A Slender Thread (23 page)

“Powerful stuff,” Hannah said, then moved to the next painting. She had kept her coat on, since Oliver left the temperature in the studio low. Heat was expensive. He preferred to dress warmly, and as he painted, actively moving in and away from the work, he often grew hot and shed a few layers of clothing. Today he was down to a white V-neck T-shirt and his old jeans that sagged at the knees. Hannah, appearing very much the affluent collector with her expensive leather boots and matching handbag, was deeply tanned. She and June had just returned to New York after having spent the winter months at June's house in Antigua.

He decided not to comment on or explain what she was looking at. His work had been evolving this winter in unexpected ways. While he was thrilled to have the commitment from the Croft, he was nervous about completing all the work in time. Still, he was oddly confident. He hadn't felt this inspired in many years. He remembered when he first drove a motorcycle. He was scared shitless, but he never wanted to get off. Preparing for a show felt like that.

“So all of this is for California?”

“I took a few studies out there. They liked what they saw.” He shrugged.

“I'd like June to see these,” she said.

“None of them is finished.”

Hannah moved to another painting. The subject was Hermes. Oliver had created rays of what seemed like cable wires with a series of dots and dashes. On top he had painted an overlay, sheer like a piece of lace, of a large spread of bird wings, recognizable only from a distance. Hannah turned to Oliver. “This work's amazing.”

“It's coming.” He appreciated her approval. It had been a dizzying spring and he still had more to do to be ready for the show.

“By the way, how's Margot?” Hannah asked.

“Busy right now,” he said, thinking of her mornings when she hurried away to paint. He was glad she was going back to it, but he missed having her in the apartment first thing in the day, watching him, listening to him, sharing her thoughts. Margot hadn't shown him anything yet, saying that none of her paintings were ready. “She's coming to San Francisco with me for the show. We may stay a while.” Oliver had no specific plan yet, but he hoped this trip to California might be a kind of turning point—not only for his work, but for Margot and him. He wanted her permanently in his life. Together. He thought it was time to consider the future.

“Be careful.”

He gave Hannah a questioning look.

“California can be addictive.”

 

Not long after Lacey's trip to New York with Toni, Margot invited her sister back to see a special exhibit. A gallery in SoHo was exhibiting a group of weavers in a show called Woven Voices: Women Connecting the World. Surprisingly, the invitation had been Oliver's idea. He had thought Lacey would enjoy another chance to get away and had told Margot that if she wanted to do something for her sister, this might be one way to help. Margot was touched by his thoughtfulness. Lacey had accepted gladly and taken the train from Boston to New York.

They stood now in front of a huge tapestry woven in the Japanese ikat style by an artist from Vermont. This piece was at least four feet high and ran the length of one wall. Sweeps of black and gray were interspersed with patterns of vivid blue that reminded Margot of Asian calligraphy with a visual strength all its own.

“Do you think it says anything?” she asked Lacey.

“There's always a . . .” Lacey stepped closer to the weaving. “A message,” she said finally. “There's always a story.”

Margot thought back to the introductory panels of the exhibit explaining how weaving was one of the most ancient art forms. The loom itself had changed very little over the ages. The creation of cloth to cover the body was only the beginning, and soon cultural identities emerged through fabrics. Oliver loved the story of Penelope weaving a burial shroud while waiting for her long-departed Odysseus, unraveling a little each night to show her belief that he would return, hoping all the while to keep her suitors at bay.

Oliver was often in Margot's thoughts. He continued to be in a good mood and the long hours in his studio never seemed to tire him now.

Margot and Lacey paused in front of another large piece.

“This looks like the ocean,” Margot said.

“Reminds me of waves. Sound waves.” Lacey's speech seemed fluent first thing in the morning, though she kept her sentences short.

“You always chose weaving as an art form. I can't believe I've never asked you why.”

“It's useful. I like making things. And I like the feel of it.” Lacey looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers wide, then turning her hands over to study her palms.

“You do beautiful work,” Margot said, thinking how her sister's hands were not only lovely but expressive.

Lacey said nothing. They had come to a weaving in which dried grasses and pieces of twigs were incorporated into the design. Lacey stood close to the work, then backed up to get a better sense of the whole. There was a bench in the center of the room and a few moments later she sat. Margot joined her.

“Are you tired?” she asked.

“No. I just want to slow down. There's so much here.”

Lacey's skin was glowing from her run in Central Park first thing that morning. She pressed her lips together and then opened her mouth as if to speak and closed it.

Margot placed her hand on Lacey's arm. “Is something bothering you? Is it the girls?”

“No. Wink is so excited about Cornell. She still can't believe she got in.” Lacey swallowed and took in a breath. “I wish Toni was happier.”

“She will be. She loves New York.” Margot hoped she sounded encouraging.

“It's something else.”

“Finding words?”

“Not only that.” Lacey shook her head. “It's Alex.”

Margot's shoulders tensed. “Alex?”

“He's gone so much.”

“That must be hard.”

Lacey raised her hand to stop Margot from speaking. “It's not that. I wanted him gone. Less strain. I hate the way . . . he . . . watches me.”

“I see,” Margot said.

“When he's home . . . he's so distant. It's like there's a wall between us.”

“What do you mean?” Margot shifted forward on the bench.

Lacey looked at Margot. “I know I'm at fault. We don't talk much and when we make love . . .” Color came to her face. “It's like he's afraid of me. I still need that . . . part of marriage.”

Margot swallowed and withdrew her hand. “Oh,” she said. How could she talk about this with her sister? Years before, they had talked about “cute boys” or joked about TCBYB, their secret code for “This could be your boyfriend,” referring to some terrible guy they had seen. Margot had never asked Lacey about what it was like to love Alex, certainly not about their sex life. Margot felt a blush rising from her chest.

