A Thread So Thin (10 page)

“Is that why you never drink?”

Mom nodded. “That’s right. I worried that I’d be like Daddy, that if I started I wouldn’t be able to stop, so I never took a drop. Didn’t seem worth the risk.

“Anyway, Daddy would go on these binges, right when there was the most work to be done around the farm, or so it seemed. So the fields didn’t get planted or harrowed or harvested like they should have. We were always owing money. When Dad would go off on a tear, my mother would try to pick up the slack and work the fields herself, but she had three daughters to raise and a house to run. When we girls got bigger, we helped out with the farm work, but we were in school, so we weren’t able to do as much as was needed.”

The teapot started whistling. Mom took it off the fire, poured hot water into two mugs, put a tea bag in each, carried them to the table, and sat down across from me.

“Everybody in town knew about Daddy. People were always polite to our faces but behind our backs, they talked. Nothing malicious, mind you. Just clucking and looking at my mother and sisters with this ‘poor thing’ expression. They didn’t mean any harm, but when people are feeling sorry for you, it gets under your skin, makes you feel ashamed.” Mom blew on her tea to cool it, then took a sip.

“I never knew about this. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Mom smiled and shook her head. “When you grew up and started drinking wine, I almost did. But I kept an eye on you. It didn’t seem to be a problem, so I kept my mouth shut. Even though he died before you were born, I didn’t want you thinking badly of your grandfather. Like I said, he was a good man at heart. He just couldn’t seem to help himself.”

Holding the mug in my hands, I propped my elbows on the table and leaned in. This revelation regarding my family history was fascinating, but I couldn’t quite see what it had to do with my mother and father’s engagement, or with Garrett and Liza’s.

“Anyway,” she went on, “things being the way they were, I didn’t like going to town much. Never went to church at all. But there was a woman, Hazel Miles, whose farm wasn’t too far from ours. Hazel would come by and have coffee and visit with my mother. No one else ever did. And it wasn’t like she came out of pity or trying to do her good deed for the day. She was just nice to us.

“One day she dropped by the house on her way to the church picnic and asked if I wanted to go. I was nervous but for some reason I said yes, probably because I didn’t want to disappoint Hazel. Your dad was there, home from college. I’d seen him around town before, of course, but he was a few years ahead of me in school, so we’d never really talked. I was sitting at a picnic table and he walked up with two big slices of watermelon, one for me and one for himself, and started chattering like a magpie.” Mom grinned and shook her head.

“Dad was always a talker,” I said.

“Oh, wasn’t he just?” She laughed. “He could charm the birds out of the trees. He sure charmed me. I started showing up at church every Sunday. Hazel would give me a ride into town and your dad would give me a ride home. Next thing I knew, I was in love. And not just with your dad. I fell in love with God too. Every time the minister opened his mouth, it seemed he was talking directly to me, speaking to all the hurt and shame I’d been shoring up for so many years, showing me the better way. I came to faith in that little church. Not too long after, just before he had to go back to college, your dad proposed. I said yes, that quick.” She snapped her fingers.

“Well, why not?” I said, recalling Liza’s approach toward marriage and mentally juxtaposing it with my mother’s. “You didn’t have to think about it long because you knew it was the right decision. You were sure.”

Mom lifted her tea mug, nodding as she took a drink. “I was sure, but your grandmother Wade wasn’t.”

“Grandma Bennie?” My grandmother’s given name was Bernice, but everybody always called her Bennie. “She said she didn’t want you and Dad to get married?”

Mom tipped her head to one side. “Not in so many words. But when we told her about the wedding, she wasn’t exactly jumping for joy. She smiled and hugged me, but awkwardly. Then she said, ‘I’ve been praying for Bud’s bride since the day he was born.’”

Mom sighed heavily. “I should have just let that go, but something in her voice got under my skin. I so wanted her approval. ‘And am I everything you prayed for?’ I asked.”

Hearing the words, picturing my dear mother, young and vulnerable, wanting so much to be loved and accepted by her new family, I winced inwardly, afraid of what came next but compelled to ask, “What did she say?”

“Oh, I don’t remember now. Something nice, I’m sure. But she hesitated before she answered and her eyes flickered away from mine, as if she was embarrassed to look at me. That told me everything I needed to know. She was ashamed of me. She didn’t want your dad to marry me, didn’t think I was good enough for him, and I knew it.”

I didn’t know Grandma Bennie very well. She lived way on the other side of the state, far from us but not that far. Not so far that we couldn’t have seen her more than the two or three times a year that we did. Suddenly, the infrequency of our visits to Grandma Bennie made a lot of sense.

