A Slender Thread (15 page)

“Finished?” Lacey asked softly.

He let out a groan, not knowing if he would be able to stand.

“Wait,” she said.

He heard water gush into the sink. Lacey placed a warm facecloth on his forehead, then handed him a tissue. He released one hand from the toilet bowl and wiped his nose. “Oh, God.” His voice came out as a croak. Lacey flushed the toilet.

“Okay to stand?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think.” He rose slowly to his feet.

“Lean on me,” she said. “Let's get you . . . back to bed.”

Alex groaned again. “I'm okay,” he said, pulling away from her. The walls of their bedroom seemed tilted. He staggered ahead.

“Come on,” she said. “Let me help you.”

Feeling his knees jellylike beneath him, he put his arm across her shoulders. The warmth of her body felt solid and safe.

“That's better,” she said.

They made their way slowly toward the bed. He was like an old man, feeble and alarmingly helpless. His head was spinning. One day Lacey would need him in this very way, he knew. They reached the bed. Lacey handed him another tissue from the nightstand. His face was wet. He blew his nose.

“My poor love,” she said.

“The cheeseburger at lunch . . .” He started to explain. He felt his weight lurch and sank down onto the mattress.

Lacey guided his head onto the pillows. She pressed her warm hand against his lips. “Don't try to talk,” she said. “You're going to be okay.”

 

On Christmas morning Margot was surprised to find herself awake before Oliver. The city was quiet. No traffic, no garbage trucks hurtling down the streets below. Perhaps it was the wind that had awakened her, a persistent whistle even though the windows were closed tight. She slipped out from under the covers and crept down the hall. She went to the closet near the front door and removed the large wrapped box she had hidden in back. After struggling to lift it, she placed it on the coffee table and fluffed up the bow. Next to it she placed her other gift for Oliver: a book wrapped by the shopkeeper in an elegant red Florentine paper.

While waiting for water to boil for her tea, she went to the front window and looked out. The wind from the west was heavy and relentless and the Hudson River, studded with whitecaps, looked forbidding. A river view wasn't always agreeable. Today the sight of the water was a reminder of the many cold, bleak days ahead. It would be months before crisp white sails would cut across blue water under a hot summer sun. She wondered how Lacey would be by summer.

A door creaked behind her. She turned. Oliver, his hair wild from sleep, wandered in from the bedroom.

“You're up early, baby,” he said.

“I think it's the wind. I never would have made it as a pioneer.” She smiled. “The noise of it makes me crazy.”

Oliver came over to her and kissed the top of her head. He wore flannel pajama bottoms and a faded navy T-shirt. “Let me get the coffee started,” he said, and headed toward the kitchen. “Do you want your tea now?”

“I'll come with you and fix it,” she said. “Then let's do presents, okay?”

Margot loved giving presents. She put a lot of thought into finding just the right gift for each person. Gifts for her twin nieces were easy, always something hip to wear or some accessory that was all the rage. A few weeks ago Mario had gone shopping with her during lunch. He suggested a wonderful skinny cashmere sweater in pale blue, with sleeves trimmed in a fuzzy fringe, for Wink. For Toni, he urged her to buy a funky yellow leather handbag with multiple zippered pockets and silver studs. Margot took his advice, knowing he was good at spotting fashionable items and, thanks to his girlfriend, he knew all the hip shops in SoHo. For Lacey she chose a sterling silver letter opener with a green malachite handle. It would be the perfect color against her lavender desktop. For Alex she bought a leather-bound bike log where he could record his trip routes and mileage.

Oliver had had a mostly secular upbringing. His mother was a lapsed Catholic of Italian origin and his father was Jewish. His family celebrated some of the Jewish holidays, as well as putting up a Christmas tree and exchanging gifts on December 25. Margot and Oliver were driving to Scarsdale later that afternoon for an annual family open house that his sister hosted every year now that their father was dead and their mother too old to give the party.

