7
Threading hook: Long skinny hook for threading warp.
The digital clock read 2:17. Alex was awake. Lacey slept deeply, her back to him, with barely a rising and falling of breath. Before he could think, a wave of nausea hit him hard. Saliva rushed into his mouth, and not even feeling the sharp cold when his feet hit the floor, he stumbled to the bathroom. He was violently sick. The hideous noise of his body turning on him roared in his ears. Thinking he was finished, he splashed water on his face and clutched the edge of the sink with a shaking hand. The cool porcelain made him shiver. He felt awful.
He vomited a second time, followed by heaving over and over, as if a demon inhabited his body. His stomach felt wrung out, aching. The hard tile floor, icy on his knees, seemed to rise up before him. A moment later he felt a hand softly stroking his shoulder and then another on the back of his head.
“Finished?” Lacey asked softly.
He let out a groan, not knowing if he would be able to stand.
“Wait,” she said.
He heard water gush into the sink. Lacey placed a warm facecloth on his forehead, then handed him a tissue. He released one hand from the toilet bowl and wiped his nose. “Oh, God.” His voice came out as a croak. Lacey flushed the toilet.
“Okay to stand?” she asked.
“Yeah, I think.” He rose slowly to his feet.
“Lean on me,” she said. “Let’s get you . . . back to bed.”
Alex groaned again. “I’m okay,” he said, pulling away from her. The walls of their bedroom seemed tilted. He staggered ahead.
“Come on,” she said. “Let me help you.”
Feeling his knees jellylike beneath him, he put his arm across her shoulders. The warmth of her body felt solid and safe.
“That’s better,” she said.
They made their way slowly toward the bed. He was like an old man, feeble and alarmingly helpless. His head was spinning. One day Lacey would need him in this very way, he knew. They reached the bed. Lacey handed him another tissue from the nightstand. His face was wet. He blew his nose.
“My poor love,” she said.
“The cheeseburger at lunch . . .” He started to explain. He felt his weight lurch and sank down onto the mattress.
Lacey guided his head onto the pillows. She pressed her warm hand against his lips. “Don’t try to talk,” she said. “You’re going to be okay.”
On Christmas morning Margot was surprised to find herself awake before Oliver. The city was quiet. No traffic, no garbage trucks hurtling down the streets below. Perhaps it was the wind that had awakened her, a persistent whistle even though the windows were closed tight. She slipped out from under the covers and crept down the hall. She went to the closet near the front door and removed the large wrapped box she had hidden in back. After struggling to lift it, she placed it on the coffee table and fluffed up the bow. Next to it she placed her other gift for Oliver: a book wrapped by the shopkeeper in an elegant red Florentine paper.
While waiting for water to boil for her tea, she went to the front window and looked out. The wind from the west was heavy and relentless and the Hudson River, studded with whitecaps, looked forbidding. A river view wasn’t always agreeable. Today the sight of the water was a reminder of the many cold, bleak days ahead. It would be months before crisp white sails would cut across blue water under a hot summer sun. She wondered how Lacey would be by summer.
A door creaked behind her. She turned. Oliver, his hair wild from sleep, wandered in from the bedroom.
“You’re up early, baby,” he said.
“I think it’s the wind. I never would have made it as a pioneer.” She smiled. “The noise of it makes me crazy.”
Oliver came over to her and kissed the top of her head. He wore flannel pajama bottoms and a faded navy T-shirt. “Let me get the coffee started,” he said, and headed toward the kitchen. “Do you want your tea now?”
“I’ll come with you and fix it,” she said. “Then let’s do presents, okay?”
Margot loved giving presents. She put a lot of thought into finding just the right gift for each person. Gifts for her twin nieces were easy, always something hip to wear or some accessory that was all the rage. A few weeks ago Mario had gone shopping with her during lunch. He suggested a wonderful skinny cashmere sweater in pale blue, with sleeves trimmed in a fuzzy fringe, for Wink. For Toni, he urged her to buy a funky yellow leather handbag with multiple zippered pockets and silver studs. Margot took his advice, knowing he was good at spotting fashionable items and, thanks to his girlfriend, he knew all the hip shops in SoHo. For Lacey she chose a sterling silver letter opener with a green malachite handle. It would be the perfect color against her lavender desktop. For Alex she bought a leather-bound bike log where he could record his trip routes and mileage.
