A Slender Thread (28 page)

“We've known each other forever.”

He set his beer down and shook his head. “We'll be going off in separate directions.”

“I don't care.” Margot laughed uncertainly. The tightness in her neck released a bit. She shrugged. “Let's not think about that.” She walked toward him. “Come on. This is Bow Lake. The last days of summer.”

He smiled at her. “You said it.” He put his arm around her.

He reached for his beer. “Want one?”

She nodded, filled with relief.

He handed her a beer and asked if she wanted to go down to the dock. They walked side by side on the worn path, their arms brushing. The bottle of beer was cool and wet in Margot's hand. She sipped from it when they reached the water. The sun was about to set and the trees on the opposite shore formed a purple silhouette against a pink sky. She remembered Lacey telling her to keep her eyes off the setting sun when they were little girls, saying she would go blind if she stared too long. The memory of Lacey at Bow Lake on an afternoon like this felt like a bubble caught in Margot's throat. She took another swallow of beer, telling herself there couldn't really be anything between Lacey and Alex.

“I was thinking about what you said last night,” Alex said, breaking the silence that had settled between them. “You're right. It's like time stops at Bow Lake. I'm here and I'm almost twenty-three, but it's like I'm still ten. Nothing changes.” He sat down on the dock, cross-legged, facing the water. Margot joined him, allowing her knees to touch his.

“The air smells the same. The lake too.” He paused and appeared to be lost in thought. “You know how when you're swimming and the water is icy cold, and then you hit a warm pocket, maybe a spring-fed place, or an area heated by the sun?”

Margot nodded. Alex understood everything about the lake.

He had been looking across the water, his gaze set on Junior, the island now a dark mound in the distance. He turned to Margot and spoke softly. “This is one of those times.”

She reached over to take his hand.

He picked up his beer and drank, arching his neck to swallow the last of it. He set the bottle down. “Still, even when it's like that, one of those amazing warm places, there's all this cold water you've got to swim through to get back.”

“Don't say that,” she said.

“I'm not sure if this is right.”

“Please. For now let's just pretend that time's stopped.” Margot got to her feet and pulled him up beside her, leading him up the path to her grandmother's porch. They made love again that night.

During the three days that followed, they did their chores at their separate places, but at the end of each afternoon Margot went to Alex's cottage, or he to hers.

On Margot's last day at Bow Lake, Alex met her on the dock to help her carry the green canoe up to the cottage to stow under the porch. There, she would cover it in the heavy gray tarp that smelled like the old raincoats pushed to the back of the hall closet.

“How about a final paddle to Junior?” she asked.

Alex glanced at his watch. “I don't know,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I need to get on the road.”

“We don't have to stay long.” She put her hand on his arm. “Just one last quick trip?”

He let out his breath. “Sure, one more paddle.”

When they reached Junior, Margot, who had rolled up the legs of her jeans, swung her leg over the canoe and waded toward shore. Alex followed, towing the canoe by the rope. After pulling the boat onto the beach, he sat beside Margot on the shale-covered shore, digging his heels into the stones. The water lapped at their feet.

A steady breeze was coming from the west, though the sun was warm. The surface of the lake was broken by a light chop. Margot's arms were tired. She followed Alex's gaze as he shaded his eyes with his hands and looked across the lake. The two old camps were barely visible in the distance. Neither said a word. She closed her eyes, happy for the beautiful day, comfortable that there was no need to talk.

After a few minutes Alex got to his feet. “We really need to go.” His voice had taken on a cool edge.

There was a clearing on the wooded shore of Junior where they used to take picnic lunches when they were children. Margot pointed to it now. “Let's stay just a while longer,” she said, pulling him toward the shelter in the trees. “Please, just once more.” She imagined making love with him there under the branches with the sun peeking through the leaves.

“I've got to get back.” His brow had furrowed and he went over to the canoe, shoving it into the lake. Resigned, Margot yanked up her pant legs, waded into the cold water, and helped push the canoe off the shore. They paddled back. The wind picked up. Goose bumps emerged on her arms. Their easy banter had trickled down to a few words.

“That's it, then,” she said as the canoe reached the shore.

“Leave the paddles for now,” Alex said. “I'll get them on a second trip.”

They each carried an end. Water dripped off the edges when they flipped the boat over, hoisting it above their heads. The canoe wasn't heavy as much as ungainly as they made their way up the path.

“I'll take it from here,” he said, pulling and then pushing the awkward green form up under the porch decking. Like a fish, she thought, the canoe looked more graceful in the water.

“I'll take care of the paddles,” she said.

“You're sure?”

She nodded. She knew he had to leave. His mother had asked him to be back in Newfields for a family dinner that evening. “Thanks for everything,” she said.

“You're sure you're okay?”

“I'll miss you.” She felt her heart tighten in her chest.

“Yeah. Maybe once I get settled you could come for a weekend.”

“That would be great.”

“Yeah. It's going to be busy for me this fall.”

“Sure.” Margot bit at her lower lip. “I understand.”

“We'll just have to see,” he said.

Margot wanted to say more, but couldn't think what. He bent and kissed her lips lightly, then turned and walked back to his cottage to finish loading his car.

Margot went to the screened porch to bring in one final chair. Her father expected her home as well. Tomorrow the caretaker and his helpers would take in the dock and drain the pipes in the cottage. Soon, she and Alex would be hours away from each other. Who knew what might happen? And there would always be next summer at Bow Lake. She remembered Granny Winkler's words—if you don't go home, you can't come back. They didn't make her feel any better.

 

Margot paid the driver and took the rattling freight elevator to Oliver's studio. She had to pull herself together.

