver closed the door to his studio. His work this week was going well. Margot was meeting him at Nice Matin, a French-style bistro, for dinner. She had sounded exhausted when he called to make this plan. Mario had been helping her hang the new show and the artist was being difficult—insisting that the pieces be presented in a certain order that didn't work in the space. Besides that, she reported that Carl wasn't happy with the catalog copy and it was already overdue at the printer. He and Margot were leaving for San Francisco that weekend. He had found inexpensive last-minute tickets from an online travel site.