Oliver had had a mostly secular upbringing. His mother was a lapsed Catholic of Italian origin and his father was Jewish. His family celebrated some of the Jewish holidays, as well as putting up a Christmas tree and exchanging gifts on December 25. Margot and Oliver were driving to Scarsdale later that afternoon for an annual family open house that his sister hosted every year now that their father was dead and their mother too old to give the party.
Margot carried her tea to the living room and suggested they make omelets later. Oliver set his mug of coffee on the end table and went into the bedroom. He emerged a moment later with a mysterious bag of his own.
“You first,” she insisted.
“I’ll start with the big one,” he said. He pulled the bow and ripped off the paper in large handfuls.
“Great,” he said, eyeing the printed picture of the coffeemaker. “The old one is about to give out.”
“It grinds the beans, too. All in one.”
Oliver thanked her and seemed pleased with her purchase.
“This one is the real gift,” she said, handing him the costly volume she had found earlier that fall.
This time he took more time unwrapping, first undoing the ribbon and turning the package over to slide his finger under the tape, and then slipping off the paper.
“A book of Greek myths?” Oliver looked puzzled by her choice. He opened the cover and drew in his breath. “God, these are gorgeous.” He carefully turned the pages. It was a collection of myths accompanied by hand-tinted engravings. The detail of the illustrations had amazed Margot when she discovered the book on the art table in a bookstore specializing in antique books.
“It’s really about the illustrations,” Margot said, suddenly worried that this present was not as fine as she had previously thought. “It was published in the 1930s.”
Oliver continued to leaf through the book. “Mags, these are extraordinary. Look, here’s Pandora before she opens the box. All the troubles on earth locked inside.” He pulled her toward him on the sofa and kissed her. “You’re a love. This is great.”
She looked down at the page he had opened to. Pandora, her head bent, with a graceful hand luring the viewer’s eye to the flowers at her feet, was oblivious to the evils inside. Curiosity, her fatal flaw, would entice her to open the box, forever changing the world. Margot couldn’t help but think that for her, the box had already been opened. It opened on the day Lacey told her about her illness. As much as Margot wished it, she could never alter the news that was reshaping their lives.
“Now your turn,” he said. He reached for the bag and pulled out a gold box tied with an elaborate silver bow. He put the box on the table in front of her.
“That’s beautiful, Oliver. Wait. I’ll save it for last. I’ll open Lacey’s present first.” Lacey’s gift, a white box with a large red bow, had been on the coffee table all week. The sight of it and the red poinsettias Margot had purchased from the Korean deli on Broadway had made the apartment look festive. Oliver had strung tiny gold lights in the ficus tree near the window, the extent of their holiday decorations.
Margot pulled off the ribbon and handed Oliver the paper to fold for the recycling bin. She lifted the lid of the box and discovered a mohair throw that Lacey had woven in warm colors—shades of red, gold, pink—giving it the overall look of a persimmon. A deep purple strand moved through the pattern like a wave. This piece was very different from the quiet set of white place mats that Lacey had been working on at Thanksgiving.
Margot pulled the throw into her arms and began to cry. First for the beauty of it, and then for the item itself, so suitable, so useful. It was as if Lacey had just come into the room, and stood beside her, a silent presence. Margot fingered the soft fibers and pulled it to her face. It smelled of cloves or something not exactly sweet, but homey. Like Lacey, she thought. She spread it over her lap and was immediately warmer.
“Don’t cry,” Oliver said. “Lacey would want you to be happy. It’s beautiful.”
Margot nodded and felt the soft woven material again.
“Come on, baby,” Oliver said. “Open mine.” He handed her the golden package.
Margot unwrapped it carefully, not to save the paper but to gain a moment to compose herself. “Oh,” she breathed when she caught sight of the burgundy-colored box. Inside on a bed of white satin was a necklace, a choker of pale turquoise stones. The clasp was shaped like a blossom, the petals made of tiny pearls.
“It’s beautiful.” She lifted the necklace from the box. “It’s too nice. Oliver, it’s too much. Really.”
“Nothing’s too much for you. Let me help you put it on.” He reached for the necklace and unfastening the clasp, lowered it around her neck. It felt light, hardly there.
