A Slender Thread (29 page)

“Sounds delightful,” she said, grateful to Oliver, who was doing his best to make up for his preoccupied behavior in the spring.

“It's one of Grant's favorite spots.” Grant Redfern was an old friend from Oliver's art school days who lived in Sonoma. Oliver had called him when planning the trip for suggestions on what to see. Grant had left recently for Italy to run a summer painting program in Umbria and would not be there during their visit.

Oliver leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “The real surprise comes after that.” He kissed her neck. “You'll never guess.” He kissed her once more.

 

The following day Oliver drove Margot to Sonoma. After the promised lunch, which was lovely, he took a secondary road and headed deeper into the countryside. They wound through fields and acres of leafy green vineyards for some time before turning down a narrow dirt driveway. Oliver pulled to a stop in front of a simple modern house. When they got out of the car the breeze smelled earthy and sweet. Margot followed him along the path around to the far side of the house. She felt as if she'd come into an oasis of calm.

“It's perfect,” she said, resting her hands on the stone wall that looked out over acres and acres of vineyards. “This is amazing.”

“Grant's place.”

She had expected he might bring her to a hotel for the night, though they had left their clothes in San Francisco. She turned and looked at the house. “I had no idea your friend had a place like this.”

“I wanted you to see it,” he said.

She pointed to the fruit trees that lined the driveway. “Are those plums?” The delicate branches were covered in the palest pink blossoms. Lacey would have known the answer to her question.

“You like it?”

“It's as if we're a million miles from New York.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Grant said I could show you around.”

Oliver took a key from its hiding place under a pot of rosemary by the back door. He walked Margot through the house, a one-story stucco building that turned out to be larger than expected once they were inside. The house had a central living area with an open kitchen separated from the living room by a long counter. There were two bedrooms and a bath off to the left, and a small book-lined room with a television and plump chairs off the living room to the right. The other room was an office with a built-in desk and file drawers. The furnishings were modern: sleek wood tables and chairs, a couch in cream-colored linen with a few pale green pillows. The effect was clean and spare but welcoming.

The entire house was oriented toward the view of the valley below. They went back out to the terrace. It was as if a gravitational pull was making Margot want to be outside savoring the view. She thought of the din and commotion that was New York.

“I'm sure Umbria or wherever Grant's working must be nice, but I can't imagine wanting to leave this.” Margot enjoyed the sensation of the sun's heat on her shoulders, so different from the cool San Francisco weather.

“Do you see the building down there? The one with the skylights?”

She nodded.

“That's his studio.”

Margot thought of the drafty loft where Oliver worked, with the rattling elevator that made her sure each ride would be her last. Grant's studio couldn't be more different, nestled in a grove of trees below the house.

She followed Oliver inside. This time she noticed that there was no artwork anywhere. Light poured in from windows high above, and as the sun sank, shadows formed patterns on the walls, a kind of art all its own.

“Here's the surprise,” Oliver said, capturing her attention. “When I was here in January, I came out to see this place. Grant had just accepted the gig in Italy.”

“You never told me you visited him.”

“You were so preoccupied with Lacey then. Plus you'd have to see this to believe it.” He stopped speaking, raised his hands, and let them fall to his side. “Mags, this place is so powerful. The light, the landscape. All winter I tried to forget about it.”

“I can see why you'd like it,” she said. She sat down on the sofa. “It's so quiet, too. I'm not sure I could get used to such silence.”

Oliver took a seat beside her. “When I e-mailed Grant last month to get suggestions for restaurants, he asked me if I'd like to rent his place for the summer. A nominal rent, just to cover maintenance and utilities. You can see he doesn't need the money.” Oliver traced his hand along her neck and jawbone. “I'd like to paint you sitting outside on the wall.”

Margot blushed, remembering the way Oliver used to look at her when they first met. When he had taken her to his studio for the first time he had stared at her intently and with a kind of longing that it made it difficult for her to breathe.

“You don't do portraits,” she said jokingly.

“I want to do you now.” He caressed her cheek. His touch was always gentle, as if he saw the world with his hands, too. “What do you think? How about we live here for the summer?”

“You mean leave New York?”

“Spend the summer away.”

“But my job?”

“Mario's there. I'm sure you and Carl could work something out.”

Oliver was right. Carl closed the gallery for part of July and almost no one came in August. Summer was the slow time of year. As much as she enjoyed working at the gallery, her own painting had started to matter more. She pictured her apartment, the easel, and her notebooks with the drawings she had worked on this winter. She could sublet her place to cover her expenses. But Lacey? She would be across the country from her sister. “It is beautiful here,” she said. Her voice sounded tentative in her ears.

“We could both have the summer for painting,” he said.

Still, something weighed on her. “It might work. It's just that Lacey . . . and the girls' graduation. I can't miss that.”

“You don't have to. You can fly back for that weekend. The summer's on me. Five paintings sold in two days. It's like it was fifteen years ago.”

Margot got up and walked out again to the terrace. Rosebushes lined the path to the studio. The buds were white. She could imagine their smell on a June evening. Oliver came behind her and drew his hands around her waist. He rocked her gently from side to side. “I can see us here,” he said. His lips rested above her ear. “I love you, Mags.”

