10
Shed: Open space between upper and lower warp threads.
It was already March. Margot felt that the winter had slipped by much like the clouds now bolting across the sky, one moment casting a shadow, the next disappearing altogether. There had been no major winter storms, despite intermittent dire predictions. The weather was still cool, but the days were lengthening, that inevitable sign of hope, and now and again when walking in the park she could smell the change in the seasons: the earthiness of damp ground, the pungent wet of the Hudson, and the sweet spiciness wafting from pots of narcissus perched outside flower shops on sunny afternoons.
After the disastrous weekend with Lacey in January, Wink had been Margot’s principle source of communication with the family. Lacey rarely answered the phone. Wink seemed to enjoy talking to Margot and she reported that the first few weeks after Margot’s visit had been hard, but after the family conference with Lacey’s neurologist they had all calmed down a little. The doctor had urged them to carry on as usual. Wink assured Margot that her mom wasn’t getting any worse.
Eventually, Lacey spoke to Margot when she called and her tone grew gradually warmer week after week, almost in keeping with the weather. When they had spoken earlier this month, Lacey had sounded much like her old self, getting stuck on a word only now and then. Margot tried to keep her calls cheerful, not wanting to reenter any unsettling territory. Oliver accused her of avoiding difficult situations. Sometimes he was right, but in this case doing otherwise was just too painful.
Last week Wink had been accepted at Cornell and Toni had gotten into Columbia as well as the University of New Hampshire. Lacey called to say that she and Toni were coming to New York to visit the school again. She explained that Ryan was still in the picture—all the more reason to get Toni away from New Hampshire and out into a wider world. Lacey spoke slowly. She seemed to be making an effort to be understanding of her daughter’s wishes, and yet, she told Margot, she thought if only Toni could hear more about New York from Margot, and how it could open up so many possibilities, she might feel more enthusiastic about the school. Margot agreed to talk to her niece about the advantages of attending college in New York.
Here was a chance to do something for Lacey. If Toni was in New York, Margot could be more of a hands-on aunt. She imagined taking Toni to gallery openings and introducing her to the art world, or simply meeting for coffee to have a chance to really connect and know her niece better.
Toni and Lacey arrived at Margot’s apartment for their visit to New York at the end of March. Margot felt hopeful. They were looking at colleges, living a normal life, not hiding at home mired in unhappiness because of Lacey’s illness. This trip had to be a good sign.
Oliver’s visit to San Francisco had paid off. The Croft Gallery was giving him a one-man show in early June. His dark mood had lifted and he was now in a working frenzy. Gradually, they had settled back into their usual routine. Their argument over her trip to New Hampshire to help Alex had shaken her. Those few anxious days when he was away had made her feel wobbly and unsure. It was a relief when he returned, and their lives seemed much the same, except for a few changes.
All winter Margot had gone to her old apartment early in the morning before going down to her job at the gallery. Oliver encouraged her return to art, though when he got home in the evening, he was usually caught up in his own work and didn’t always ask about her progress. They ate their “sloppy suppers” at nine or later, as he often forgot the time. Soon it would be salad season, and Oliver’s turn to cook. They didn’t talk about Lacey’s illness and they didn’t talk about Oliver’s marriage proposal, almost as if they had an unspoken pact.
The Saturday afternoon of their visit Margot found Toni alone at her apartment. The night before Oliver had taken them all to a Brazilian restaurant for dinner. The food was good, but he had chosen the place thinking that Toni would like the music as well as the hip young waiters, many of them students at Columbia.
“Where’s your mom?” Margot asked when she let herself in.
“Taking a run,” Toni said. Toni and Lacey had toured the university that morning and met with an admissions officer.
“It’s almost warm out today,” Margot said, putting her shoulder bag on the chair near the door.
“Mom’s more of a fitness freak than ever.” Toni was sitting on the love seat with a large Columbia catalog open in her lap. She pushed it aside and looked up at her aunt. Toni’s hair was messily clipped up high on her head. She wore a long, slouchy sweater over tight jeans that flared at the bottom. Her resemblance to Lacey was stronger than ever, though the trace of worry in her gaze reminded Margot of Alex. Toni had the beginning of a fine line between her brows like her father, perhaps undetectable to someone outside the family.
“So how’d you like Columbia?”
“Pretty amazing,” she said. She poked at the catalog of the course listings. “They have everything.”
“You don’t sound enthused.”
“I’m sure Mom’s filled you in.” Toni wrinkled her lips into a pout.
