A Slender Thread (43 page)

He glanced at the back door. Lacey had said she would be there soon to help. Thank God for the everyday rituals that seemed to hold their lives together. The family meals, the errands, the daily chores, and garden work gave them a structure to shape their days. Family life felt different. With Toni away it was bound to. But there were also moments when life at home seemed almost normal, as normal as it could with Lacey's illness.

At least Wink seemed happy to be living with them. She and Lacey had started running together in the morning, a new routine they both seemed to enjoy. Cornell had granted Wink a deferral until January or the following fall, if she chose to extend it. She was taking two courses at the University of New Hampshire, worked part-time at a coffeehouse in Portsmouth, and volunteered two afternoons a week at the after-school art room that Lacey had set up for the children at the homeless shelter.

The wind grew stronger. Alex continued to rake. He stopped to zip up his fleece jacket. He reached again for the rake just as Lacey came into the yard. She wore her oldest jeans, the baggy ones she kept for working in the garden, a flannel shirt, and a down vest, one of the ones their daughters had once worn but had cast aside. Even in these tired old clothes, Lacey looked youthful and energetic. How could the brain cells in this vigorous, active body be breaking down? He watched as she clipped back the dead stalks of the daylilies at the far end of the flower bed, her movements rhythmic and confident. Alex tried to convince himself that Lacey's speech hadn't gotten any worse since the summer. They seemed to be living in a kind of limbo together: Lacey accepting that Wink was home for a semester or two; he quietly on guard, not wanting to say anything that would trouble Lacey. She had been terribly upset when he had told her about seeing Margot in New York. The memory of that argument was still painful. Seeking out Margot had been a dreadful mistake. He knew that now. Of course Lacey had imagined the very worst. He had denied it, but that simple truth had been wrought with shame.

What had come over him this past winter and spring? It troubled him to know he'd let himself think of Margot in the way he once had when they were both very young. He sensed that she had been remembering that time too, with all of her paintings of Bow Lake. More frightening than anything was how he could have put them all in jeopardy. Could he possibly have given up on Lacey? Like a man who had survived a near-fatal crash, he was now determined to live and to love Lacey more than ever.

He continued to rake. There was nothing controversial in the simple task of raking leaves. Working in sections, he bagged small pile after small pile, leaving behind the bright green grass. The lawn usually didn't turn brown and lifeless until December.

“Oh,” Lacey called out and stood. She had put down her clippers and held a hand over one eye.

Alex stopped raking. “What's wrong?”

“It . . . hurts.” She seemed to be trying to extract some piece of debris that had blown into her eye.

“Let me look,” he said, coming to her side.

“No,” she said, blinking. “I can . . . do it.” She used one hand to protect her eye from the wind and with the other she tried to wipe away whatever had blown in.

Alex reached for Lacey's cheek. “Let me help.” He pushed the hair off her face. Lacey flinched. She lowered her head and continued to try to extract what was in her eye.

“Damn it, Lacey.”

“What?” She stared up at him, her right eye watery and red.

“Don't you see? It's like everything else. I just want to help you.”

Lacey clenched her jaw and stepped back.

Alex went on. “Wink wanted to make the spaghetti last night. You wouldn't let her.” The leaves at his feet swirled up in a sudden gust of wind and Alex kicked what was left of the pile. “We want to help you when we can. Please don't resist every time.”

“But I wanted to cook,” Lacey said. “Wink didn't mind. She had . . . homework.” She wiped at her eye and blinked repeatedly. “Do you want me . . .” She paused. “To act sick? Will that make . . . make . . . you happy?”

“You know it's not like that.”

“Do I?”

“Wink wants to feel useful. It's her way of dealing with the situation.”

“You let her stay home. You won.” Now both of Lacey's eyes glistened with tears.

“Is that what you think?” Alex let the rake fall to the ground. “For Christ's sake, we love you, Lacey.” He felt like a balloon deflating. “We're just trying to love you the only way we can.”

