Knit in Comfort (25 page)

“Yes.” Megan went back to her seat. “Do you knit, Genevieve?”

“Quite a lot. This is so beautiful.” She held it up to the light. “I'd love to know how to do this.”

“I'd be happy to teach you.” Megan spoke automatically and then wanted to kick herself. The three of them sat frozen, each undoubtedly pondering the absurdity of what she'd just said.

“You know…” Genevieve frowned down at the doily. “I'm not sure where to put this. I don't know how Stanley would react.”

Elizabeth gave a blast of laughter worthy of Dorene; Megan giggled along with her.

Genevieve looked startled, then gave a small smile, laid the
lace on the arm of her chair and stroked it. “So. I made sure the kids would be out when you came…”

The expectation was clear. Megan sat up straight, bracing her feet on the floor. “I wanted to meet you.”

“Why? I mean why now?”

“Because this situation is…no longer tolerable.” She heard herself saying the words and nearly scared herself to death.

Genevieve put a hand to the gold cross around her neck, an instinctive gesture which meant she probably wore the necklace all the time. So Stanley could tell his wives apart in the dark? “No longer tolerable?”

“I mean…” Megan felt the dizziness coming back and made herself breathe, steady and low. “I don't want to do this anymore. To share him.”

Genevieve swallowed, turning paler by the second. “You want me to give him up?”

“No! I'm not—”

“I haven't worked in fifteen years.” She darted glances between Elizabeth and Megan, still clutching her throat. “He said I'd never have to again.”

“I'm not asking you to give him up.”

“Oh.” Her hand dropped to her lap; she grabbed it with her other one. “Then…why come here?”

“Because this isn't right.”

She took in a long, slow breath; looked from Megan to Elizabeth and back with the sad, empty eyes Megan had seen so often in her mirror. “I'm happy with Stanley. He's good and kind, and he cares more than most husbands I see around. My friends are always telling me how wonderful he is, how lucky I am to have him.”

Megan could have been listening to a tape recording of her
own rationalizations for the last decade and a half. It sickened her hearing them now. All those wasted years buying Stanley's crap about needing another type of wife to complete him.

“Do your friends know he's got another wife?” Elizabeth asked.

“No. It's not up to them how I choose to live.”

“Of course not.” Megan wanted to shake Genevieve, tell her to come back to life, that being the walking dead was the worst possible sentence, that there was a world out there beyond the Stanley threshold, and they should both be taking those first steps to reach it.

But looking at Genevieve's blank eyes and worried forehead and fingers anxiously clutching the cross of Jesus again, Megan knew there was no point saying any of it. She wouldn't have listened to anyone either, until she was ready to hear. Least of all her husband's other wife. The most she could do was plant the seed, let Genevieve decide if she'd water it back to life or not.

“I came to get an answer, Genevieve.” Megan sent a grateful look to Elizabeth. She'd been so right that Megan would find that answer here. “About why he needed two of us. And meeting you…I've gotten that.”

Genevieve's eyes grew rounder. “What is it?”

“He
doesn't
need two of us. He's lazy and greedy.” She put her lemonade down before her shaking hand made her spill. “Now I'm just asking why I put up with this for so long. Why I was too scared to question his selfishness, why I made myself too blind to see it for what it was.”

“Please.” Genevieve jumped from her chair as if it had caught fire. “I can't listen to this. I'm sorry.”

“You should listen,” Elizabeth said. “He's taking advantage of both of you.”

“No.” Genevieve shook her head. “It's not like that.”

It was exactly like that. “You can marry Stanley for real. With my blessing. I'm…leaving him.”

“Megan!” Elizabeth jumped up from the couch and pumped her fist. “Yes! You are
woman
!”

Megan started laughing, unable to believe what she'd just said. Her mouth had opened, the words had come out. She wasn't even sure it was true. Yet.

Genevieve stared at Elizabeth and Megan as if they were aliens. “What is going on?”