“I’d love to have you here in the city.”
“Thanks.” She offered Margot a slight smile and sighed. “You don’t have to worry. Mom wins,” she said, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
“So you’ll come to Columbia?”
“Do you think I have the guts to disappoint her? My poor mother with this tragic disease?” Toni’s face crumpled, becoming more childlike, her eyes filling with tears.
“Oh, sweetie.” Margot came and sat next to her niece. “It must be so hard.”
“You have no idea. Wink has become little miss research girl. She prints out all this junk that she says we need to read. Her latest thing is brain food. Like Mom hasn’t spent her whole life as some sort of health Nazi.” Toni was crying harder now. “Dad tiptoes around us like he’s some kind of mass murderer who doesn’t want to be found out and then he disappears to Chicago. I kept hoping if we just kept going nothing would happen. Like maybe it was some big mistake after all.”
Margot put her arms around her niece. Behind her flip, savvy exterior was a girl deeply worried about her mom’s illness. Like Alex, she held everything inside. “It’s okay,” Margot said. “You can tell me about it.”
“Mom’s so hard on Ryan, so totally unfair. She always thinks she knows best.”
“She did know best in my case.”
“Meaning?” Toni wiped her wet face with her hands. She was young and pretty. Her face showed no traces of having made irreparable mistakes.
“When I was engaged to Teddy, your mom told me not to get married so quickly. She tried to warn me.”
“Dad said that guy was a jerk.”
Toni’s words stung her. So Alex had also thought she was a fool.
“I was young then, just a couple of years older than you are. I was lonely and desperate to find the kind of happiness your parents had.”
“ ‘Had’ is the operative word.”
“You mustn’t think that way. Toni, your parents are doing their best. They’re adjusting to all this, too.” Margot hugged her niece. Lacey would have known how to comfort her daughter. She had spent years putting Band-Aids on skinned knees, calming her frightened girls after nightmares, and later soothing them when they were let down by a friend or didn’t get invited to a party. “Just take things slowly,” she said, thinking how inept her own words sounded.
Toni sighed and lowered her head. Margot stroked her hair. They both looked up at the sound of a key in the door. Lacey came in, her face flushed and happy, then appeared concerned when she saw Margot with her arm around Toni. “You okay?” she asked.
Toni stood up. “I’m going to Columbia, Mom.”
Lacey came and pulled her daughter into a hug. She smiled down at Margot. An expression of delight mixed with relief fell across her face. Over her daughter’s shoulder she mouthed the words “Thank you” to her sister. But Margot knew she’d had nothing at all to do with Toni’s decision.
Oliver watched Hannah Greene walk slowly from painting to painting in his studio. He was working on a series of oils based on the twelve Olympian gods. Each piece was meant to stand alone, with the figure painted in a somewhat abstracted modern rendition, merely hinting at the actual Greek character. Hannah paused in front of Artemis, goddess of the hunt. Oliver had portrayed her as a figure of strength, her muscles shimmering but her head cast down toward the carcass of an animal. Her tears were shot with raylike lines radiating throughout the canvas. The figure wore modern dress, a twenty-first-century Diana.
“This is different for you,” Hannah said.
Oliver said nothing. He remained at the far end of the huge space, allowing Hannah to explore the work on her own. The walls of his studio were a dirty white and marred from the canvases he had hung at various stages of completion. The wooden floors were spattered with paint. A bookshelf near the door formed an alcove where he kept his desk, a computer, and files of images. A notebook on the desk was open to a page of pencil drawings and daubs of paint, colors he intended to use in his next composition.
“Powerful stuff,” Hannah said, then moved to the next painting. She had kept her coat on, since Oliver left the temperature in the studio low. Heat was expensive. He preferred to dress warmly, and as he painted, actively moving in and away from the work, he often grew hot and shed a few layers of clothing. Today he was down to a white V-neck T-shirt and his old jeans that sagged at the knees. Hannah, appearing very much the affluent collector with her expensive leather boots and matching handbag, was deeply tanned. She and June had just returned to New York after having spent the winter months at June’s house in Antigua.
He decided not to comment on or explain what she was looking at. His work had been evolving this winter in unexpected ways. While he was thrilled to have the commitment from the Croft, he was nervous about completing all the work in time. Still, he was oddly confident. He hadn’t felt this inspired in many years. He remembered when he first drove a motorcycle. He was scared shitless, but he never wanted to get off. Preparing for a show felt like that.
“So all of this is for California?”