Margot went to the mirror by the dining table. The blue-green stones were the color of her eyes. It would be lovely inside the neck of a blouse or, even better, just the right thing to wear with some of her simple V-neck sweaters. “It’s perfect,” she said.
“You’re perfect,” he said, coming up behind her and circling her waist with his hands.
“Hardly.” She turned and buried her face in his chest.
He paused for a moment. “I wish you’d let me give you a ring.”
She pulled back. “You mean . . .”
“I want you for always, Mags. Let’s get married this spring. We’ve been so happy. Why not make it forever?”
Margot leaned into Oliver again. His chest was warm, his arms felt solid around her. Forever. Why wouldn’t she want this kind of happiness forever? Her heart felt light and joyous at the possibility. Oliver loved her. She loved him. They had moved beyond the first years of discovery and delight in getting to know each other. Their relationship, even with its ups and downs, his temper, her own tendency to hold back, had grown richer, in a sense more complete. She looked up at him. “You mean a wedding?”
“I believe that’s how it’s done.”
She remembered Lacey coming to New York to help her plan her wedding with Teddy. Her heart tightened, an involuntary pinch.
“But you always said you never wanted to remarry. We both agreed. Remember?”
“I feel different now.”
Margot scanned his face as if trying to see what had changed. Early in their relationship Oliver had told her that his work was everything to him. He stated clearly that art came first. He explained that his marriage to Linda was like having a weight placed on him, dulling his creative drive and sucking all his energy.
Margot had been relieved. Her marriage to Teddy had been such a disaster. More than anything she didn’t want to make another mistake. She knew she would never have what Lacey had—safe, predictable, and seemingly perfect. Why even strive for that?
After Teddy was gone Margot savored the sense of freedom, of not having to answer to anyone. The city was a good place to start over. She loved her work, being part of the New York art world, and getting to know other artists, Oliver’s friends. No one asked her how many children she had, or if she ever planned to marry. New York was a city where people admired independence, personal choices, creativity. Individuality mattered. No one had to fit into a mold—you could be unique, like a modern painting not requiring a frame.
“What do you mean you feel different?” she asked, wondering what might have brought on this sudden desire to marry.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m ready for a change. I’ve started thinking more about the future. I want you with me, Mags.”
“I’m glad.” She smiled. “It’s just that now . . . well, things aren’t the same.”
“What do you mean?” His hands slid away.
Margot touched the necklace at her throat. It had warmed to her skin. She went back to the couch.
He followed and asked more forcefully, “What’s not the same?” He sat beside her. “You do love me? Has that changed?”
“Of course it hasn’t changed.” She picked up Lacey’s gift, spreading the throw across her lap. Her love for Oliver hadn’t changed, but her life had. How she longed to fall into the happiness he offered. She should be crying tears of joy. She should be calling Lacey to tell her the good news. Lacey. Instead, Margot’s heart stubbornly refused to lift. It was as if she couldn’t make room for happiness now. She tried to explain. “It just doesn’t seem to be the time for this.” She reached up and smoothed back a lock of Oliver’s hair. “I don’t know what will happen with Lacey. Everything is so up in the air.”
“Getting married isn’t about Lacey,” he said. “It’s about us. We can’t predict what will happen to her, but we should be together no matter what.”
“We are together,” she said.
“That’s not what I mean.” He shifted away from her and folded his arms across his chest.
“Oliver, please.”
“I thought you’d be happy. Is it so terrible to want to spend my life with you—to want to make our relationship permanent?”
“I am happy,” she said. Was she? Oliver’s intentions were clear and good. What was the matter with her? She couldn’t expect him to understand what she couldn’t understand herself. Terrible things happened in life. Her mother had been a miserable alcoholic, but Margot had survived. Why did she have to lose Lacey too? This illness was so unfair. She began to cry again. Useless tears, yet she couldn’t stop them.
“Come on.” Oliver’s voice had taken on an edge. “Stop making yourself miserable. We love each other.” He reached across and took her hand. His expression softened. “I’m really sorry that Lacey’s sick, but it doesn’t have to ruin our future together.”
“I just don’t know,” she said.
“Know what?”
The phone rang. Margot looked up at the clock. It was just after nine. Oliver went to the phone and checked the caller ID. “Lacey,” he said.