“It didn’t change our plans,” Mom continued. “But it did affect my relationship with Bennie. Dad’s too. Eventually, I was able to get past it, but by the time I did, so much water had passed under the bridge…. It was too bad.”

Mom got up from her chair and took our empty mugs to the sink. I grabbed a sponge and began wiping down the table.

“That’s why I told you this, Evelyn,” she said as she rinsed out the mugs. “I don’t want history to repeat itself. Garrett and Liza have made up their minds, so you’d better get with the program. You can’t take back what you said tonight, but I don’t think it’s too late to make up for it. Not if you start right away. The first thing we should do, when we get to New Bern—”

I nearly dropped the sponge when I heard that.

“When
we
get to New Bern? But you’ve spent the better part of the last three days telling me, in pretty clear language, that you have no intention of going to New Bern now or ever. The phrase ‘over my dead body’ comes to mind.”

“Well, that was different. That’s when we were talking about me. Now we’re talking about you. And Garrett. And the woman who will likely be the mother of my great-grandchildren. I don’t want to fly off to Connecticut now any more than I did this morning, but when your family needs you, sacrifices must be made. You’re a mother, you should know that.”

I am and I do.

“When do you want to leave?”

“The sooner the better,” she said, drying the last mug and putting it back in the cupboard. “Tomorrow, I think. Can you get my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet? And Petunia’s carrier. We need to start packing.”

A
lready deep into the semester, my final semester before graduation, the last thing I had time to do was meet Aunt Abigail for lunch, so why do it?

Because once Abigail has made up her mind that she wants you to do something, even something as seemingly innocuous as lunch, she can be a bit insistent. Insistent in the way a hurricane insists on blowing or a volcano insists on erupting. Basically, she’s a force of nature. Resistance is pointless. Not that I’m exactly a shrinking violet myself. I’ve thwarted Abigail’s plans on plenty of occasions, sometimes just to prove I could.

But finally, after her twenty-second phone call insisting that we
must
get together to discuss wedding plans, I decided it would be easier to bow to the inevitable than to keep wasting time arguing about it. Besides, lunching on gulf shrimp and hand-crafted fettuccini with Abigail at ‘21’ beats eating microwaved ramen noodles in my apartment any day of the week.

It’s still winter, still freezing cold, still months away from June, the date Garrett and I set for the wedding, but as I tromped in my black snow boots down the icy stairwell to the subway, I couldn’t help but think about the wedding, and that made me nervous.

I know there are girls who start planning their weddings while they’re still in grade school, but I was never one of them. Everything about this feels new to me—and not in a good way. New in the way that new leather shoes feel, stiff and uncomfortable, maybe even a little painful.

Hearing myself say yes to Garrett’s repeated proposal was a shock. It didn’t turn out like I’d planned.

When I opened the door to my apartment, it was a surprise to see him standing there. I think he’d decided that I was going to say no and, that being the case, it would be better to get it over with than endure more days of waiting, only to be refused in the end.

He looked miserable. I couldn’t bear to see him so sad.

And so I said yes. The second I did, Garrett’s face just lit up. He was so happy. Beyond happy. Elated. Enraptured. Ecstatic. It was amazing, even a little daunting, to see the effect my answer had on him. Maybe that sounds strange, but the idea that someone’s happiness or unhappiness could rest upon one little word from me was scary.

I mean, why should he be so happy to marry me? There’s nothing so very special about me. Sooner or later, he’s bound to figure that out.

Garrett’s face went from miserable to exultant in less time than it takes to change your mind, and all because I said yes. I am happy that I made him happy, but in a month or a year or ten years, when he knows me better, couldn’t he change his mind just as quickly as he did his expression? The idea of being responsible for someone else’s happiness isn’t any more comfortable than the idea of being responsible for someone else’s misery.

Maybe, if I’d had a little more time to get used to the idea, to mull it around in my mind, to practice wearing my engagement ring in secret, sneaking into the closet or the bathroom a few minutes a day, to accustom myself to the feel of this weight on my hand, maybe I could get used to the idea. But I hadn’t had time.

Garrett looked miserable and I couldn’t bear it, so I said yes.

Then there was a kiss and that frightening look of joy on Garrett’s face. And with the word still hanging in the air, surprising and too near, Garrett grabbed his phone, hit number two on his list of contacts (mine occupying position number one), and called Evelyn to tell her the happy news.

Except Evelyn wasn’t happy. I knew it. Garrett keeps the volume on his phone turned up pretty loud. And though the comment wasn’t directed to me and the sound quality was tinny, I could hear the doubt in her voice.