“She's set herself free.” Elizabeth laughed jubilantly. “If you were smart, you'd do the same. Dump the cheating bast—”

“Elizabeth.” Megan held her hand up, a stop signal. Genevieve wasn't ready. Who knew if she ever would be? Sometimes people stayed dead their whole lives.

“This is so…I'm not ready for this change.” A tear rolled down Genevieve's pink cheek. “What will he do? Move back in here? What if he needs someone else again?”

“I wish I knew what to tell you.” Megan looked into her exhausted, dull eyes and knew she had to help this woman. Somehow. “Forgive me. It was selfish of me to come.”

“Does Stanley know you're here?”

“No, but I'll see him tonight and tell him I met you, if that's okay.”

“Yes.” Her voice came out a husky whisper. “I don't want to lie to him.”

Elizabeth snorted. “Why not? He lies to you.”

“No.” Genevieve shook her head; another tear rolled down her face. “He was honest with me from the beginning.”

“He told you he was married?”

“Yes.” She wiped her tears. “He told me. And that he had an
arrangement with his wife—with you, which meant I could be part of his family honestly.”

Megan inhaled sharply. A buzzing started in her ears. She no longer felt faint, but flushed with extra blood in her head, in her cheeks, behind her eyes. This much she could do for Genevieve now, though she wouldn't be grateful. Not yet. “Five years into our marriage, when I was pregnant with our first child, I was going through some papers and found one referencing your house, which he'd filed there by mistake. He never told me. There was no arrangement.”

Genevieve turned pale, put her hand to her chest. “Why did you tell me that? Why did you come here?”

Megan pulled a scrap of paper from her purse and a stubby pencil, and wrote down her cell number on it. “Take this. When you get over the shock, if you need to talk, please call me.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Megan wasn't sure what “this” she was referring to, liberating her with the truth or destroying her pleasant illusions? Probably both.

“Because you deserve to know who you married.” She gave the paper an insistent shake toward Genevieve, who'd made no move to take it. “Because I know what it's like to feel so completely isolated in this bizarre situation. Because I can be an honest friend to you.”

Genevieve took the paper as if she were moving underwater.

Megan thanked her for the lemonade and cookies, said good-bye and followed Elizabeth down the flower-bordered path, looking back once to find the door already closed.

In the car, Elizabeth started the engine, then turned, beaming. “You rock.”

“Thank you for coming with me. I couldn't have done that without you.” She rummaged in her purse with shaking hands. The fallout was just hitting, but if she waited until the shock was over, this call would be so much harder. For once, she was cleanly angry, with no guilt or regret, not at Genevieve, not at Elizabeth, not even at herself, for a change, for being so weak as to put up with Stanley's betrayal.

“Elizabeth.” She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “I'm going to call my husband. It's going to be ugly.”

“Oh goody. Do you want me to wait before we start driving?”

“No, you're fine. I just have to do this right away before I lose my nerve.” She didn't think she would. Her declaration of independence might have been impulsive, but it felt now as if the truth of wanting to leave Stanley had been hiding behind a locked barricade and once she'd said the simple phrase,
I'm leaving him
, the lock clicked magically open and the feelings poured out.

His number connected. She was shaking so much she was starting to get dizzy again and had to remind herself—again—to breathe.

“Hey, Megan. You on your way?”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?” His voice was gentle with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I stopped by to see Genevieve this morning in Roxboro.”

A choked sound made with vocal cords cut silent by shock.

Megan braced herself for the lies, the justifications, even for his anger. Then decided she wasn't going to wait around for any of it. “Just one question, Stanley. What part of you can this very sweet and pleasant clone of me fill that I can't?”

More silence. She started laughing, sick, painful laughter
that hurt her throat. “Oh, I lied, I have another question. And boy, it feels good to be the one lying this time.”

“Megan…”

“Who's the woman in your wallet? Brunette, sexy lips, big eyes, lots of makeup…”

In the corner of her eye, she saw Elizabeth's wide-open mouth of horror.