Margot shook her head, indicating she was unable to talk. Oliver let the rings continue, loud and intrusive until the machine clicked on and Lacey’s voice filled the room.
“Merry Christmas.” Her voice was bright, pitched with excitement. “Wonderful presents. Love the letter opener.” An uneasy laugh. “I’ll call . . . tonight?” There was a pause. Other voices in the background filled the void. “Love you,” she said. The line clicked dead.
Oliver didn’t come back to the couch but went across the room and stared out at the river. “I’m sorry about Lacey,” he said softly. “You know that.”
“Let’s just get through the winter,” Margot said, pushing the throw aside and going to stand next to him. “I’m sure we’ll all get more used to the situation. We’ll find ways to cope. Maybe Lacey won’t get any worse.” She leaned against him. “I love you, Oliver.” She felt better saying this. “In the spring let’s talk about getting married.” She kissed him lightly on the mouth.
“Does that mean yes?”
Margot kissed him again. “For now let’s just keep loving each other.” She had no idea what the spring would bring.
Oliver turned his collar up against the wind. He was walking to the garage where he kept his car, a nameless business on 108th Street between Columbus and Amsterdam avenues. He had yet to figure out what language the garage attendants spoke. The monthly fee was a bargain, but they only took cash. When he returned with the car, Margot would meet him in front of their building and they would drive out to Scarsdale for the open house. His mother had sold the house he grew up in, and his sister, Nancy, and her family lived a few streets away, but returning to the town always reminded him of going home. Even after all these years, it was never easy.
He crossed Broadway. Hunks of paper, plastic, small bits of unrecognizable debris soared along in the brisk wind. Anything near the top of the wire mesh trash containers on the streets lifted off in the gusts of cold air. Useless. He imagined the taste of grit in his mouth.
Oliver had come home from college one winter break to tell his parents that he had won the Walter Newman Arts Award, given to a student showing exceptional promise in painting. The award came with a stipend to study at the Castello Brunelli, an arts colony in the hills outside of Rome, for three months of the summer.
He had arrived in Scarsdale the day of his parents’ holiday open house, having stayed on at college for a few days into the break to finish a painting for a class on perspective. His pursuing a degree in fine arts had greatly disappointed his father. Sam Levin had wanted Oliver to follow in his footsteps and attend the Wharton School for his MBA after getting his undergraduate degree at the University of Pennsylvania. Oliver had been a strong student, and though he was accepted at Penn, he chose to go to the Rhode Island School of Design.
Oliver’s concession to his father was to promise to work summers for his uncle’s investment company in New York. The summer job involved doing all the boring work that the secretaries hated, but after work and during his lunch hour Oliver visited galleries and museums, soaking up art whenever he could.
He had come home excited about telling his parents the good news. The house was full of people. It was early evening. He threw his duffel into the back hall off the kitchen and went in search of his parents. He had gone to the trouble to wear a sport coat, knowing that his long hair, which he wore in a ponytail, was already a source of controversy. He found his dad in the den talking to a neighbor.
As soon as they were alone Oliver told his dad about the award.
“What about your job with Uncle Stu?”
“He doesn’t need me. Besides, another summer filing documents is a total waste.”
“A waste? That’s what you think? And you think hanging out with a bunch of would-be artists in Rome all summer isn’t a waste?”
“It’s not just the experience of working with the artists there, Dad. This is something that really matters for my future.” Oliver stared at his dad. His father was a lawyer in New York who dealt with enormous financial transactions. He was a responsible man. Work was about providing for your family. His father accepted the daily grind of riding the train to the city, hauling yourself up into an office tower, and working at a desk until it was well past dark, only to repeat the process in reverse—the steady pattern that meant a mortgage paid on time, a nice home for your wife, a good education for your children.
“So you think you’re going to be an artist?” Sam Levin’s shoulders dropped. “Where’s the security in that?” Oliver knew that in his father’s mind the four years at RISD were for getting the art enthusiasm out of his system, as if Oliver’s passion were an adolescent phase that he had to work through before turning to business. His dad leaned against the edge of his desk as if he needed support.
“This prize is an honor, Dad. I thought you’d be pleased.”
His father pressed his lips together. Art didn’t matter to him. There were no real paintings in their house, only a few reproductions his mother had bought, and those were chosen to match the furniture, like the ship painting that hung above the blue sofa in the living room. All tasteful and unremarkable. Oliver shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for his father to speak.