“I took a few studies out there. They liked what they saw.” He shrugged.
“I’d like June to see these,” she said.
“None of them is finished.”
Hannah moved to another painting. The subject was Hermes. Oliver had created rays of what seemed like cable wires with a series of dots and dashes. On top he had painted an overlay, sheer like a piece of lace, of a large spread of bird wings, recognizable only from a distance. Hannah turned to Oliver. “This work’s amazing.”
“It’s coming.” He appreciated her approval. It had been a dizzying spring and he still had more to do to be ready for the show.
“By the way, how’s Margot?” Hannah asked.
“Busy right now,” he said, thinking of her mornings when she hurried away to paint. He was glad she was going back to it, but he missed having her in the apartment first thing in the day, watching him, listening to him, sharing her thoughts. Margot hadn’t shown him anything yet, saying that none of her paintings were ready. “She’s coming to San Francisco with me for the show. We may stay a while.” Oliver had no specific plan yet, but he hoped this trip to California might be a kind of turning point—not only for his work, but for Margot and him. He wanted her permanently in his life. Together. He thought it was time to consider the future.
“Be careful.”
He gave Hannah a questioning look.
“California can be addictive.”
Not long after Lacey’s trip to New York with Toni, Margot invited her sister back to see a special exhibit. A gallery in SoHo was exhibiting a group of weavers in a show called Woven Voices: Women Connecting the World. Surprisingly, the invitation had been Oliver’s idea. He had thought Lacey would enjoy another chance to get away and had told Margot that if she wanted to do something for her sister, this might be one way to help. Margot was touched by his thoughtfulness. Lacey had accepted gladly and taken the train from Boston to New York.
They stood now in front of a huge tapestry woven in the Japanese ikat style by an artist from Vermont. This piece was at least four feet high and ran the length of one wall. Sweeps of black and gray were interspersed with patterns of vivid blue that reminded Margot of Asian calligraphy with a visual strength all its own.
“Do you think it says anything?” she asked Lacey.
“There’s always a . . .” Lacey stepped closer to the weaving. “A message,” she said finally. “There’s always a story.”
Margot thought back to the introductory panels of the exhibit explaining how weaving was one of the most ancient art forms. The loom itself had changed very little over the ages. The creation of cloth to cover the body was only the beginning, and soon cultural identities emerged through fabrics. Oliver loved the story of Penelope weaving a burial shroud while waiting for her long-departed Odysseus, unraveling a little each night to show her belief that he would return, hoping all the while to keep her suitors at bay.
Oliver was often in Margot’s thoughts. He continued to be in a good mood and the long hours in his studio never seemed to tire him now.
Margot and Lacey paused in front of another large piece.
“This looks like the ocean,” Margot said.
“Reminds me of waves. Sound waves.” Lacey’s speech seemed fluent first thing in the morning, though she kept her sentences short.
“You always chose weaving as an art form. I can’t believe I’ve never asked you why.”
“It’s useful. I like making things. And I like the feel of it.” Lacey looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers wide, then turning her hands over to study her palms.
“You do beautiful work,” Margot said, thinking how her sister’s hands were not only lovely but expressive.
Lacey said nothing. They had come to a weaving in which dried grasses and pieces of twigs were incorporated into the design. Lacey stood close to the work, then backed up to get a better sense of the whole. There was a bench in the center of the room and a few moments later she sat. Margot joined her.
“Are you tired?” she asked.
“No. I just want to slow down. There’s so much here.”
Lacey’s skin was glowing from her run in Central Park first thing that morning. She pressed her lips together and then opened her mouth as if to speak and closed it.
Margot placed her hand on Lacey’s arm. “Is something bothering you? Is it the girls?”
“No. Wink is so excited about Cornell. She still can’t believe she got in.” Lacey swallowed and took in a breath. “I wish Toni was happier.”
“She will be. She loves New York.” Margot hoped she sounded encouraging.
“It’s something else.”
“Finding words?”
“Not only that.” Lacey shook her head. “It’s Alex.”
Margot’s shoulders tensed. “Alex?”
“He’s gone so much.”
“That must be hard.”
Lacey raised her hand to stop Margot from speaking. “It’s not that. I wanted him gone. Less strain. I hate the way . . . he . . . watches me.”
“I see,” Margot said.
“When he’s home . . . he’s so distant. It’s like there’s a wall between us.”
“What do you mean?” Margot shifted forward on the bench.
