11
Yarn: A continuous strand of twisted thread.
After Alex left, Margot quickly washed out their glasses and put the wine bottle back in the fridge. She reached for the photographs on the coffee table, but rather than tuck them back in the box, she sat down again and shuffled through the stack. She placed the best one of Lacey on top. In the photo she stood with her back to the dark woods, smiling out at the world, young, strong, and seemingly perfect. Margot closed her eyes and leaned back into the cushions.
She remembered the first time she was jealous of Lacey. It was at the end of one summer at Bow Lake. Lacey, twenty, was halfway through college, and Alex had finished his freshman year. Margot, still in high school, had been only sixteen. The unexpected emotion had made her feel physically sick, as if she were coming down with the flu. The clichéd expression “green with envy” was accurate, though not the soft green like the leaves that fluttered in the trees, or the green of the ferns waving on the woodland floor, but the nasty green of overcooked asparagus, or the canned peas her mother slopped onto her dinner plate, too careless to drain them properly.
Both Alex and Lacey had lives away from Bow Lake, lives she could not yet imagine. Margot had been living that summer with Granny Winkler until this final week in August. She had a job at the Girl Scout camp down the lake, assisting the arts and crafts counselor. Her fingers were blistered from hours spent helping cranky little girls make lanyards, bracelets, and key chains that would end up at the back of a kitchen junk drawer by October.
Lacey was tanned and looked gorgeous, having taught sailing at a sleepaway camp in Maine. Alex had spent the summer working in the shipping department of his father’s manufacturing company. He didn’t see Lacey at all during the school year, since he went to a small college in western Massachusetts and Lacey went to school in Vermont. The only time they spent together was at Bow Lake. Granny Winkler joked that Alex was making up for lost time, following Lacey everywhere. “Here comes the cocker spaniel,” she would whisper to Margot, referring to Alex’s worshipful eyes.
Lacey had always treated Alex like a buddy, one of the gang who came to the lake year after year, but that year Margot had noticed a difference. She was with them almost the entire final week, and they did everything together the way they always had—racing canoes out to Junior, or rowing to the island in Pigtail, the wooden skiff that had been in the water every summer since 1935, according to their grandmother. Sometimes they took a picnic lunch and stayed for most of the afternoon, swimming off the tiny beach. Alex’s family had a motorboat, and now and again he took Lacey and Margot to Cedar Point, where a marina snack bar sold sodas and ice cream.
Sometimes they biked over to the public tennis courts, a three-mile trip to the end of the lake, and played Canadian doubles. Lacey was the strongest player, so Alex usually paired up with Margot. Alex had a long stride and ran everything down. Margot would yell “yours” from the net, knowing he was there at the back ready to bail her out of trouble. No longer awkward, Alex was more talkative now, and he and Lacey spoke of things Margot had no part of: courses at college, professors, foreign films, concerts they had attended during the school year. Margot had not crossed over into that independent world. They wouldn’t be interested in her long hours spent reading art books in the public library, trying to put off the moment when she would have to go home and listen to her mother knocking around in the kitchen, if she came down at all.
Alex and Lacey had seemed to include Margot gladly in all that they did, yet it was as if there was some invisible thread that had begun to connect them that year. They listened to each other with real attention. There was no casual or flip repartee. Even at sixteen Margot could see the way they communicated with their eyes, a lingering glance, or with their hands as they pulled a boat out of the water, fingers touching longer than necessary.
One afternoon the three of them swam out to the raft in front of Granny Winkler’s camp. It was a hot day. Stacks of clouds were building in the west. Earlier, Lacey had brought the laundry in from the clothesline, as their grandmother warned of a storm. Margot had helped her fold the cotton sheets bleached white from the sun and the towels that would feel scratchy and rough on their skin when they dried off later after a swim.
Lacey reached the raft first, followed by Alex. When Margot pulled herself up the ladder, they were already lying beside each other, on their stomachs in the sun. Margot shook herself and squeezed the water out of her ponytail before lying next to Lacey. Her arms were covered with goose bumps. The breeze was picking up and the waves rocked the raft in a gentle motion. The lake water evaporated quickly on her skin, causing her to shiver momentarily. Gradually, the heat of the sun warmed her back. She already dreaded the day next week when she and her father would drive Lacey back to school. She pushed that thought away and dozed beside them.
The night before, Alex had driven them to the movies two towns away. They had returned late. Margot had tiptoed upstairs so as not to wake her grandmother, eager to have first turn in the bathroom. Lacey and Alex had remained on the porch. Margot wondered how late Lacey had stayed up, though today Lacey had been at breakfast earlier than usual. Margot wondered if they had made out there in the dark. Were they now boyfriend and girlfriend? She didn’t want to ask Lacey, for fear that if they were a couple it would mean she would have to leave them alone.