“Let’s drop it for now,” his father said at last.
“Dad, I’m an artist. Nothing will change that.” Oliver had to paint. It was that simple. It wasn’t like working for a bank or an insurance agency. It wasn’t a job. It was more than a career. Art had chosen him and not the other way around. He knew he faced a life fraught with instability.
His father shook his head. “I need to get back to our guests.” He walked out of the room, leaving Oliver behind. If only his dad had argued with him and given him the chance to fight back. Once alone in the den, Oliver sank down onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. His father’s distance made him strangely furious as well as sad. Nothing Oliver did in the years following—stellar reviews, one-man shows, a plum job teaching at Columbia—nothing seemed to please his dad or change his opinion of his son.
Now Oliver stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Would his father finally consider him a success if he were alive today? A bus with a few lone passengers whipped by. Hannah Greene and June Wallace had come to his studio a couple of days ago. He’d shown them the two canvases he’d finished. They had been cordial and admiring, but they seemed pressed for time, making the excuse of the holiday rush. Oliver hadn’t sold a major painting in almost a year.
He walked the final blocks to the garage. He mustn’t let his mood spoil the entire day. And Margot. He needed to remember what she was going through with Lacey. A single piece of newspaper blew across his path, lifting in the wind.
“You’re looking glum,” Margot said as she got into the car. She waved briefly at Hector, the doorman. “Your mom will be glad to see you,” she said. “And I promise, no more tears today.” She reached across the seat and touched his arm.
Looking reluctant, Oliver turned onto the West Side Highway heading north. The Hudson River was almost black in the waning light. It was four in the afternoon. Margot was looking forward to seeing Oliver’s sister. She had three of Oliver’s paintings in her house and she loved to dote on her brother, “the famous artist.”
Oliver’s marriage proposal had caught Margot off guard. Like the beautiful necklace she had put carefully away in the velvet box, she tucked his proposal away in some part of her heart, to bring out later at an easier time. Lacey’s illness and her family were what mattered now.
Margot’s happiest Christmas memories were of times she’d spent with Lacey’s family in New Castle. Lacey saw to every detail, making sure no annual ritual was forgotten, that everyone around her was looked after and loved. Lacey had had to learn how to do this early in her life.
One Christmas in Concord when they were still girls, their mother had become increasingly despondent as the holiday grew closer. There were no signs of festivities ahead. No decorations, no apparent shopping trips for surprises, no writing of cards. Margot, about ten at the time, remembered thinking it odd how the unread mail piled up on the hall table. Her father carried the mail to his desk on the weekend and must have read the cards and paid the bills and dealt with whatever was necessary. That Christmas Eve Margot’s mother said she must be getting the flu and went up to bed shortly after lunch. A roast beef, frozen solid on the kitchen counter, needed somehow to be thawed and cooked. Grandmother Winkler was coming to dinner.
Lacey, then fourteen, had told their dad not to worry. With Girl Scout–like practicality and good cheer, she took The Joy of Cooking from the shelf and busied herself with the preparation of Christmas Eve dinner. Margot set the table and went up to her room to make elaborate place cards from construction paper, ribbon, and glitter.
All afternoon their mother’s bedroom door remained shut. At five their father went to pick up his mother. Granny Winkler arrived with presents for her granddaughters and somehow they all muddled along, no one speaking of Helen, who remained behind closed doors. The roast beef was stringy and tough, the mashed potatoes lumpy, and the peas almost mush. Still, everyone praised Lacey for the wonderful meal. Fortunately, their grandmother had brought along her favorite dessert, sticky toffee pudding, the signature dish that her own mother used to make.
Much later that evening, after their dad had taken Granny Winkler home, he returned to find both daughters doing the dishes. Margot stood at the sink while Lacey dried. Hot, soapy water trickled down Margot’s arms. She reached into the water to remove one of the crystal water goblets and blew at the puff of bubbles on the rim of the glass. The bubbles did not lift off into the air as she had hoped. Instead, as she raised the glass higher to blow again, it slipped from her hand and crashed onto the stone kitchen floor.
“For God’s sake!” her father yelled. “This isn’t helping.” He pulled a terrified Margot away from the sink and sent her upstairs to bed.
