A Slender Thread (19 page)

When he reached the restaurant there was a line where the hostess stood, but he spotted Margot at a table for two in the back near the window. She wore the gray sweater he liked with the scooped neck, and the necklace he had given her glimmered at her throat. Oliver loved the curve of her neck and the vulnerable whiteness of her skin. He made his way to her table, knowing just how she would lift her head, a scant tilt to the left, and exactly how her lips would part in a combination of pleasure and wonder to see him suddenly there. Margot sometimes had a way of appearing lost in thought. He found this vaguely secretive look appealing.

The tables in the restaurant were spaced close together. Twice he excused himself after hitting the back of a chair with his backpack or bumping the edge of a table as he crossed the room toward her.

“Hey, Mags,” he said. “Sorry I'm late.”

She wasn't smiling, but did not appear to be annoyed. He bent to kiss her and tried to ease into the fragile-looking café-style chair opposite her. The chair, the tile floor, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that opened to the street in summer were not well suited to this cold January night. Most people's coats, draped over the backs of the chairs, made the close seating even tighter.

He picked up the menu that rested at his place. “Red wine okay?”

Margot nodded and Oliver signaled the server, a young woman with short dark hair who looked as if she could be French. He ordered a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and the server, sounding like she'd grown up in Brooklyn, reported that they were out of the braised beef. Oliver and Margot came often to this restaurant and they were familiar with the menu. Without hesitating, she chose lamb chops and he asked for the steak.

“You look like you had a good day,” she said when they were alone.

“It was hard to stop tonight.”

“We didn't have to meet for dinner. I would have been okay on my own.”

“I could have painted all night, but this old body can't take any more. I needed a break.”

“Stop saying you're old,” she said with a touch of a smile.

“Too old to stay on my feet all night with a brush in my hand.”

The server appeared with their wine. Margot leaned away from the table to allow the uncorking, the ritual tasting and nodding of acceptance. They lifted their glasses and sipped.

“Sorry you've had a rough day,” he said.

“I think I've fixed the catalog. The artist is finally happy, so Carl's relieved.”

“I'm glad,” he said. “Won't it be great to get away?”

Margot swirled the wine in her glass, then set it down. “Oliver, Alex called me.”

“Is everything okay?” He reached for Margot's hand.

Oliver tended to forget about Lacey, but he knew Margot worried all the time about her sister. Ever since Thanksgiving, Margot had seemed more preoccupied. He would catch her standing by the window, but her gaze would be inward, oblivious to the view of the river, and her mouth pinched shut. It was as if a part of her was back in New Castle, trying to figure out what she could do for Lacey or how to find some way to help. Her concern was understandable, but Oliver couldn't help feeling uneasy. Lacey was bound to get worse. It was only a matter of time.

He was working again on the painting of the man and the dog in Riverside Park. The colors in the sky itself were still a challenge, but the canvas was beginning to take on a feeling of foreboding. The water in the background had become more abstract. While he worked he kept thinking about Pandora's box, how until opened, the box kept all the trouble inside. The illustration of that myth in the book that Lacey had given him for Christmas continued to haunt him. It struck him how the energy, the forces that were about to be unleashed in the myth, was emerging in the movement of the water in his painting.

“Oliver, where are you?” Margot asked.

“Sorry. Why did Alex call?”

“He's going to Chicago next Monday. He's starting a new job that will keep him there most of the winter. He wants me to come to New Castle to persuade Lacey to talk to the girls about her condition.”

“Why tell them now? You told me Lacey felt strongly about keeping it from them until later.”

“Alex is having a hard time with that. He's really torn up about it. By not letting them know, he feels like he's cheating them. He hates lying.” Margot's eyes were sad, but Oliver could tell she was making an effort to stay in control.

“Can't you just call her?”

“The phone is hard for her. He thinks having me there is really important.”

“Can't Alex work this out with his wife? It's their problem.”

“Oliver, once the girls know, they're going to be devastated. Toni had another fight about Ryan. Toni told Alex that her mom was so furious she couldn't even talk, as if she were cracking up. Alex feels as if he's living a lie. And it's my problem too.”

“Fine,” Oliver said, reaching for his glass.

“He wants me to come this weekend.”

“Margot, we're going to San Francisco.”

“Couldn't we go the following weekend?”

“All the arrangements have been made. The tickets are nonrefundable. I can't change them now. More than that, I've set it all up. These are businesspeople. I don't want to blow this chance. If I put them off, who knows what might happen.”

“I'm sorry,” Margot said. “Really, I am. If you can't get credit for my ticket, I'll reimburse you.”

“It's not the money. Why can't you go to New Hampshire when we get back?”

“Alex has to be in Chicago this Monday. The opening meetings with the board have been set. I have to go this weekend when the girls are out of school.”

“So you're not coming with me?”

“You know there's so little I can do. This is one time when maybe I can be of some help.” Margot looked away from him as if embarrassed. “I'm sorry. Really, I am.”

Oliver was speechless. What could he say? How could he argue?

“I know the trip to San Francisco is important to you,” she said. “I feel torn. I've been agonizing over this all day.”

“I guess I can't change your mind.”

“Please, understand just this once I need to be with my family.” She reached for her water and took a sip.

The people at the table behind him stood to leave, pushing at the back of his chair.

“Sorry about that,” a jovial blonde said.

Oliver nodded. The server arrived with their dinners. “So, that's it, I guess.” Oliver cut into his steak. The knife hit the bone, causing the meat to slide across his plate, smearing the neatly piped mound of root vegetables.

Margot's hands remained in her lap. “Oliver, I'm sorry.” “Aren't you going to eat?”

She let out a breath and picked up her fork. “This is a hard time for me. For my family.”