“Don't say anything right away,” Oliver said. He looked a mess. His hair needed washing, as did his jeans, which sagged at the knees. He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to the elbows and rubbed his hands together in a nervous gesture. “Just walk around and take it in.”

She forgot her irritation at being summoned after her unsettling meeting with Alex. She couldn't have spoken if she had wanted to. Oliver had hung the walls of his studio with half a year's work. He had created a new world, and she was immediately drawn in. The paintings appeared abstract on an initial glance, but after looking more carefully, Margot could see distant figures and objects. She saw layers of color, some nearly transparent. The paintings seemed to have a kind of energy, almost a pulse that moved her from one to the next.

Within minutes the turmoil of the afternoon dissolved. She let herself sink into the work, completely forgetting Lacey and her family. Oliver's paintings were so utterly compelling that without even thinking, she was caught up in the language of art. Where had this vision come from? How was it that a single individual could close himself off with nothing but blank canvas, tubes of paint, and brushes, and make this? She faced his view of the world, the results of his creative drive, and she was speechless. From a few materials came this extraordinary beauty. The pictures were all different from anything he had painted before.

“Astonishing,” she said softly.

Oliver looked relieved and delighted. “You really think so?”

She nodded. The work came across almost like a new language to Margot, yet all of it was Oliver's voice, Oliver's take on the world.

“How did you do this? So many and each one is right.”

“Help me choose three more. They're taking these already.” He gestured to the two long walls.

“They're all perfect. Any three would work.”

“You can see how they relate. You choose.”

She was touched that he had such confidence in her eye. Walking back and forth and studying the last wall, she paused before a tall, narrow canvas that looked like sheets of ice breaking up. “That one, for sure,” she said. “And this one would be a good counterpoint.”

He moved the two paintings to the other side of the room, near the ones designated for the shipper.

“What's that one about?” She stopped in front of one of the smaller paintings.

“What do you see?”

Margot studied the gray and brown markings that looked like spring branches. Tiny dots resembling buds seemed about to burst. The background was a pale blue, barely a color at all. “It makes me think of lying on my back under a tree and looking up through the branches to the sky. I did that when I was a kid at Bow Lake.”

“Ah, the famous Bow Lake,” he said, stepping away from her. He looked like he was going to say more, then shrugged. “Let's not talk about that now. I want to go home, Mags.”

T
he warm days came more frequently in New York, while in San Francisco the weather was cool. It was the end of May. Margot and Oliver had arrived there two days before.

“Romantic, isn't it?” Oliver said, drawing Margot out of her reverie. The city felt completely foreign to her. The hills, the charming tumble of Victorian houses in sight of a cluster of tall buildings, the colors themselves were all different from the shades in New York. The light was gentle and from a distance the city looked pale and soft, as if it were painted in watercolors instead of oils. The brisk chop in the bay appeared dramatic, if not a little frightening, and the air itself held a sense of anticipation.

He lifted his glass. Piano music tinkled in the background, familiar, watery tunes with elusive titles. They were at the Top of the Mark, a restaurant on the highest floor of the Mark Hotel, perfect for special occasions. The vast view spread below them in every direction. Oliver's opening had taken place the night before at the Croft Gallery. He had brought Margot here to celebrate with a glass of champagne.

“It's lovely,” Margot said. Oliver had given her the seat closest to the window. The sunset sky was pink. In the distance pockets of fog hovered at the edge of the bay. Earlier that day she had remarked on the temperature. Though San Francisco had that otherworldly light that made everything look fresh, the air at night was damp and cold. She wore a cornflower blue shawl that Lacey had woven for her birthday the year before. When Margot had put it on before leaving their hotel room, she'd had to swallow back an uncomfortable lump that welled in her throat when she thought of her sister.

“You're beautiful,” Oliver said, picking up his glass.

“To your success.” She clinked her glass to his, remembering how recently she had raised her glass in a hotel bar with Alex.

“To us.” Oliver took gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “To our California adventure.” He swiveled his chair to take in the view.

“It's going to be a great week,” she said. She hoped she sounded eager. It was unfair to Oliver to brood.

Oliver had had an amazing few days. Three of his paintings had sold during the opening, and the dealer had called this morning to say he had sold two more. To top that, a favorable review had appeared in the arts section of the
San Francisco Chronicle
.

Today, he had spent the day with her, walking through Golden Gate Park, stopping for lunch at a restaurant that offered healthy wraps and salads, sitting at an outdoor café in a patch of sun at the end of the afternoon. Oliver's face had a ruddy glow. The tight lines around his mouth had vanished. He finally looked relaxed.

Margot wished she could stop thinking about Lacey. What could she do for her now? Certainly nothing from here. At some level she was getting used to being concerned about her sister. Perhaps being so far away was making her unduly anxious. She had hoped that the distance between them would make it easier to focus on other things. This was Oliver's big moment and she wanted to make him happy.

“Are you with me, Mags?” Oliver asked.

“Sorry,” she said. “Maybe we could visit Carmel?” The photos she had seen in the guidebook showed streets of charming houses with flowers tumbling over fences, reminding her of English cottage gardens. “Carl said there are lots of galleries there. We could check out the local talent.” She lifted her glass and smiled.

“Sure, but tomorrow I have a surprise for you.” Oliver leaned back and gave her a sexy look, his lips not quite breaking a smile, his eyebrows lifted.

“What?”

He shrugged, looking like a large, secretive lion. His hair was long at the moment, falling below his collar.

“Come on,” she said. “Tell me. You know I hate surprises.”

“I'm taking you somewhere. I've rented a car for the rest of the week. I'll tell you one part of it. We're going to start with lunch at the Petite Auberge in Sonoma.” He took her hand again and cradled it in his larger one. “It's a country inn, sort of French style.”