Margot lay in bed sobbing at the injustice of her father’s rebuke. Her father was angry, her mother was sick, and there was no Christmas tree that year. She cried from being scolded, from being sent to bed, from knowing that there might not even be presents in the morning. Then, hopeless and alone in the dark, she heard the door of her room open. Lacey appeared and tiptoed over to her bed. She stroked her little sister’s back and said, “There, there, it’s okay, Magsie. I love you. You’ll always have me.”
Margot understood now the stress her father must have endured. His lovely Helen Lacey, the soft-spoken girl from South Carolina, suffered from alcoholism, maybe depression as well, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to help her. During those years Phil Winkler must have been angry at his wife, at his predicament, at the entire world.
Many years later, when Margot and Lacey talked about their mother and some of the difficult times, Lacey made light of it, saying that it hadn’t been as bad as all that. Lacey claimed she had no recollection of that particular Christmas Eve meal.
Oliver pulled the car into the driveway of his sister’s house, a large stone Tudor, undoubtedly worth a lot with its big lawn, stately trees, and proximity to the city. Nancy and her husband, Ken, had bought their home when their two children were small and they had watched their kids grow up here. Their sons, one still in college, the other in business school, would have made Oliver’s father, their grandfather, proud. They were nice young men, too. As Oliver and Margot walked up to the door, Oliver thought about what it might be like to have sons, throwing a ball around on the lawn and going to sporting events.
Coming here, to the town where he had grown up, always filled him with doubts. Would he be any happier now if he’d gone into business, lived in Scarsdale, had a secure life? He missed Jenna today. His daughter was in Phoenix for a few days with her mother, the annual reminder of a painful divorce.
Margot pressed the bell. A moment later, Nancy was pulling her into her arms.
“Welcome, you two.” Nancy smiled and kissed Oliver on the cheek. Her dark hair was thick and springy, cut in short curls and graying slightly, like her brother’s.
Margot greeted Nancy warmly and handed her the bag of fancy foods that they brought every year as a gift, including a box of Nancy’s favorite chocolates. “Not a painting for me this year?” she joked, looking beyond them as if they might have carried a big wrapped present with them. “College tuitions are draining us. We can’t afford any more of your masterpieces.”
“Hang in there,” Oliver said. “My prices may plummet any day.”
Margot gave him a quick look, more like a warning. They took off their coats and Nancy signaled for one of the helpers hired for the party to come and take their belongings upstairs.
“Mom’s in the living room,” Nancy said. “Stuck on the sofa next to Mrs. Keller. Let me warn you, she’s gotten a bit dotty. No, not Mom,” she added, as if sensing her brother’s alarm. “Ken and the boys are in the family room. They’re taking turns tending bar, if you want something. The servers are passing wine and eggnog.”
Margot thanked Nancy and took Oliver’s hand. They wove through the group of neighbors and friends, making their way across the living room toward Oliver’s mother. Margot accepted a glass of wine from one of the servers on their way, but Oliver decided to wait.
“I was wondering where you were,” Janet Levin said. She smiled up at her son as he bent and kissed her cheek. Her hair, brushed and sprayed into an immaculate bubble, tickled his face as he drew back.
“You look great, Mom.”
“That’s what everyone tells old ladies.” Janet laughed and reached for Margot’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I hope my boy is behaving.”
“So good to see you,” Margot said. “Happy holidays.”
“You remember my neighbor Mrs. Keller? You may have met her here last year.”
They both turned toward to the small old lady seated next to his mother. She had wispy, unruly hair and she wore a misbuttoned cashmere sweater with a scattering of stains across the front.
“Why, I remember your son, Janet. The artist, the famous one.”
“Good to see you, Mrs. Keller.” Oliver reached for her hand but saw she was twisting a tissue in her lap. He pulled back.
“This must be your wife.” Mrs. Keller smiled up at Margot.
Oliver glanced at his mother. Margot reached down and took the old lady’s hand.
“Mrs. Keller, I’m Margot Winkler. Oliver and I live in the city.”
“Do you have boys? Nancy has these two handsome boys.”
Oliver wanted to say yes, they had six illegitimate kids stashed in their apartment, but he didn’t think she would get the joke. Unlike him, his mother seemed to find her neighbor’s inquiries mildly entertaining.
“Mom,” he said, “would you like me to bring you a drink or some food?”