Lacey looked at Margot. “I know I’m at fault. We don’t talk much and when we make love . . .” Color came to her face. “It’s like he’s afraid of me. I still need that . . . part of marriage.”
Margot swallowed and withdrew her hand. “Oh,” she said. How could she talk about this with her sister? Years before, they had talked about “cute boys” or joked about TCBYB, their secret code for “This could be your boyfriend,” referring to some terrible guy they had seen. Margot had never asked Lacey about what it was like to love Alex, certainly not about their sex life. Margot felt a blush rising from her chest.
“Do you think there’s someone? Another woman?” Lacey asked.
“Oh, no.” Margot spoke quickly. A visitor looking at the tapestry with twigs turned and stared at them. Margot lowered her voice. “Lacey, he loves you. He’s worried, that’s all. Maybe that’s made him seem a little distant.”
“When he’s home, he av . . . avoi . . .”
“Avoids?”
“Don’t tell me words.” She pursed her lips. “Yes. He avoids me.” Lacey’s normally smooth brow had furrowed. Her mouth trembled.
“You must be imagining that,” Margot said abruptly. She didn’t want to think about Alex that way either. She had stashed away her confusing memories of him years ago.
“Listen, I’m starving.” Margot glanced around nervously. “Let’s finish looking. Then I want to take you to lunch. You must be hungry, too.”
Lacey stood up slowly and followed Margot into the final room of the exhibition.
Alex boarded the shuttle to New York. It was the end of April and the green shoots of bulbs had begun to emerge in Lacey’s garden. Usually on Mondays after a weekend with his family in New Hampshire, he went to Chicago to meet with his new clients. After months of intense effort he had gotten the Wingate Company back on track. His work was far from over, but he had set up meetings in New York with an interested buyer. He had finally convinced the family board of the advantages of a reorganization and sale. Fred Wingate and his cousin Mark had wanted to enlarge the business and go public, selling the family shares in hopes of making a few quick millions. Alex had advised against that plan, however, explaining that selling the entire company sooner rather than later was less risky. Given the dismal track record of the two men, he envisioned only further pitfalls if they took the helm.
Alex found his seat. All that was available this morning was a middle seat toward the rear of the aircraft. He didn’t care. It was a relief to escape New Castle. Toni’s accusing gaze followed him everywhere, as if she was still angry that he had kept Lacey’s illness a secret from her. Wink was solicitous of Lacey, hanging out at home more, seeing her friends less often. He didn’t want to offend Wink by telling her to lighten up.
After Margot’s visit in January, Lacey had been cold and unreachable for a while. She had made it clear that she wasn’t “in the mood” the first few times he had reached for her in bed. Gradually she let go of her anger, but their lovemaking became awkward and hurried. When she turned away from him afterward, he was left with a hollow sense that the woman he’d been holding and caressing hadn’t been there at all. He was afraid to say anything for fear of upsetting her again.
Often when they were alone, Lacey remained silent. Alex had never minded silence before. He liked the comfortable silences that settle in between two married people, the kind full of implicit understanding, making it unnecessary to talk. He savored those moments when all they exchanged was a look: her glance at a party if a boorish guest was dominating the conversation, a look of pleasure after one of the girls said something endearing, the expression on her face that made him feel as if he was the only one that mattered and that she could hardly wait to be alone with him. Now the silences between them were anguished and empty. Was he losing her already?
After Lacey’s last trip to New York to see Margot, he had hoped they’d gotten through the worst. He yearned for the comfortable way their lives used to be. He hoped it was still possible to return to that. Yet something was always getting in the way. One weekend he had been preoccupied with his mother, who had fallen out of her wheelchair. Fortunately, nothing was broken, but leaving the retirement home for the hospital had upset her. This past weekend Wink had insisted that she didn’t want to go away to college and leave her mother alone. Lacey had talked to her daughter for hours, trying to convince her that she didn’t want her to stay at home, that it would be years before she needed help.
For Alex, the terrible thing about spending time away from Lacey was that when he returned, he could see the progression of her disease more clearly. He was convinced that her speech had grown more choppy over the winter. Every few sentences she would stumble over a word. She had an odd habit now of shaking her head no, a slightly jerky movement, like a nervous tick. This occurred when something slowed her down. Her lips would tighten and tremble for just a moment before she would sigh and shrug, as if she were merely inconvenienced.
The flight crew made the announcements for landing, interrupting his reverie. The plane circled and dipped as it approached New York. Alex unclenched his fists and tried to relax. He had to put these thoughts aside, if only for a while.