Suddenly, Margot thought Oliver's idea might work. She didn't like the way they'd seemed to drift apart this winter and spring. She was as much at fault as he was. She could feel tears coming to her eyes. The grapevines across the valley blurred together below the darkening sky, looking like a vast lake. Margot turned, wrapped her arms around Oliver, and held him tightly.

As Oliver drove back to San Francisco, he felt that comfortable ease and happiness settle back between them again. He thought over their day together. What a relief to be able to make Margot happy. They talked easily about possible plans. He explained that they could return to New York and come back to rent Grant's place starting the first of June. Margot suggested shipping some of their things ahead of time. She was going to get in touch with Mario and Carl to see if they could work something out. With any luck, in a matter of weeks they could be ready for this interlude in California.

By the time they reached their hotel in the city it was dark. Oliver left the car with the valet service. They planned to drive south of the city the next day and possibly go as far as Carmel. Neither of them was hungry, so they agreed to go out to dinner later at a Japanese restaurant near the hotel. He tilted his head to each side, trying to release the crick in his neck, and followed Margot into the lobby.

Oliver knew that Margot didn't like change. She had her half dozen favorite restaurants in their neighborhood, and the three upscale places they saved for special occasions. She stuck to her limited repertoire of recipes, always went to the same Duane Reade drugstore, despite the fact that there were almost identical others every few blocks, ordered the same coffee drink at her preferred Starbucks, and used only one particular cash machine. She even had a favorite bench in the park.

He found this single-mindedness endearing and frequently teased her, saying she acted like a little old lady, set in her ways, not daring to try something new. Surely she would agree that some changes could be a good thing—his recent success, this trip, their plans for the summer.

He also wanted to talk about marriage again. Soon he would be fifty-seven. As old-fashioned as it seemed, he wanted to grow old with someone he loved. Like his parents had done. Maybe he had a traditional streak. Somehow growing old with a girlfriend, a lover, was not the same as being married.

When they returned to their room, Oliver told Margot he wanted to shower before going out. While he undressed she rummaged in her purse and pulled out her cell phone.

“I forgot to turn it on,” she said, pushing the requisite buttons. “I've got a message.” Her lips pulled together as she listened. He paused at the bathroom door. “It's from Alex,” she said.

“Alex?” he said, feeling the warmth of the afternoon slip away. “What could he want?” This could only have to do with Lacey, he thought. Oliver's lower back hurt. The car they'd rented was a compact, the cheapest available. It had been impossible to adjust the seat to a comfortable position. Or was he just getting old? Margot glanced at her watch. He calculated the time difference. “It's not too late,” he said.

In the shower Oliver made the water as hot as he could stand, letting it pummel his back. A call from Alex couldn't be good. Oliver was sorry about what Lacey and her family were going through, but selfishly he didn't want Margot to be so tied up in their affairs. He wished she could simply live with it and move on.

One of the abilities that came with age, he thought, was getting used to unhappiness. You had to accept a backlog of disappointments, hurts that could never be healed, sadness for which there was no cure. You got better at putting some of the tough things aside.

Oliver lived with the knowledge that he wished he had told his father many things before he had died. Regrets cluttered his mind—the way he'd reacted to past criticism, the way he'd let it get him down. He knew he'd been difficult to live with this spring—preoccupied, jumpy, not as attentive to Margot as he should have been. Art was hard. That was his excuse, at least.

Early in their courtship Margot had told him how she had once planned to become an artist. She had wanted to go to graduate school in painting after college, but it had seemed impossible then to come up with the time or the money. Her sister, who also loved art, was the practical one who had majored in education to be able to teach it. Margot had taken classes in art history, thinking it might be useful for getting a job, but eventually she couldn't resist the lure of the art studio at college, that huge, bright space that smelled of paint. Naked in his arms, she had told him all that as if it had been a confession. Later, when he asked what made her stop painting, she blamed it on a bad marriage. He knew what that could be like and didn't press her for more.

Oliver reached for the shampoo. This summer would be a reprieve for both of them. He stayed in the shower longer than usual, then turned off the water and grabbed a towel. He put on the thick hotel robe and gave his hair a quick comb. When he emerged from the bathroom Margot was seated on the edge of the bed still holding her phone.

“What's up?” he asked, trying to recapture the upbeat mood of the afternoon.

“I spoke to Alex.”

“Yeah?”

“His mother died. He sounded terrible.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, recalling the angular, vigorous woman whose eyes were blankly clouded and remote. He had met her one summer, a number of years ago. It must have been when the family had gathered for a family birthday in New Castle, when she was still well enough to leave the nursing home.

“Massive stroke,” Margot said before he had a chance to ask. “At least she didn't suffer.”

“Will there be a service?” He sat on the bed beside her.

“Alex said he didn't know when. Lacey's started to plan the funeral.”

“It's Alex's mother. Why isn't he planning the funeral?”

“He's stuck in Chicago. He can't get home until the end of the week. There's some environmental issue with the company he's selling and he's in crucial meetings with a mediator. They're trying to avoid a lawsuit.” Margot put her hand in his. “That's not the real problem.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, wondering what could be wrong on top of this.

“Wink called him, saying that Toni's been acting really strange and that she's been sneaking out at night. Wink is terrified of getting Lacey upset. Wink thinks something weird is going on. She hated telling on Toni and said she never would have called her dad if something wasn't really wrong.”