A Slender Thread (39 page)

The lake, out of view, lay just off to her left beyond the trees. The air had that after-rain freshness, but the night sky remained cloudy and dense. The moon was hidden. She slowed, watching intently for Fire Road 34, the dirt road that led to the cottage. At the next bend the sign appeared, nailed to the trunk of a tree. The tires crunched on the gravel, the reassuring indicator that she was almost there. The tall pines on either side of the drive glistened from the rain, the needles dripping silently into the woods. Lacey had left the back porch light on. The old cottage, welcoming and snug, nestled in the trees, never changed. Before stepping inside, Margot paused and breathed in the night air. Bow Lake, at last.

Early the next morning the sky remained gray and the day heavy. The cottage was silent. Margot pulled a sweatshirt over her nightgown and tiptoed downstairs. The living room, dark and shadowy, smelled of charred wood from the fireplace. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and put it on the stove. While waiting for it to boil, she went to the back door and looked outside.

The light was dim; it could have been six in the morning or six in the evening. The upper leaves in the trees had begun to stir and she wondered if it might storm again today. The kettle whistled sharply. She made tea in the old cracked mug with the pinecone on it. None of the china here at the cottage matched. She and Lacey used to argue over who got the bluebird mug when their grandmother made hot chocolate. The tea bag was a generic brand from the local grocery store and Margot jiggled it up and down, waiting for the hot liquid to darken sufficiently before carrying it to the screened porch.

“Oh,” she said, “you scared me.” Lacey was sitting on the wicker settee at the far end of the porch. “I hope I didn't wake you last night.” Margot moved to hug her sister, then glanced down. “My God.” Her heart jumped in her chest. The floor was covered with strands of yarn—blue, green, and silver bits scattered everywhere. Lacey's portable loom lay on the floor, tipped sideways as if it had been tossed aside. It was empty.

“What's all this?” Margot set down her tea and began to gather the fibers. The pieces were of all sizes, as if they'd been yanked out randomly. She scooped up handfuls. They had been strewn all over. Whatever Lacey had been weaving was in ruins.

“Welcome to the lake, I guess.”

Margot picked up the loom.

“I pulled it out,” Lacey said. “It wasn't any good.” Her legs were drawn up to her chest, her back against the wall. She was staring up at the ceiling. Her hair hung loose on her shoulders, not brushed back and clipped at her neck. She, too, was still in her nightgown. “Remember the game?” Lacey asked, as if oblivious of the mess around her.

“What game?” Margot sat down at the opposite end of the settee.

“Remember when we were little. How we found . . . the animals on the ceiling.”

“The tar picture game?”

Lacey nodded. “I can see the cow.” She pointed to a blotch on the far side of the porch roof where the old pine boards had been stained from the tar seeping through.

Margot turned her head. She recalled how Lacey had declared that stain to resemble a cow.

Lacey's words came clipped and slow. “Your favorite was the cat.”

Margot swallowed, uneasy with Lacey's unexpected behavior. She looked up. “I don't see it.” The random blotches looked like nothing to her now.

“Above the door,” Lacey said quietly, her eyes riveted to a spot. “Near the corner. The right bit is the tail.”

Margot searched. “Yes, it's there. Now I see it.” A protruding nail looked like the cat's eye. “Just below is the one I used to call the armadillo. Remember how Granny said it couldn't be an armadillo because they don't live in these parts?” She glanced at Lacey, who was smiling at this memory.

“Lacey, why did you rip out your work? It makes me so sad.”

Lacey's smile faded. She stretched her legs out on the settee and continued to gaze above her, though now her expression was somber. “S . . . spider. Remember the . . . black widow? It's there. The same.”

Margot shook her head. Here was Lacey, trying to play some game, as if retreating to her childhood, when she was obviously upset about something else. Nothing was the same anymore, Margot thought. Yes, the old cottage held on to the shapes of the past, but in the light of day she noticed that the roof was sagging more, the porch boards creaked more loudly, and some of the windows needed to be replaced because of rot. They, too, were middle-aged women now, no longer girls caught up in what used to seem like perfect summer days.