Alex’s day in the city went well. His first round of meetings was amazingly successful. It felt great to explain a complicated financial situation, to cast it in a positive light, to have the answers ready, to speak with knowledge and conviction. He was thankful that he hadn’t lost his touch, and, indeed, he finished the agenda ahead of schedule.
He took the elevator down to the lobby and stepped outside. The air was mild, the trees bursting with new leaves. The late-afternoon light softened the sharp, angular buildings, making the city seem less intense, more manageable. He walked over to Fifth Avenue and headed north, toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He had several hours to kill before dinner with his clients and their accountants. Thinking over his successful day, he felt almost cocky.
Pedestrians with shopping bags hurried along looking as if they had places to go, people to see. He tried to distinguish between the visitors, like him, and those who lived here. Why hadn’t he thought of calling Margot? She lived here. He reached for his cell phone. She answered immediately, explaining that Monday was her regular day off. She usually spent it at her apartment—her “secret studio,” she joked—and asked him to stop by. He arrived within minutes.
She opened the shiny black door on the landing when he stepped out of the elevator, and he followed her inside. The apartment was like a doll’s house, the one main room not as big as his dining room in New Castle. Lacey kept their home in New Hampshire spare and neat. This room was the opposite. The dish on the little table by the front door overflowed with keys, pens, paper clips. Next to it was a vase of drooping tulips, a telephone, a tattered spiral notebook, and one lone glove.
“You haven’t been here in ages,” she said, giving him a quick hug.
He stepped away from her. “Lacey loves this place,” he said. “So this is where you paint.” He glanced over at the round table near the windows, cluttered with paint tubes, paper, notebooks, and a scattering of photographs. A few had been tacked up on an easel just above the canvas she had presumably been working on.
She nodded. “Most every morning. On Mondays I’m here all day. Right now I’m glad it’s not rented.”
“It’s a great place,” he said.
She gestured around her. “Oliver says he can hardly fit in here.”
Alex thought of Oliver, tall and bulky, the kind of guy who would be a large presence in any room. Margot’s apartment looked girlish, not the kind of place where a man would feel comfortable, yet her ex-husband, Teddy, had once lived here.
“Please sit down,” she said.
He lowered himself onto the sofa, pushing aside a ruffled pillow. “I can’t stay long,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable in what seemed such a personal setting. He had a strange sensation, as if he were seeing the inside of Margot’s handbag or peering into her closet.
“You mustn’t rush off,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “Why don’t we have a glass of wine? I have a bottle of white in the fridge from when Lacey was here.” Margot’s hands fluttered above him, as if now that she wasn’t painting she didn’t know quite what to do with them. She wore as a sort of smock, a large man’s shirt—Oliver’s, he presumed—over jeans. Her hair was clipped up on her head, reminding him of the way his daughters sometimes looked. It made her seem young.
He shifted on the sofa. It was low. He had a hard time fitting his knees behind the coffee table. “Sure. That’d be great.”
She disappeared through the doorway into what he imagined was the kitchen. “The wine’s nothing fancy,” she called to him. “I don’t have a thing to offer you. I don’t keep food here.”
He assured her he wasn’t hungry.
She reappeared with the wine and two glasses on a bamboo tray. The tray teetered briefly as Margot balanced it on the stack of magazines in the middle of the coffee table. She poured the wine and smiled, handing him the first glass.
“Lacey had a wonderful time at that exhibit. I should have thanked you sooner.”
“No need to thank me. There’s so little I seem to be able to do.” She poured herself a glass of the wine.
“Just knowing I can talk to you makes a difference.” He lifted his glass.
Margot lifted hers and reached over to click his. “Cheers.” Color rose to her cheeks.
“It’s nice to be in New York. Away for a bit.” He felt guilty saying this.
“Getting away is good for all of us sometimes.” She sipped her wine. Then, setting her glass down, she fiddled with the hem of her shirt. “Sorry. I must look awful.” She stood and took off the big shirt and placed it on the chair next to the easel. She wore a pale blue sweater underneath, the color of her eyes. “Painting is a messy sport.” She smiled again.
“Lacey is happy you’ve gone back to it.” Saying this made it sound like they’d discussed it at length, when in fact they spoke so little.
“It was her idea.”
He cleared his throat. “Does it come back to you easily?”
“Hardly. I feel like a beginner again. Mostly I’m working on small studies. I like painting objects close up and then far away.”