“Hey, now wait.” His disappointed schoolteacher voice.

“Why were you going through my wallet?”

She laughed harder. How was it that she could see him so clearly all of a sudden? “Are you married to her, too?”

“
No.
”

“What, she turned you down?” She waited for his answer, watching Route 49 go by on its way to I85, which would change to I40, then mountains, Comfort, and in the not-distant future, a new life somewhere else that would belong to her.

“She's a woman I—”

“You know, what? I changed my mind. I don't want to know. I really don't, because it doesn't matter. I thought it was a picture of Genevieve. All these years, I thought at least some part of me understood and accepted that I wasn't enough for you, that you needed this other glamourous Ella-type as well, and I put up with it. But the woman in your wallet isn't Genevieve.” Her laughter turned brittle. She prayed to God she wouldn't cry. “Genevieve is just another Fiona.”

“Megan…sweetheart. Look, just come up here and we'll talk this all out. Everything's ready, I have a reservation for the two of us for dinner at this really nice steakhouse. I haven't taken you out in way too long. We'll talk about it, I'll explain the whole situation, which I swear is totally innocent.” He
chuckled unconvincingly. “In fact, you'll probably laugh when you find out—”

“I'm not coming, Stanley.” Time seemed to stop while she thought of more words she didn't have the courage to say, then took a deep breath to say them anyway. “And…I want a divorce.”

Beside her Elizabeth let out a silent shriek and pumped her fist in the air. That, and the sound of her own voice still in her ears, were the only proof that she'd actually spoken.

“Megan…honey.” His voice dropped. “You're just angry now, you don't know what you're saying.”

“Yes. I do.”

“No, no. Drive up here. We'll talk about it.”

“Elizabeth's taking me home now.”

“Elizabeth.” His voice rose bitterly. “She put you up to this? God I knew it had to be something like that. You'd never turn your back on me by yourself.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're not like Elizabeth, Megan. You don't put yourself before everyone else, your needs before everyone else's.”

“Nope. That's your job.” She was so angry she could barely speak, as if all the anger from all the years putting up with his self-indulgence was hitting her now. This was her explosion, her very own
When Women Rule
. Only she wrote hers honestly, and she wouldn't regret leaving Stanley.

“What will you do? How will you live? You need me.” He drew the words out, at his most earnestly seductive. “You need me to love you, Megan, and to take care of you, my sweetheart, and to be there for you.”

“Half the time.” Some part of her said it wasn't fair to him, that she should have been stronger at the beginning, let him know then the situation wasn't acceptable, insisted he leave Genevieve or she'd leave him. But it was too late for hindsight; she was only going to look forward now. “As for me needing you, I finally figured out it's the other way around, Stanley. It took me fifteen years to realize it. You can't make it without me, or you wouldn't have another Megan set up here in Roxboro.”

“That's not true and you know it.” His standard defense when he was running out of arguing room. “How can you manage on your own?”

“I won't be on my own, Stanley. I have my father and his new wife, and a lot of really good friends.” She hung up quietly, turned the phone off, knowing he'd call again. Ahead of her there would be more. Plenty more. At times unbearably more. But this was enough for today.

“Wow. Wow!” Elizabeth banged on the steering wheel and let out a war whoop that was much too loud for the car. “You are awesome, you are
incredible.
”

Tears came. Megan laughed uncertainly through them, not seeing well, still trembling, still breathing too fast. “I hope so. Because all I feel right now is really manic, really relieved…and really, really scared.”

E
lizabeth drove down Route 49 humming, feeling alive and excited and happy to be where she was, better than she had in years. No, that wasn't right. She'd been happy plenty of times, but this happiness felt more powerful, more stable and real.

Megan was going to leave Stanley, get herself out of that hell-of-a rut and live. Finally, Elizabeth had done something here other than make things worse for people.