Now that Margot was awake, her hip bones felt sore against the hard surface of the raft. She came to her elbows. Alex and Lacey were still beside her, but Alex seemed to have moved closer to Lacey, his left foot touching hers. Lacey’s head faced away from him, but his arm lay across her back, his forearm against her bare skin. He had light blond hairs on his muscled arm. His hand curled around Lacey’s hip, as if he owned her. Margot wondered what it would be like to have his arm around her own waist, the weight of it pressing onto her warm skin. At that moment, she wanted to be Lacey, to have Alex’s attention, not as a tennis partner, a playmate, or a friend, but as something more.
Saliva rose in her mouth as she watched them sleep beside her, unaware of her scrutiny. She felt an uneasy loosening between her legs when she imagined what it would be like to have Alex so close to her. Suddenly, she wished she could disappear; she felt like an interloper, the one on the outside looking in.
Carefully, she got up on her hands and knees, then pushed to her feet and rose. She stared down at Alex and Lacey. Saying nothing, she stepped to the edge of the raft and dove into the lake.
Margot glanced at the photographs once again, this time pulling one of Alex out of the pile. She instantly recalled that light fluttery feeling when you first liked a boy, that lovely sexual awareness that seemed to come out of nowhere. She rose from the sofa looking down at the place where Alex had been sitting. It had gotten late. She stashed the photographs back in the box and went to get her coat.
“Mags, where’ve you been?”
Oliver heard the clatter of Margot’s keys being tossed onto the tray in the hall. He had set the table for dinner in the living room. Four white cardboard containers from Mai Thai cooled on the kitchen counter. It was almost eight. He had come home earlier than usual, expecting Margot to be there, and after watching the news for a while, he ordered from the Thai place, imagining her imminent arrival.
“Sorry,” she said, coming into the kitchen. Her face was flushed, as if she’d walked quickly. “You already ordered?” She leaned into him and kissed his cheek. Her skin felt cool and moist against his.
“I thought you’d be here earlier.” He opened a container of rice, a solid gummy mass. “We’ll have to nuke it.”
Margot reached for the set of glass bowls they used to reheat takeout. She poured out the gelatinous-looking shrimp pad thai. “Didn’t you get the tofu one?”
“The other carton.”
She nodded, and while the first dish revolved in the microwave she emptied the second carton into the other bowl. Oliver opened the fridge and pulled out a beer.
“Beer or wine?” he asked.
“Wine,” she said.
“So what made you so late?”
“Oliver, you’re the one who’s usually late.”
He shot her a glance, but she didn’t appear annoyed.
“I had a visitor,” she said. The microwave dinged and she removed the pad thai, set the steaming dish on the counter, and added the tofu. “Alex stopped by.” Her back was to him. She mashed up the boxes of rice.
“What’s he doing in New York?” Oliver pictured the gaunt New Englander in a heavy sweater and corduroy pants on the streets of the city.
“He’s selling some company. The buyers are based here. We didn’t talk much about that.”
“He came to your apartment?”
“He had some free time late this afternoon. He was walking up to the Met and got me on my cell.” She stopped talking to put the rice in the microwave after covering it with a sheet of wax paper. “He wanted to talk about Lacey.”
Of course, Lacey. Margot carried both dishes of food to the table. He followed with the rice. It smelled nutty and damp, making him suddenly hungry. He returned to the kitchen for his beer and to pour a glass of wine for Margot. The cork in the Chardonnay was wedged tightly in the bottle and didn’t yield to his tugging. He grabbed a dish towel and yanked harder, finally opening it with a dull pop. He was annoyed to think of Alex calling Margot and going to see her at her apartment. Why hadn’t he called ahead and arranged to meet them both for dinner the way he had on a few previous trips to the city? Lacey’s illness was altering the way they all operated.
He filled Margot’s glass and carried it to the table. She was sitting still, not having served herself from the dishes of food.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded and spooned some rice onto her plate. “Thanks. This is nice.”
“So what did he say about Lacey?”
“She’s not great. He can see it more than the girls can. Each time he comes home from a trip she seems a little worse.” Margot sighed, allowing her shoulders to droop.
They ate quietly for a few minutes.
“You came home early,” she said. “Good day?”
“Not bad. I needed to stretch another canvas. I’d rather tackle that in the morning.” He’d left his studio on another high. The images were coming with a kind of urgency. Most nights it was hard to stop working. “So, were you painting when Alex dropped in?” he asked.