“Let's not talk about it. Okay?” Oliver resumed eating. Her family. He wished she'd stop saying that. How did he fit in? He was her lover, but clearly not part of her family. He swallowed, nearly choking on the steak, and reached for the wine bottle.

 

Margot savored the silence in the gallery. She and Mario had finished hanging the new show yesterday and she had come in this morning to proof the labels and double-check the accuracy of the price list. Mario was in the back office sending out a second round of electronic reminders to their clients. He was much better at the computer tasks than she was. At twenty-eight, he was completely tuned in to the Internet world, keeping up with multiple blogs, tweets, and the social networks of the art world. Together, they made a good team.

Carl had been pleased with Margot's placement of the pieces, and she had to admit that this show had come out better than she'd expected. Carl, as owner and director of the Van Engen Gallery, decided which artists he would show, but increasingly he took Margot with him to the artists' studios to help choose the actual paintings to exhibit. He valued her judgment in selecting what would look best on the gallery walls.

When she had first taken the job at the Van Engen Gallery, she had been a typical “gallery girl”—answering the phone, sitting at the front desk, responding to inquiries. She had no real authority. After the first few months, Carl had noticed her ability when she innocently suggested that a particular painting would have more of an impact if it were placed on the far wall, giving the viewer more distance. A client purchased the canvas that very afternoon. From then on, she had taken a greater role in setting up the exhibitions. Carl also turned over the catalog work to her, and her salary increased along with her responsibilities.

Mario, now the young assistant, had taken on Margot's former duties. Margot was leaving at noon today. She was going to take a cab to Oliver's studio so they could travel together to the airport. She kept telling herself that going to New Hampshire was the right thing to do. In fact, Lacey had been pleased when Margot called asking to come for this quick visit before life got too hectic in the spring. That night Mario would be there for the opening of the exhibit, and Margot knew she could count on him to oversee the caterer and manage the event. He had taken over for her several times before. Mario's position was part-time, and he was glad to have any additional hours at the gallery to earn extra money. He was a painter, too, with a studio in Brooklyn. Sometimes Margot wondered if every other person in New York was an artist.

“Lookin' good, I'd say.” Mario emerged from the office and smiled. “Boss seems pleased.”

“Yeah, Carl really likes it.” She stepped away from one of the smaller paintings. She hadn't immediately taken to the dark smudgelike images, but when placed on the white walls with a suitable distance between them, they began to take on an almost ghostlike presence. She had placed the calmer, more spare works early in the progression, slowly building to the last three paintings on the rear wall of the gallery.

Mario came up beside her. He was small and slight, not much taller than she was. “So do they speak to you?” He was wearing his daily uniform of black jeans and a white shirt. At gallery openings he dressed completely in black. When she first met him, he had explained he never wore color; color was for his own art. He painted huge geometric canvases in brilliant hues, the shades of jelly beans.

She laughed. “Not exactly. But a few of these manage to take me away.”

“Meaning?” He put his hands on his hips and appeared to study the picture in front of them.

Margot read the label. It was called
The Deep
. The dusky, complex swirls, darkest at the center, reminded her of the surface of the water at Bow Lake during a storm. “When I look at it long enough,” she said, “it's like my mind goes somewhere else.”

“Somewhere good?” He was looking at her now.

“Sometimes,” she said, then frowned. “Sometimes not.”

“I think all art is telling us a kind of story.” He turned to the next painting. “With the abstract pieces, it's just harder to read.”

“I think I'd agree with that.” She remembered Lacey telling her how women were among the earliest storytellers, weaving their narratives into cloth long before the invention of paper or books.

Mario looked at his watch. “You'd better take off. You never know what traffic will be like.”

“Gosh, it's later than I thought.” Her stomach tightened. “I lose track of time in here.” She glanced out the front window. The sky was gray. Had they predicted snow?

Oliver had been moody and temperamental all week and she didn't blame him. She knew it wasn't fair to have canceled her trip at the last minute. She remembered his excitement about California and his delight in planning their vacation.

She felt awful. She didn't want to disappoint Oliver, but Alex had asked for her help. She felt pulled in both directions—yet this was for her family. The girls needed to know what was going on with Lacey. Unfortunately, the timing was terrible. She couldn't be in two places at once.

“You okay?” Mario asked.

“Sure,” she said, going in search of her coat and overnight bag. Her stomach churned, making her think again of the murky water during storms at Bow Lake.

“Don't worry about a thing,” Mario called after her.

Margot stepped into the street, more anxious than ever. There wasn't a taxi in sight.

“I
told Lacey I had an errand nearby,” Alex said, giving Margot a quick hug. He opened the passenger door for her before returning to the driver's side. Margot had been surprised to see him in the parking lot when her bus pulled into the Portsmouth station.

Alex jerked the seat belt across his body. “She's always reminding the girls not to waste gas.” He gave her a quick smile and put the car in reverse. “I wanted a chance to talk to you alone.”

Margot felt ill at ease, uncertain about what might happen during the next few days. Alex said nothing, but appeared to concentrate more than necessary on backing up, as if he too was uncomfortable with the situation. He turned out of the parking lot and headed toward New Castle.

Margot recalled only one other time when she had met Alex by himself since his marriage to Lacey. He had come to New York to talk to her about buying out her half of the cottage at Bow Lake. Lakefront land had skyrocketed in value over the years. Alex and Lacey could afford to carry the expenses by themselves, and Margot could then invest the money from selling her half to provide her with additional income. Lacey had known Margot was having a difficult time making ends meet in New York. Alex had explained that Margot could still use the cottage whenever she wanted in August, sharing it with them. The solution had been Lacey's idea.