Maybe that was the difference in this happiness. She'd brought it to someone else and it reflected back on her. She looked over at Megan, who was knitting at approximately the speed of light, beautiful in her skirt and blouse, hair French braided, color high.

“How are you doing, Megan?”

“I feel like I've launched myself out of a plane with no para
chute.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Leaving Stanley with no job, no degree, no experience—”

“Are you kidding me? You're gifted many times over, you have tons of options. You could landscape people's garden and yards, you could cater parties, open a bakery, you could make
lace,
for God's sake. I would
kill
to have your talent.”

“Come on.”

“I'm serious. I'll get friends to bid for your next lace work. David can hire you to do something with his ugly yard. You can cater Sally's wedding.”

Megan laughed, but did slow her crazed fingers somewhat. “You're going to take charge of my career now?”

“Sure, I'll be your manager. No, your
pimp
! Just like grannie told me to. I charge a very reasonable commission.”

“You don't let reality get in your way much, do you, Elizabeth?”

“Absolutely not!” Elizabeth pounded the steering wheel, feeling as if she were on the verge of figuring out everything in the universe. “Reality is vastly overrated. Look at my
babcia
's dream. It might or might not have meant anything, but because I believed it did I came here and changed my life and yours. And your mother's story had huge power over your interpretation of the situation with Stanley's other wife.”

“Her story doesn't apply anymore.” Megan sounded almost wistful. “Genevieve turned out to be another Fiona.”

Elizabeth drove on, mind buzzing. Everything felt right, which meant they must be looking at something the wrong way. She glanced again at Megan, knitting beautiful lace, her green eyes troubled.

There it was.

“
You're
the Gillian character.” She cackled triumphantly. “You brought lace to miserable Fiona back there.”

“She's not—”

“The real Gillian is guiding you, like
Babcia
is guiding me. She led you to your Fiona in her time of need. Even Dorene said she felt Gillian through the lace, remember? And you're ten times more intuitive than she is.”

“Elizabeth—”

“Best of all, now that you're at a crossroads, the spirit of Gillian can be the one to—”

“Elizabeth!” Megan smacked her on the shoulder.

“Ow.” She cracked up. “Okay, okay, sorry, I'm just so excited.”

“Really? I couldn't tell.” Megan rolled her eyes. “That's a nice idea, but for one minor point. Your grandmother was a real person, and Gillian wasn't.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Okay, but…”

“Give it up.” Megan put her busy hands down, leaned back and blew out a breath. “It's a beautiful concept, but life doesn't fall into place quite that neatly.”

“I wish it—” A billboard caught her eye and she gasped and swerved onto the shoulder. “Oh my God. Look!”

“What?” Megan clutched the dashboard. “What is it?”

“
Truffles!
” Elizabeth came to a stop that threw her and Megan forward, then back again. “
Perigord
truffles. Those are the French ones, the best quality. Can that be right?”

“Geez, Elizabeth, you nearly gave me a heart attack over fungus?” Megan glanced at the sign, calming hand to her chest. “Yes, I've read about them. I guess our climate is right.”

“Grown right here, on that farm? I can't believe it. Wait until Dominique finds out.”

“Wouldn't a chef know already?” Megan spoke gently. “I mean if
I
do…”

“You're right. He must.” She wrinkled her nose at the colorful sign. This was important. This fit in somewhere. She knew it. She felt it. “Do you mind if we stop?”

“Go for it.”

Elizabeth read the billboard again:
take the next right, go five miles, then follow signs
. She got back on the road, blood pumping crazily. Truffles. Dominique's heart's desire here in his own backyard all the time. This was too incredible to be a coincidence.
Babcia
led Elizabeth to Comfort for Megan and led her here for herself.

They drove the five miles, and yes, there was the sign showing a picture of fields and trees with a big red arrow,
Hellmer's Farm
.
Finest truffles in the New World
.