“Do you think there's someone? Another woman?” Lacey asked.

“Oh, no.” Margot spoke quickly. A visitor looking at the tapestry with twigs turned and stared at them. Margot lowered her voice. “Lacey, he loves you. He's worried, that's all. Maybe that's made him seem a little distant.”

“When he's home, he av . . . avoi . . .”

“Avoids?”

“Don't tell me words.” She pursed her lips. “Yes. He avoids me.” Lacey's normally smooth brow had furrowed. Her mouth trembled.

“You must be imagining that,” Margot said abruptly. She didn't want to think about Alex that way either. She had stashed away her confusing memories of him years ago.

“Listen, I'm starving.” Margot glanced around nervously. “Let's finish looking. Then I want to take you to lunch. You must be hungry, too.”

Lacey stood up slowly and followed Margot into the final room of the exhibition.

 

Alex boarded the shuttle to New York. It was the end of April and the green shoots of bulbs had begun to emerge in Lacey's garden. Usually on Mondays after a weekend with his family in New Hampshire, he went to Chicago to meet with his new clients. After months of intense effort he had gotten the Wingate Company back on track. His work was far from over, but he had set up meetings in New York with an interested buyer. He had finally convinced the family board of the advantages of a reorganization and sale. Fred Wingate and his cousin Mark had wanted to enlarge the business and go public, selling the family shares in hopes of making a few quick millions. Alex had advised against that plan, however, explaining that selling the entire company sooner rather than later was less risky. Given the dismal track record of the two men, he envisioned only further pitfalls if they took the helm.

Alex found his seat. All that was available this morning was a middle seat toward the rear of the aircraft. He didn't care. It was a relief to escape New Castle. Toni's accusing gaze followed him everywhere, as if she was still angry that he had kept Lacey's illness a secret from her. Wink was solicitous of Lacey, hanging out at home more, seeing her friends less often. He didn't want to offend Wink by telling her to lighten up.

After Margot's visit in January, Lacey had been cold and unreachable for a while. She had made it clear that she wasn't “in the mood” the first few times he had reached for her in bed. Gradually she let go of her anger, but their lovemaking became awkward and hurried. When she turned away from him afterward, he was left with a hollow sense that the woman he'd been holding and caressing hadn't been there at all. He was afraid to say anything for fear of upsetting her again.

Often when they were alone, Lacey remained silent. Alex had never minded silence before. He liked the comfortable silences that settle in between two married people, the kind full of implicit understanding, making it unnecessary to talk. He savored those moments when all they exchanged was a look: her glance at a party if a boorish guest was dominating the conversation, a look of pleasure after one of the girls said something endearing, the expression on her face that made him feel as if he was the only one that mattered and that she could hardly wait to be alone with him. Now the silences between them were anguished and empty. Was he losing her already?

After Lacey's last trip to New York to see Margot, he had hoped they'd gotten through the worst. He yearned for the comfortable way their lives used to be. He hoped it was still possible to return to that. Yet something was always getting in the way. One weekend he had been preoccupied with his mother, who had fallen out of her wheelchair. Fortunately, nothing was broken, but leaving the retirement home for the hospital had upset her. This past weekend Wink had insisted that she didn't want to go away to college and leave her mother alone. Lacey had talked to her daughter for hours, trying to convince her that she didn't want her to stay at home, that it would be years before she needed help.

For Alex, the terrible thing about spending time away from Lacey was that when he returned, he could see the progression of her disease more clearly. He was convinced that her speech had grown more choppy over the winter. Every few sentences she would stumble over a word. She had an odd habit now of shaking her head no, a slightly jerky movement, like a nervous tick. This occurred when something slowed her down. Her lips would tighten and tremble for just a moment before she would sigh and shrug, as if she were merely inconvenienced.

The flight crew made the announcements for landing, interrupting his reverie. The plane circled and dipped as it approached New York. Alex unclenched his fists and tried to relax. He had to put these thoughts aside, if only for a while.

Alex's day in the city went well. His first round of meetings was amazingly successful. It felt great to explain a complicated financial situation, to cast it in a positive light, to have the answers ready, to speak with knowledge and conviction. He was thankful that he hadn't lost his touch, and, indeed, he finished the agenda ahead of schedule.

He took the elevator down to the lobby and stepped outside. The air was mild, the trees bursting with new leaves. The late-afternoon light softened the sharp, angular buildings, making the city seem less intense, more manageable. He walked over to Fifth Avenue and headed north, toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He had several hours to kill before dinner with his clients and their accountants. Thinking over his successful day, he felt almost cocky.

Pedestrians with shopping bags hurried along looking as if they had places to go, people to see. He tried to distinguish between the visitors, like him, and those who lived here. Why hadn't he thought of calling Margot? She lived here. He reached for his cell phone. She answered immediately, explaining that Monday was her regular day off. She usually spent it at her apartment—her “secret studio,” she joked—and asked him to stop by. He arrived within minutes.

She opened the shiny black door on the landing when he stepped out of the elevator, and he followed her inside. The apartment was like a doll's house, the one main room not as big as his dining room in New Castle. Lacey kept their home in New Hampshire spare and neat. This room was the opposite. The dish on the little table by the front door overflowed with keys, pens, paper clips. Next to it was a vase of drooping tulips, a telephone, a tattered spiral notebook, and one lone glove.

“You haven't been here in ages,” she said, giving him a quick hug.

He stepped away from her. “Lacey loves this place,” he said. “So this is where you paint.” He glanced over at the round table near the windows, cluttered with paint tubes, paper, notebooks, and a scattering of photographs. A few had been tacked up on an easel just above the canvas she had presumably been working on.