His words seemed to reach her this time. Tears ran down her cheeks and she doubled over slightly, as if to protect herself from the wind. She shook her head from side to side and didn't attempt to wipe away the tears. Her voice came out a whisper. “Some days it's so hard. I want to do everything . . . myself . . . as long as I can.”

Alex pulled her into his arms. “I know, Chief. I know.” He rubbed her back. “Please don't shut me out. I need you, too. Okay?”

Lacey nodded. “Just . . . remember what it's . . . like for me.”

“I'm doing my best. Please, believe me.”

She nodded. Her mouth softened. He took her face in his hands, raising her chin in his palm. “How's the eye?”

She blinked and brought one hand to her eye, touching it tentatively with her finger. “Fine.” She blinked once again. “Fine. I cried it out.”

Alex took her hand and held it briefly. “Sometimes tears are a good thing.” He bent down and picked up his rake. “When I finish this bag, will you help me with the shredder?”

Lacey nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. “I'll help.”

 

Margot looked up at Oliver. He stood by the door of her apartment, holding a dripping umbrella in one hand. Something in the humility of his stance moved her.

“I got your message.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, his head lowered like a repentant schoolboy.

“Come in,” she said, stepping aside. She had called Oliver yesterday, asking him to come see her this evening. She still felt traces of anger toward him, but in the course of the last few days her anger had somehow shrunk, and that allowed room for other feelings.

“I've got to explain,” he said.

“Wait,” she said, taking his umbrella and leaving it on the floor. She hung his trench coat, wet and rumpled, over the door to the tiny bedroom. He followed her to the living room. “First, I want to show you what I've been doing.” She pointed to the dozen or so small canvases that she had hung together on the largest wall. “They're all small landscapes. They vary. I've tried everything from a realistic approach to more abstract. On these”—she pointed to the last row—“I've tried to vary the view, moving in and out, sort of like the lens of a camera.”

“Did you work from photographs?”

“Does it show?” Her old anxiety was still there. Would she ever be able to snuff that out?

“They're beautiful, Mags,” he said softly.

“I know they're small. Nothing like what you do.”

“It's what
you
do that matters. We all portray the world differently. Like you just said, different lenses.”

“Did I say that?” she said, growing nervous, but pleased that he had listened to her. “It's a start anyway.” She pointed to the little couch. “Why don't you sit? There's hardly any room to move in here.”

Having Oliver come to her place seemed best. This time she was going to lead the discussion. As if he understood her wishes, he sat carefully with his long legs to one side of the coffee table and waited for her to speak. She went to the small bamboo chair opposite him and perched on its edge.

“I want to study painting again,” she said. “Full-time. I couldn't afford it when I first got to New York.”

“You mean with a private teacher?”

“No. What I'd really like is to go to art school and work toward a graduate degree.” She settled back into the chair, calmer and in control.

“I see.” He leaned forward. “You know I'd love to help you. I could teach you.”

“You can't teach me. I need different teachers, unbiased critique.” She kept her voice firm. “It would always be personal. You can't help that.”

“I understand.” He looked up at her, as the little sofa was low to the ground.

“It means I'm going to give up my job. I love the gallery—Carl's been a great boss.”

“So you'd quit?”

“Wait.” She drew in a breath and went on. “I met with a Realtor yesterday.”

“What?”

“Please hear me out.” Oliver leaned back. She continued. “This place is worth a lot. With the money from its sale, I can pay for school and support myself for a while.”

Oliver stared at her, moving his head from side to side, seemingly amazed. When she had come to this decision she had felt strangely lighter, as if she'd taken off a coat that weighed too heavily on her shoulders. With the inheritance from her grandmother, Margot had been given a place to live, and by selling it, she could gain the freedom to live as she liked. She was confident Granny Winkler would approve.

“The Realtor I spoke to thinks the apartment will sell quickly.”

“Mags, I'm happy about all of that. But what about . . .”