Neither spoke. Margot felt as if the sky were pressing down on them. She shut her eyes, no longer wanting to see the mess on the floor. The mourning doves cooed in the woods near the shore, their soft throaty voices in a sweet rhythm that felt out of place.

“Alex and the girls left yesterday,” Lacey said. Her voice was resigned and flat.

“I know. I'm here now,” Margot said, opening her eyes. “You won't be alone.”

“We talked . . . and I said it was . . . okay for Wink to stay home. At least for the fall.”

“You don't have to worry, Lacey. You know she'll make good use of her time.”

“You knew about this?”

“We talked about it last winter. She was having such a tough time.”

“Alex,” she said, staring directly at Margot, “said he saw you in New York.”

Margot nodded, feeling suddenly on guard. “We met last week,” she said. “He had just finished the deal. He was excited about that. Worried about Wink, too.”

Lacey rolled her head from side to side and then sat up and put her feet on the floor as if she had made a decision. “I see the way.” She pressed her lips together. “I see the way you sometimes look at him.”

“What are you talking about?” Margot stiffened.

“I know . . . what's going on.”

“Lacey. Wait. Nothing's going on. I met Alex for a quick drink. That's all.”

“No, no. Not just that,” she said. “I remember . . . when you were with us . . . in June.” She paused and seemed to attempt to slow her breathing. “I saw you once. With him on the garden bench. Talking.” Lacey's eyes seemed to focus inward, her brows lowered, her jaw tensed. “He took all those . . . all those trips. To New York.”

Margot froze. She should have told Lacey. Not saying anything made it seem wrong.

Lacey continued. “You and he. Are so alike.” Her voice grew very small as she struggled to speak. “Are you . . . having an affair?”

“No!” Margot said, getting to her feet. “You've got it all wrong.” She turned to Lacey. “Look at me. Alex adores you. He always has.” Margot felt a lump in her throat, as if she were swallowing a large pill that refused to go down.

“When he looks at you like . . .” Lacey lowered her head.

“He's confused.” Margot sat and put her arm around her sister. “He's been looking to me for help. He knows how much I love you. He's afraid, that's all.”

“And you? I remember when we were young. Here at the lake.” Lacey stared into Margot's eyes.

“Sure, back then I probably had a crush on Alex. What teenage girl here at the lake didn't? But that was almost thirty years ago.” Margot removed her arm and brought her hands to her lap. It had been more than a crush, more than an infatuation, but whatever it had been was over long ago. Yet the lump in her throat now seemed to grow larger.

“But there was . . . one summer.”

Margot held her breath. Had Alex told Lacey? She crossed her arms in front of her chest, feeling suddenly cold, cold like the bottom of the lake. “What do you mean?” she asked quickly.

“The end of the summer . . . before Alex . . . moved to Boston.” Lacey paused, and shook her head. “I always wondered if . . .” She stood and looked out over the water. The day was growing lighter.

“Listen to me,” Margot said, surprised by her own vehemence. “Alex has loved you since the very beginning. He loves you, only you.” She stood. She had to make sure Lacey believed this. Nothing mattered more.

“You think that?”

“Trust me,” she said, stepping closer to Lacey.

“I don't care . . . about . . . back then. Just now.”

“Now and always,” Margot said emphatically. Her heart raced.

“So why does he talk . . . to you, not me?” Lacey's lips pulled together tightly.

“Okay, he sought my advice a few times.” Margot's voice sounded wobbly, less sure. “He didn't want to worry you. I guess he was afraid of upsetting you. He felt like you were shutting him out.”

“I'm his wife.” Her shoulders dropped.

Margot drew herself up taller. “I know that.” The sky had a pinkish tinge. She thought of Granny Winkler. Was red sky in the morning a good or bad omen?

“Listen, Lace,” she went on, “I've only wanted to help you, all of you. I'm afraid I got too involved.” She swallowed, and cleared her throat. “I should have urged Alex to open up to you, not me.”