Margot carried her tea to the living room and suggested they make omelets later. Oliver set his mug of coffee on the end table and went into the bedroom. He emerged a moment later with a mysterious bag of his own.

“You first,” she insisted.

“I'll start with the big one,” he said. He pulled the bow and ripped off the paper in large handfuls.

“Great,” he said, eyeing the printed picture of the coffeemaker. “The old one is about to give out.”

“It grinds the beans, too. All in one.”

Oliver thanked her and seemed pleased with her purchase.

“This one is the real gift,” she said, handing him the costly volume she had found earlier that fall.

This time he took more time unwrapping, first undoing the ribbon and turning the package over to slide his finger under the tape, and then slipping off the paper.

“A book of Greek myths?” Oliver looked puzzled by her choice. He opened the cover and drew in his breath. “God, these are gorgeous.” He carefully turned the pages. It was a collection of myths accompanied by hand-tinted engravings. The detail of the illustrations had amazed Margot when she discovered the book on the art table in a bookstore specializing in antique books.

“It's really about the illustrations,” Margot said, suddenly worried that this present was not as fine as she had previously thought. “It was published in the 1930s.”

Oliver continued to leaf through the book. “Mags, these are extraordinary. Look, here's Pandora before she opens the box. All the troubles on earth locked inside.” He pulled her toward him on the sofa and kissed her. “You're a love. This is great.”

She looked down at the page he had opened to. Pandora, her head bent, with a graceful hand luring the viewer's eye to the flowers at her feet, was oblivious to the evils inside. Curiosity, her fatal flaw, would entice her to open the box, forever changing the world. Margot couldn't help but think that for her, the box had already been opened. It opened on the day Lacey told her about her illness. As much as Margot wished it, she could never alter the news that was reshaping their lives.

“Now your turn,” he said. He reached for the bag and pulled out a gold box tied with an elaborate silver bow. He put the box on the table in front of her.

“That's beautiful, Oliver. Wait. I'll save it for last. I'll open Lacey's present first.” Lacey's gift, a white box with a large red bow, had been on the coffee table all week. The sight of it and the red poinsettias Margot had purchased from the Korean deli on Broadway had made the apartment look festive. Oliver had strung tiny gold lights in the ficus tree near the window, the extent of their holiday decorations.

Margot pulled off the ribbon and handed Oliver the paper to fold for the recycling bin. She lifted the lid of the box and discovered a mohair throw that Lacey had woven in warm colors—shades of red, gold, pink—giving it the overall look of a persimmon. A deep purple strand moved through the pattern like a wave. This piece was very different from the quiet set of white place mats that Lacey had been working on at Thanksgiving.

Margot pulled the throw into her arms and began to cry. First for the beauty of it, and then for the item itself, so suitable, so useful. It was as if Lacey had just come into the room, and stood beside her, a silent presence. Margot fingered the soft fibers and pulled it to her face. It smelled of cloves or something not exactly sweet, but homey. Like Lacey, she thought. She spread it over her lap and was immediately warmer.

“Don't cry,” Oliver said. “Lacey would want you to be happy. It's beautiful.”

Margot nodded and felt the soft woven material again.

“Come on, baby,” Oliver said. “Open mine.” He handed her the golden package.

Margot unwrapped it carefully, not to save the paper but to gain a moment to compose herself. “Oh,” she breathed when she caught sight of the burgundy-colored box. Inside on a bed of white satin was a necklace, a choker of pale turquoise stones. The clasp was shaped like a blossom, the petals made of tiny pearls.

“It's beautiful.” She lifted the necklace from the box. “It's too nice. Oliver, it's too much. Really.”

“Nothing's too much for you. Let me help you put it on.” He reached for the necklace and unfastening the clasp, lowered it around her neck. It felt light, hardly there.

Margot went to the mirror by the dining table. The blue-green stones were the color of her eyes. It would be lovely inside the neck of a blouse or, even better, just the right thing to wear with some of her simple V-neck sweaters. “It's perfect,” she said.