“No, darling. I’ve already had plenty. I want to hear about what you’re showing next.” She turned to her neighbor. “Oliver shows in the best galleries in New York.”
Margot handed Oliver her wine. “I’m going to go say hello to Ken and the boys.” She gave him an indulgent smile and slipped away before he could stop her.
Oliver looked once again at his mother. She seemed to be studying him carefully, as if looking for signs that something was wrong. Janet Levin was a woman who didn’t miss much.
Alex had thought they were going to make it through Christmas Day without a glitch until Wink pulled him aside as he was turning out the lights before going up to bed.
“Dad, can we talk a minute?”
He stepped into the hall. “Sure, Winky, what’s up?”
“I think something’s wrong with Mom.”
“What do you mean?” They both listened as Toni’s footsteps clattered up the stairs. Lacey had gone up to bed a few minutes before.
“She seems so scattered these days.”
“Wink, it’s the holidays. Mom’s been busy. You know that.”
“They say women get forgetful because of menopause.” Wink looked away on saying that word. “But she doesn’t really forget stuff. It’s more like her mind gets jumbled when she’s trying to talk.”
Alex felt his chest tighten. “Mom’s exhausted,” he said. He turned and switched off the downstairs hall light, leaving them in near dark. “We’re all tired. Let’s get to bed.”
“But, Dad—” She leaned against the banister.
“Not now, sweetie. I’m beat too.” He kissed her on the cheek, a dismissal.
Wink shrugged and went on up to her room.
When Alex went upstairs Lacey was in bed reading. The book, a history of textiles that Kate had given her for Christmas, was propped against her knees. He pulled the curtains at the window. The night was black. Not a star in the sky. He quickly got ready for bed.
“We need to talk,” he said, getting into bed. He put his hand gently on the curve of Lacey’s hip.
“Not tonight,” she said. She closed the book and placed it on the nightstand.
“Please,” he said.
Lacey said nothing and clicked off the light on her side of the bed.
“Come on, Chief.” He arranged the covers and moved beside her. Her hair smelled of cooking and a woodsy botanical shampoo. “We haven’t had a moment alone all day.”
She turned toward him and kissed him once and rested her hand on his face. “I’m tired. Okay?”
He nodded. He knew it was late. What would they accomplish raising these tough issues now? Lacey must have picked up on Wink’s concern, and even Toni had seemed more watchful of her mother while they were preparing their contributions to that night’s meal. They had all gone to Kate and Hugh’s for Christmas dinner, taking with them a roasted beet salad, a sweet potato casserole, and Lacey’s signature Christmas log cake. Wink had spent the afternoon making tiny mushrooms out of meringue to decorate it. With the Martins’ extended family, they had been sixteen around the table. The meal had been festive, everyone talking and laughing at once, making their own household seem especially quiet when they returned to it.
“I love you, Chief,” he said, taking Lacey’s hand and kissing her fingers. She squeezed his hand, a wordless reply, then turned away from him, drawing her knees toward her chest. Alex reached for the switch of his own light and pulled the covers up to his neck.
He found it impossible to let go of the day. His brain began to unleash a litany of worries he had kept coiled inside him like a snake under a rock. Hugh had asked him if he had contacted Margot to enlist her help in convincing Lacey to tell the girls about her illness. They had been alone in the kitchen, opening the wine before dinner. Alex confessed that he hadn’t spoken to Margot or told Lacey about the consulting job in Chicago either. How could he go so far from home when so much was at stake? He hadn’t even found the right moment to bring it up.
Now, lying in the dark bedroom beside his wife, he felt all the pleasures of the day—the fun of exchanging presents, the solace of food and friendship, the joys of a celebration—evaporate. A painful new feeling swelled inside his chest. Suddenly Lacey, a few inches from him across the bed, seemed oceans away. He moved closer to her, her warm body so familiar and sweet. Gently, he pushed her nightgown aside and brought his mouth to her shoulder. He rested his hand on her arm. He knew the feeling of her, every inch—the softness of her breasts, the length of her thigh, the curve of her waist—yet he never grew tired of her. Lacey’s breathing had deepened. Alex wanted her, but he would let her sleep. He was possessed with an unfamiliar longing. Would he ever again be able to think of her the way they were before her illness? He withdrew his hand and rolled away.