“Why d . . . didn't you?” She faced Margot, her face crumpled in disappointment.

“I really don't know.” Her throat closed with shame. What could she say? Had some selfish part of her relished Alex's attention? Had she imagined something reigniting between them? What would be more despicable? Her own sister . . .

“Don't you?”

Margot breathed in deeply. She thought of her last meeting with Alex. “I finally confronted Alex last week. I told him how you both had so much love between you. I told him not to waste it. Not to unravel all the years, all you share.”

Lacey nodded, as if in agreement, but said nothing.

The imagined pill in Margot's throat began to ease. “You will find your way through this. You need Alex now. And he needs you.”

“Margot,” she said, and reached over, placing her hands on Margot's face. She said nothing more, but her expression softened. “You're right.” Her lips trembled. “I didn't mean to . . . shut him out. I only wanted . . . to be strong.”

Margot tried to speak lightly. “You don't always have to be strong. Let the rest of us be the strong ones now and then.”

What else could she say? She looked down at the floor. “Let me help you pick this up.” She gestured toward the broken bits of yarn. “What went wrong?”

“So much.”

As they gathered up the scattered yarns, Lacey told Margot how she was trying something new, making a more free-form design. She had decided to move away from her previous work, and give up the more ordered patterns, the clean lines, and the balanced repetitions that she had always favored. Showing Margot a wad of green and blue threads, she explained how she wanted to do something to capture Bow Lake, and all that it meant. She wanted the tapestry to tell the story. Using the small loom had been a mistake. Or maybe she had been trying to say too much. Margot told Lacey about trying to paint the moon path and urged her to try again.

 

Margot stood on the dock, surveying the lake. Their first beautiful day. She sipped her coffee and waited for Lacey. Today was the perfect morning to paddle to the island. So far the lake was absolutely calm, not a trace of a ripple on the surface. The nights had been cool, as nights often were this late in August. Now the sun warmed Margot's shoulders. She wore old khaki shorts and a fleece vest over her T-shirt—her Bow Lake clothes, forgotten pants and shirts she kept at the cottage that smelled perpetually musty and were softened from years of use.

By noon it would be warm enough for a swim. Granny Winkler used to love having a “dip” just before lunch. Margot smiled, remembering her grandmother in a funny rubber bathing cap and a flowered cotton bathing suit. The skirt would billow up around her grandmother's pale legs while she stoically stepped deeper and deeper into the lake. After a few gentle breaststrokes with her chin thrust up and forward, she would return to shore, rub her body briskly with one of the thin towels retired from indoor use, and amble back to the cottage to dress for lunch.

Margot turned her back to the water and called toward the cottage, “Are you coming?”

“In a minute.” Lacey's voice filtered through the trees. A pair of doves cooed in a branch close to shore. The cottage with its dark shingles blended into the trees and was barely visible from the dock. This morning not a leaf moved in the stillness. Margot had left Lacey on the porch, weaving. She had begun to work again on her small lap-sized loom. She was trying to make the piece inspired by Bow Lake, using the same fibers as before—the rich blues and greens, even strands of lavender, along with metallic threads that created a sheen. Within the nubby texture, Lacey seemed to be weaving a pattern that reminded Margot of the ripples that broke the lake's glassy surface when they were little girls skipping stones.

Margot set her mug down on the dock and kicked off her sandals. She stepped onto the beach adjacent to the dock and untied the canoe. The shale was cool and gritty under her feet. After a few heaves, she had the canoe floating in the shallows. Next, she lifted the paddles, placing one by each seat along with two red boat cushions.

Margot could see her feet clearly in the water. Only at the end of the dock did the shore drop off, making the lake appear dark and opaque. When she was little she worried about the bottom of the lake, the mystery of it, the nagging dread of what might be lurking in the deep. Granny Winkler would tell her not to think about it, saying there were some things we would never see, things impossible to know and that that was just how life was.

Lacey's footsteps on the dock startled her out of her reverie.