“Is Oliver helping you?”
“God, no. He’d find this laughable. He’s the real artist. I’m the wannabe.”
Alex remembered Lacey explaining how Margot’s marriage to Teddy had in some way ruined her sister’s desire to paint. Alex wondered if Oliver’s larger-than-life creativity might put a damper on her, too. He looked around him. “This is a great little place.”
“Little is right, but I’m glad I’ve kept it all these years.”
“I remember thinking it seemed like a lot of money. I gather it’s been a good investment.”
“I guess it’s worth a lot more than I paid for it. Oliver thinks I should sell it. But I like having my own place to work.”
Alex shifted, hitting his knee on the coffee table. The last time he had been alone with Margot was during her visit to New Castle in January. She seemed different in New York. “Did you notice any change in Lacey’s speech when she was here?” he asked.
“Not really.” She paused. “Well, maybe a little.” She looked away from him.
“I’m sorry to bring it up. Some days I just want to forget. I know that sounds selfish.”
“None of us can forget.”
“I want things to get back to normal, if that’s even possible. I know it’s my fault. Every time I go home I think we’ll be okay again. I feel like I’m walking on a frozen lake, only the ice isn’t solid and I’m just waiting to fall through.”
“Maybe take Lacey away for a weekend. I’d come stay with the twins.”
He shook his head. “I’ve got too much work now.” That was true, but would Lacey even want to be away with him?
“You need to keep trying, Alex. Lacey needs you.”
“You’re right. I will,” he said, suddenly weary. His gaze fell on a pile of photographs next to the magazines. The top one was a picture of a lake.
“Some old photos of Bow Lake,” Margot said, noticing his interest. She put down her glass, picked up the stack, and came to sit beside him. “I wanted to try some landscapes. I found these in a box of mementos. Here’s the cottage.” She handed him a picture and continued to sort through the others.
“The old place never changes.” He caught a whiff of her perfume, a flowery scent.
“Here’s a sunset.” She handed him another picture. “Remember the path to the beach?”
Alex held the images in his hands. He was aware of Margot close beside him—her leg not an inch from his. He focused on the picture. He could imagine the smell of the woods just from looking at the lush green leaves, the mossy forest floor, the gentle bend of the ferns. A photo of the sun glinting on the lake brought back all the old memories of summer. He remembered their grandmother. What an incredible gift she had left to Lacey and Margot. It was more than a fine piece of real estate. It was a piece of history that made them who they were. Summer after summer they returned to Bow Lake, and now Wink and Toni were contributing to their own bank of memories.
“Here’s one of Lacey.” Her arm grazed his. “It could be Toni. See?”
He took the picture. Lacey stood holding a paddle next to the green Old Town canoe. Her tanned legs and arms were lean and strong. They used to race the canoes out to the island. She wore a winner’s smile.
Margot was staring at another photograph and about to shuffle it to the bottom of the pile. “Come on,” he said. “Is that one of you?” He took it from her.
“It makes me feel so old to look at these,” she said.
In the picture Margot looked just the way she had the summer before he went to business school. He stared at her shy smile, her secretive gaze. “You were beautiful,” he said. “I mean, you still are.” Alex felt color rising to his face, remembering the one summer he had pushed to the far reaches of his brain.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, getting up, nearly toppling the bottle of wine. She sat again in the chair across from him and forced the pictures back into a neat pile. “We were all much younger then.”
Alex stared at his hands, opening and closing his fists. What had come over him? “I need to go,” he said. He rose, trying to avoid hitting the table with his knees.
“Already?” she asked.
“It’s getting late,” he said. He stood and picked up his jacket, thinking he shouldn’t have come. A small painting rested on the easel. It was a picture of the tiny island they called Junior, a short swim from her grandmother’s dock. “This is really good,” he said. Maybe he shouldn’t have looked. Artists could be funny about showing their work.
“You recognize it?” Her brows lifted.
“Junior. I’d know it anywhere.”
“I’m working on other things, but I keep going back to Bow Lake.”
He nodded, suddenly overwhelmed. Bow Lake. A generation ago. A jumble of memories rose up in his throat as if they might choke him. His life might have taken a completely different path. Abruptly, he put one hand into his jacket and reached around for the other sleeve. Margot guided the jacket up and around him. “Thanks,” he said, and turned to face her. He hugged her briefly. It was only for a moment, but the warmth of her, the softness of her hair against his cheek, caught him off guard.
“I’ll call you.” He went to the door and let himself out.