Left turn, then bumping down a shorter road through fields of traditional crops, tobacco among them according to Megan—Elizabeth wouldn't know a tobacco plant if it rolled into a cigarette and smoked itself—another turn, then ahead, a white two-story farm on the side of a hill.

Close by the house Elizabeth parked and pulled off her seat belt, adrenaline racing. “Want to come with me?”

“Sure.” Megan pushed open her door to the blast of heat, still carrying the lace. “But I need another ball of wool, would you open the trunk?”

“Okay.” Elizabeth pulled the release lever and walked around to the back of the car, gazing at the house, hand up to shield her eyes from the hot sun. Beautiful house, shaded by large, leafy oaks. A wonderful steep roof interrupted by dormers, a latticework balcony on the second floor, a matching porch on the first. An old house, probably early nineteenth century.

She wanted one just like it. She wanted to live in a house like this, on a farm like this. The certainty of it nearly buckled her knees.

The front door opened; a friendly-looking middle-aged woman in jeans and a pink cotton sweater emerged and came toward them. “Hi there.”

“I saw your sign.” Elizabeth gestured toward the road, bursting with all the questions she wanted to ask. “I hope it's all right we came by. I'm Elizabeth Detlaff. This is Megan Morgan.”

“Hi, Elizabeth. Hi, Megan.”

“Nice to meet you.” Megan smiled, lace cascading from her needles halfway down her thighs.

“I'm Clair Hellmers.” She watched Megan fold the lace. “What can I do for you?”

“My boyfriend is a chef in New York, Dominique DuParc.”

“DuParc?” The woman tore her eyes from Megan. “Sorry, don't know that name.”

“He has a restaurant and show,
French Food Fast,
on the Food Channel.” She dug in her purse for one of his cards. “He's developing a restaurant menu around truffles, so I stopped to see what you have. I know yours aren't in season now, but maybe you have some flash frozen I could let him try?”

“We like getting to know chefs.” She spoke distractedly, took a step toward Megan, who was about to zip up her case. “Excuse me. Megan, was it?”

Megan turned from the trunk clutching her new ball of wool. “Yes?”

“Is that knitted lace?”

“Oh.” Megan looked startled. “Yes.”

“Shetland lace.” Elizabeth stepped back to give Clair better access. “Megan has it all over her house. Curtains, doilies,
tablecloths, all incredible quality, all handmade. Show her, Megan.”

Megan gave her a look, then unfolded the panel again. Elizabeth smiled back sweetly. Megan had the talent, Elizabeth had the chutzpah. Together they could be a small business waiting to happen.

“Our daughter is getting married at Christmas. She saw a lace veil in a shop once, with hearts and roses on it, and is having trouble finding one like it.” Clair waited eagerly for Megan to unfold the panel, pushing back a lock of gray hair the hot breeze had dislodged. “Oh, that is exquisite.”

“It's for a friend's wedding dress.”

“Karen would be thrilled.” She reached for it. “Do you mind? I just washed my hands.”

“Go right ahead.” Megan was deliberately ignoring Elizabeth's big-eyed exaggerated excitement. When they got back into the car, Elizabeth was going to enjoy a nice fat told-ya-so. Pimp her friends? No one could argue her out of the workings of destiny now. Not even David.

“This is incredible.” Clair examined the work reverently. “I'd love to commission one from you. Do you sell your work?”

Elizabeth lifted her eyebrows and nodded at Megan behind Clair's back. This was the first bit of her leaving-Stanley parachute.

“Yes.” Megan's voice was small but firm. “I do.”

“How much?”

“I—”

“Eight hundred dollars.” Elizabeth grinned, enjoying Megan's look of horror. About time she figured out her value.

“Hmm.” Clair held the piece up. The white lace stood strong and clean against the green background of the rolling hills,
wind ruffling it gently, sun throwing dappled patterns through the oak. “Did you design this or is it traditional?”

“I designed it. But it was traditional for Shetland women to knit their own designs. So I guess it's both.”