Well, Evelyn knows me. More than anyone else, maybe even more than Garrett, she knows my past and my fears, the grudges I hold on to, the ones I’ve let go, and the ones I wish I could let go. So I’m not really surprised by her reaction. Evelyn may be like a mother to me, but her first loyalty is to Garrett. It has to be. And knowing me like she does, of course she has doubts about this engagement. How could she not?

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

She’s called me—or tried to call me—a bunch of times. I haven’t picked up when I’ve seen her number on the caller ID and I haven’t returned any of her messages. I’m not trying to be mean. I know I should call her, but I just can’t.

I already knew what she’d say. She’d say she was sorry, and that she didn’t mean what she said. And that’s why I can’t bring myself to talk to her, because I don’t want to hear things that aren’t true. Not from Evelyn. She did mean what she said that night. She wasn’t trying to be cruel; she was just being honest. Evelyn has never been anything less than honest with me. That’s one of the things I love about her. No matter what she said to Garrett that night, no matter how much it hurt, it’d hurt twenty times more to hear her say that she didn’t mean what she said and know it was a lie. I can’t face that. Not right now.

Eventually, I’ll have to call her. I’ve meant to do it before now. A couple of times I’ve even picked up the phone, but…Every day that passes, every message she leaves just makes me feel worse and more awkward and awful. I’ll call her. Soon.

Once we told Evelyn about our engagement, we had to tell Abigail too. Her reaction was one hundred eighty degrees the opposite of Evelyn’s. She was beyond thrilled, and in a way, her delighted response to our announcement was more upsetting than Evelyn’s cautious one.

She immediately started pushing the way she does, demanding clarification on our nonexistent plans. Garrett had said something about June to his mom. So when Abigail asked me for a date I said, “June, I guess,” because Garrett had said so first. With classes, and paintings, and graduation to worry about, June was about as far in the future as I could project, a date that seemed distant enough to give me some space to breathe.

After calling the families, Garrett took me out to dinner at Roma’s, a little Italian place near my apartment. We’ve gone there a few times before, so it felt familiar and normal. After a couple of glasses of Chianti I didn’t feel as nervous about the whole wedding thing.

I knew my roommates would be home by ten, so after dinner, Garrett and I stood in the foyer and kissed good night for a long time, until I remembered my eight o’clock class in the morning.

I said good night and walked up the stairs slowly, feeling good, feeling the wine, feeling the memory of Garrett’s lips on mine, feeling like maybe everything would be all right after all. But when I got to the top of the stairs I twisted the diamond of my ring around to the palm side of my hand where Zoe and the others wouldn’t be able to see it. I didn’t want to have to talk to them about it. Not yet.

When the alarm rang at seven twenty the next day, the metallic buzz alerting me to the fact that I’d drunk too much wine the night before, I left the diamond where it was, hidden on the interior of my hand. That’s where it’s been ever since.

June is so far off. I don’t need any distractions right now, especially since I’m still working with Dr. Williams on the article. I want to make sure it’s letter perfect.

I’m also taking her graduate art history seminar. I had to get special permission to sign up. I want to make sure I do a really good job with the two papers Professor Williams has assigned. I don’t want her to think she made a mistake letting me in the class. I’m also working on my senior project, my last painting as a student and my entry into the senior art show.

This year, the show will be a juried exhibition and the judges will be a mix of faculty, museum curators, and some of the most prominent art critics in New York. The best piece will be purchased for the school gallery’s permanent collection. Everybody is buzzing about that. That kind of thing can really jump-start an artist’s career. The competition will be fierce. I’m definitely a long shot to win but, hey, somebody’s got to. Why not me?

I’ve had plenty to think about besides getting married. In fact, other than occasional, sweet phone calls from Garrett, who knows how hard I’m working and doesn’t want to distract me, or the frequent, pestering ones from Abigail, who knows how hard I’m working and could give a rip if she’s distracting me, I’ve hardly thought about the wedding.

A couple of times, while I’ve been sketching, I’ve looked down to see my left hand holding the paper, caught a glimpse of the diamond peeking out from underneath my fingers, and thought, “Oh! That’s right! I’m engaged!” It’s still kind of hard to believe.

But I suppose Abigail is right. I’ve got to make a few decisions about the wedding. If I do, then maybe she’ll get off my back and let me get back to work.

The subway ride from the college to the restaurant takes about twenty minutes. I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost missed my stop and had to jump from the train to the platform just as the doors were closing. I was supposed to meet Abigail at noon, but it was a few minutes past when I arrived at the restaurant.