“Us?” she said.

“I was way out of line. I was a jerk, really. Once I calmed down I realized that.” He brought his hands together, then let them fall to his lap. “I guess I was jealous of Lacey and her family. They were taking you away from me. Alex too.”

Margot flinched. “Oliver, we've both made mistakes. I've been too involved with Lacey.” She paused, almost afraid to go further. “And with Alex.”

Oliver's head snapped up. Margot looked back at him, her gaze unwavering. “I shouldn't have let him pull me into his troubles, their troubles. If anything, I may have made things worse. I think he understands that now.” There. She had said it. She stood. “By selling this place I can manage on my own. I can do this by myself.”

Oliver said nothing. Margot went over to the door leading to the terrace. She opened it slightly. The air cooled her face. Oliver ran his hands through his hair and remained seated, as if depleted. She turned back to him and said, “We've got to figure out where to go from here.”

He stood.

“Wait. Please let me finish. I want to be with you, Oliver, but you can't be the one to decide everything. I'm willing to move. Maybe California will work. But I have to be near someplace where I can study.” Margot could feel her voice giving out. She brought her hand to the doorframe and tried to steady herself. “When Teddy ran my life, I was miserable. The real problem, what's most upsetting to me, is that I let him.”

“I understand, Mags,” he said, stepping toward her.

“Lacey too. I was letting everyone run my life. The difference was Lacey wanted what was best for me.”

“You've got an amazing sister.”

“The awful thing is, I can't save her.”

He shook his head and wrapped his arms around her. He felt solid and safe. “I'm sorry, Mags.”

Gently, she pushed him back. “So, if we stay together, it's got to be different.” She took his hand. “We're going to have to work at this. I've always loved you,” she whispered. “That's never changed.”

“So the answer is yes?”

“Do you understand what I'm saying? What I'm asking of you?”

He nodded and seemed unable to speak.

“Wait. I have something for you.” She went to the kitchen and picked up the one painting she had kept out of view. Before handing it to him, she took one last look. “The moon path. Bow Lake,” she said. She had ended up framing the view of the moon path through the trees—the light in the distance beckoning, full of promise.

Oliver held it in his hands.

“It's not perfect,” she said, “but it's the best I can do for now. I want you to have it.”

“It's a fine painting.” His eyes teared up. “Terrific composition and”—he brought the picture closer to him—“the light. You've really got the light. How can I ever thank you?” Putting the picture down, he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

He smelled of the rain. She reached up and touched his face. The lines seemed etched more deeply, but his lips curved into a smile. His eyes, deep and familiar, looked into hers. “I think you know how,” she said.

 

Alex rapped on the door to Lacey's studio. It was the day before Thanksgiving and the house already smelled of cooking. That morning Wink had made two pies to take to Kate and Hugh's dinner. Toni was in the kitchen working on the sweet potato casserole. Syrup from the sweet potatoes had oozed into the bottom of the oven, smoking up the kitchen. Wink had averted the bleating smoke alarm by opening all the windows just in time. When Alex had left them the culinary adventure seemed to be under control.

“Uh-huh,” Lacey said.

“May I come in?” He hadn't been in the studio for several weeks, not wanting to interrupt her work. Lacey had been spending more time there, and seemed happy when she emerged at the end of the day.

She opened the door and took his hand. “I want you to see,” she said, guiding him to the loom. Alex stared. He swallowed, opened his mouth, but he couldn't speak. He moved closer. Draped across the loom was an intense dark blue weaving. He reached out to touch it. It was thick, but soft. He realized it wasn't just blue, but many shades of blue, as well as gray, turquoise, emerald green and even black. The overall effect was riveting. Within the depths of blue he saw slender silver threads glistening in the light. These strands grew together into a wide, wavy line in the middle, looking like a road, or a path. Lacey had woven the many slender threads of silver into one strong band. The piece was so large that he could almost lose himself in it.