Clair lowered the lace, folded it carefully. “May I take a picture of this and call my daughter? I'm pretty sure this is the style she's been searching for.”

Megan nodded, looking as if she couldn't decide whether to celebrate or cry. Elizabeth wanted to throw her arms around her, tell her everything was going to be fine, wonderful and happy-ever-after now. Megan had taken the leap, the arms of the universe were rising up to catch her. How many times had
Babcia
told Elizabeth that was how the world worked, and how often had Elizabeth sneered at her? When she got settled, she was going to call her mother and invite her to visit. Or maybe she'd go back to Milwaukee. It was time for a reconciliation with her past.

“Come on up.” Clair led the way into the house, which was cool and smelled of coffee and pine, then into the kitchen whose white counters and cabinets emphasized the fresh airy space, and whose retro appliances fit the old and the new perfectly. Elizabeth turned, absorbing the light and comfort of the room, the glimpse of green hills out the window.

This was what she wanted. A farmhouse in the country. She could see herself living here, quietly, simply, surrounded by beauty, growing her own food, raising an animal or two, living close to the land like her Milwaukee ancestors on Jones Island, part of a real community.

The certainty was quiet, simple, nothing like the adrenaline rush of her business ideas, nothing like the impulsive thrill of taking on a new challenge. It was as if she'd been peeling back
layers over the last few weeks and was finally able to gain access to her true core.

If Dominique wanted part of this new life, she'd take him, make whatever compromises necessary so they'd both be happy. If not, she'd find a way to do it herself. Use her inheritance for a down payment. She was meant to be here.
Babcia
had known all along.

“Have a seat.” Clair gestured to the natural wood table, opened her cell phone and took a picture. “I'll just be a second.”

“No problem.” Elizabeth smiled politely until she left the room, then opened her mouth in a silent scream of excitement.

“I can't believe this is happening today, already, just now,” Megan whispered. Her eyes were shining, cheeks pink; she looked ready to take on the world.

“It's a sign that you did the right thing.” Elizabeth squeezed her hand on the table. “This is enough to make me believe in fate all over again.”

Megan nodded gravely. “Maybe Clair will have my fishnets and black leather.”

They were still giddy when Clair returned, holding the cell triumphantly aloft. “She loves it. If it's okay I'll give her your number and the two of you can talk details.”

“Absolutely.” Megan scrawled her number on the pad Clair proffered, while Elizabeth started mentally designing business cards. She wouldn't just be handing out Dominique's anymore.

Clair poured them coffee, offered raisin oatmeal scones she'd baked that morning and homemade strawberry jam. Elizabeth ate in ecstasy. Someday the jam would be hers, the scones made with her own hands.

While they sat, she questioned Clair about hazelnut trees and oaks, inoculated roots and fungus, dogs vs. pigs, summer
vs. winter, whole and pieces, oils and canned, fresh and jarred, getting more and more excited.

If Dominique decided he could do business here, they could buy a place, plant truffles of their own, retire here when he was tired of the race. They could split living in North Carolina and New York. Maybe Dominique could open a second restaurant in North Carolina, specializing in local truffles, open only during the short season, December to March, leaving his New York restaurant in charge of others while he was gone.

She could be instrumental in helping Dominique settle his career the way he wanted, at the same time living her life the way she wanted. And this close by, she could still help Megan and keep in touch with the Purls until she planted her own roots, maybe by starting her own knitting group. Or book group. Or art group. Something.

Finally, Clair hinted she had other things to do and Megan hinted they'd better be back on the road, and Elizabeth reluctantly agreed. She bought a bottle of truffle oil and vacuum-packed whole truffles, then promised she'd be in touch in December when the local harvest began. Dominique could use this to his advantage,
Buy American; We Support Our Truffles
. A marketer's dream.

“Thank you for letting us drop by.” Elizabeth gave Clair a hug, probably surprising the life out of her. “I'll have Dominique call you when he's back in the country.”