“You're perfect,” he said, coming up behind her and circling her waist with his hands.

“Hardly.” She turned and buried her face in his chest.

He paused for a moment. “I wish you'd let me give you a ring.”

She pulled back. “You mean . . .”

“I want you for always, Mags. Let's get married this spring. We've been so happy. Why not make it forever?”

Margot leaned into Oliver again. His chest was warm, his arms felt solid around her. Forever. Why wouldn't she want this kind of happiness forever? Her heart felt light and joyous at the possibility. Oliver loved her. She loved him. They had moved beyond the first years of discovery and delight in getting to know each other. Their relationship, even with its ups and downs, his temper, her own tendency to hold back, had grown richer, in a sense more complete. She looked up at him. “You mean a wedding?”

“I believe that's how it's done.”

She remembered Lacey coming to New York to help her plan her wedding with Teddy. Her heart tightened, an involuntary pinch.

“But you always said you never wanted to remarry. We both agreed. Remember?”

“I feel different now.”

Margot scanned his face as if trying to see what had changed. Early in their relationship Oliver had told her that his work was everything to him. He stated clearly that art came first. He explained that his marriage to Linda was like having a weight placed on him, dulling his creative drive and sucking all his energy.

Margot had been relieved. Her marriage to Teddy had been such a disaster. More than anything she didn't want to make another mistake. She knew she would never have what Lacey had—safe, predictable, and seemingly perfect. Why even strive for that?

After Teddy was gone Margot savored the sense of freedom, of not having to answer to anyone. The city was a good place to start over. She loved her work, being part of the New York art world, and getting to know other artists, Oliver's friends. No one asked her how many children she had, or if she ever planned to marry. New York was a city where people admired independence, personal choices, creativity. Individuality mattered. No one had to fit into a mold—you could be unique, like a modern painting not requiring a frame.

“What do you mean you feel different?” she asked, wondering what might have brought on this sudden desire to marry.

“I don't know. I guess I'm ready for a change. I've started thinking more about the future. I want you with me, Mags.”

“I'm glad.” She smiled. “It's just that now . . . well, things aren't the same.”

“What do you mean?” His hands slid away.

Margot touched the necklace at her throat. It had warmed to her skin. She went back to the couch.

He followed and asked more forcefully, “What's not the same?” He sat beside her. “You do love me? Has that changed?”

“Of course it hasn't changed.” She picked up Lacey's gift, spreading the throw across her lap. Her love for Oliver hadn't changed, but her life had. How she longed to fall into the happiness he offered. She should be crying tears of joy. She should be calling Lacey to tell her the good news. Lacey. Instead, Margot's heart stubbornly refused to lift. It was as if she couldn't make room for happiness now. She tried to explain. “It just doesn't seem to be the time for this.” She reached up and smoothed back a lock of Oliver's hair. “I don't know what will happen with Lacey. Everything is so up in the air.”

“Getting married isn't about Lacey,” he said. “It's about us. We can't predict what will happen to her, but we should be together no matter what.”

“We are together,” she said.

“That's not what I mean.” He shifted away from her and folded his arms across his chest.

“Oliver, please.”

“I thought you'd be happy. Is it so terrible to want to spend my life with you—to want to make our relationship permanent?”

“I am happy,” she said. Was she? Oliver's intentions were clear and good. What was the matter with her? She couldn't expect him to understand what she couldn't understand herself. Terrible things happened in life. Her mother had been a miserable alcoholic, but Margot had survived. Why did she have to lose Lacey too? This illness was so unfair. She began to cry again. Useless tears, yet she couldn't stop them.

“Come on.” Oliver's voice had taken on an edge. “Stop making yourself miserable. We love each other.” He reached across and took her hand. His expression softened. “I'm really sorry that Lacey's sick, but it doesn't have to ruin our future together.”

“I just don't know,” she said.

“Know what?”