I’ve eaten at ‘21’ a few times, always with Abigail. The food is great, but it’s too expensive for college students. Abigail has been coming here for years, so they know her. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when the maître d’ greeted me by name and said that my aunt was waiting.

What did surprise me was that he didn’t lead me to Abigail’s usual table. Instead, I followed him down a corridor to a private dining room hung with a series of huge pen-and-ink drawings of orchids in silver frames, starkly elegant against black silk wallpaper and painted white woodwork. There were more orchids, dozens of them, placed on the side tables and on the white-clothed dining table set with sterling and crystal. Abigail was waiting for me, and she wasn’t alone.

With her were four incredibly attractive and stylish-looking people, all dressed in shades of black, gray, and white, as though they came with the dining room, a package deal. They got to their feet when I entered the room and began applauding, beaming at me as if I’d just won some sort of prize.

“Liza! There you are, darling!” Abigail, smiling even wider than the others, got up from the table. “You’re late. But that’s all right. You’re here now.”

“Sorry,” I said and then whispered in her ear as she hugged me, “Who are all these people?”

“Oh,” Abigail said, as if surprised by the question, “didn’t I tell you? This is your bridal design team: Byron, Leslie, Camille, and Karin. Collectively they are known as Best Laid Planners, the finest wedding-planning firm on the eastern seaboard.”

Best Laid Planners? What was she talking about?

I may not have given much thought to what kind of wedding I wanted, but it definitely didn’t involve hiring a four-person “bridal design team”—whatever that meant.

“Abigail, I don’t need…I mean…you really shouldn’t have…”

“Oh, you don’t need to thank me, darling! It’s my pleasure. After all, you’re my only niece and you’ll only be married once,” she said, raising an eyebrow and turning her head slightly, so she was addressing Byron, Leslie, Camille, and Karin, “so we want to get it right the first time, don’t we? Because the first time will be the
only
time, do you hear me, Liza?”

Abigail chuckled. The team, bright-eyed and still beaming, joined in on cue.

The beautiful blonde wearing a simple black suit and cream-colored silk blouse, the one Abigail introduced as Leslie, stepped forward. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Spaulding, we’re going to make sure that Liza’s special day is absolutely perfect in every detail. With such a short engagement, it won’t be easy. For most society weddings we have at least a year’s lead time, often closer to two.”

Society wedding?

I turned to see if there was someone else standing behind me, because I was sure she couldn’t be talking about me. I’m nobody’s idea of society.

“However”—Leslie smiled and tossed her head, causing a silken hank of hair to fall neatly over one shoulder—“if this were easy, then you wouldn’t need us, would you?” She laughed a low, musical laugh, soothing, like a tune played on an oboe.

Byron, a tall, slim man in his mid-forties wearing an expensive and expensively tailored charcoal gray pinstripe suit with a snowy white shirt and a light gray silk tie that was an almost perfect match to his thick head of prematurely gray hair, stepped forward. He was quite possibly the best-dressed man I have ever seen in my life.

“Liza,” he said in a kind voice that sounded faintly British but wasn’t, “you’re looking a little shell-shocked. Don’t worry about a thing, my dear. Normally, of course, we’d have our initial meeting at our offices, but in the interest of saving you travel time, we decided to meet here. We’ve brought everything we need,” he said with a sweep of his arm, gesturing toward a large pile of black and gray boxes, portfolios, and files that were stacked in the corner.

“Your aunt has explained how busy you are with your studies and that you don’t have time to deal with the endless details involved in coordinating a wedding. That’s why we’re here, to handle all those details for you.

“I’ll be in charge of clothing—your dress, going-away outfit, bridal lingerie, and honeymoon wardrobe—as well as invitation design and all the floral and lighting design at the church and the reception. Of course, the final selection will be up to you and Garrett, but I’ll be consulting on your choice of wedding bands. Leslie will be in charge of catering, music, the photographic and video team, as well as transportation coordination and hotel accommodations. Camille will be in charge of hair, makeup, and spa treatments for the entire bridal party. And Karin will handle whatever is left over: contracts, reservations, invitation printing and mailing, choosing and coordinating rentals, helping with the bachelor and bachelorette parties and any bridal showers. Karin is the best bridesmaid wrangler in the industry,” he said proudly.

Bridesmaid wrangler? That’s a job? Is he serious?

I stared at Abigail and then at Byron, waiting for someone to break into laughter and tell me it was all a joke, but everyone just kept smiling and nodding as if there was nothing unusual about this conversation. There have been very few times in my life when I was completely at a loss for words, but this was one of them.