“I was cleaning up. About to come home.”
“Did you show him your work?”
“I didn’t show him, but he saw it.” She put down her fork and looked across the room at the window overlooking the river.
“You won’t let me see anything.” Oliver realized he sounded petulant.
Margot frowned and turned to meet his gaze. “He literally popped in. I wasn’t planning on his visit. I couldn’t exactly run around and hide things.”
“So why are you so secretive with me?”
“I’m not ready to show you, that’s all.” She resumed eating.
“You come to my studio whenever you want to,” he said, taking a large mouthful of shrimp and noodles. Small pieces of peanuts fell off his fork and scattered onto the table.
“That’s different. I don’t want you to see my work until it’s better.”
He leaned back in his chair and took a swallow of beer. “How long will Alex be here?”
“He’s leaving tomorrow. He’ll probably be back a few more times before he closes this deal.” She shrugged as if she hadn’t given it any thought. “Let’s walk tonight. We should take advantage of the full moon on the river.”
Usually, Oliver liked after-dinner walks with Margot. They both agreed it was one of the pleasures of New York to stroll along Broadway after a good meal, looking in windows, maybe going as far as the big chain bookstore to browse. It was open until ten. There was a gritty Italian coffee place where they sometimes stopped for an espresso and to watch people hurrying along the crowded sidewalks. New Yorkers were out on the street until all hours. But tonight he wanted to stay in. He felt the urge to hibernate, to keep Margot to himself. He was working as hard as he had in years and at the end of the day he was exhausted.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Oh, please. I want to be out. It’s a beautiful night.” Margot looked unusually energized. Tonight he felt the ten years older that he was. She started to clear the table. He rose and followed her, his legs heavy and stiff.
The May evening was cool, but the knife-edged sharpness of the New England spring had eased. Lacey had spent part of the afternoon working in her garden. Alex had observed her from the distance of his office window. It was too soon to plant, but she had told him earlier that she wanted to clean up the perennial bed. She looked happy out in the fresh air, bending and moving with the same easy grace she had had when they first moved to New Castle.
Age was an odd thing. On some days he awoke feeling no different from when he was a young man; on others his tiredness at the end of the day amazed him. It was as if his body was betraying him. What could be so hard about his white-collar job? He thought of the fishing boats going out to sea before dawn, the men facing hours of grueling work. He knew he had nothing to complain about.
At seven it was still light. Lacey was in the kitchen starting dinner. He decided to make a fire in the living room. After carrying in some logs from the shed off the garage, he knelt before the grate. His mother had loved having a fire on a spring evening. She used to exclaim over the smell of wood smoke in the spring, especially in June when it mingled with the scent of roses.
Alex had meant to get over to see his mother in the afternoon, but work had kept him in his office. The sale of the fertilizer company to the New York investors seemed to be unraveling all of a sudden, and after a series of conference calls he had booked a flight to New York for the following day. So much for thinking he had accomplished his goal. He felt the hard brick of the hearth beneath his knees. After crumpling the newspaper that Lacey kept in a basket by the fireplace, he arranged the logs toward the back of the hearth. He waited for the flames to build.
Soon enough, puffs of gray smoke wafted back in his face. He grabbed a clump of newspaper and fanned the flames. He thought of the huge stone fireplace at Lacey’s grandmother’s camp at Bow Lake and remembered one summer just before he and Lacey were about to leave for college. Was he in love with her then, or simply an eighteen-year-old in lust? He had never considered Lacey his girlfriend. She was a year older; he would be a lowly freshman in a school hours away from hers. Lacey had seemed like a dream come to life, but in reality she had remained out of reach.
They used to make out on the sagging sofa in front of the dying embers while Grandmother Winkler snored in a room at the end of the hall. Margot, still a kid, slept upstairs. He rarely saw Lacey the summers after that except for the few days at the end of August before returning to their separate lives on different campuses. Their earlier flirtation became a distant memory. It seemed to him that Margot changed overnight in those years, going from a sprite of a girl following Lacey around like her shadow to a young woman who was very much her own person.
Margot. He really shouldn’t have gone to see her last week. Yet it had felt good to talk to her about Lacey. He didn’t want to burden his daughters, and outside his family no one loved Lacey more or understood her better than Margot.
“Mom always cracks the window to make it draw.”
Alex, startled by the sound of Wink’s voice, staggered to his feet. “The chimney’s a little damp.” He leaned in again and fanned the flames. The logs were starting to burn. “Where’s Toni?” He looked at Wink, who had slumped down on the sofa.
“Do you need to ask?” she said.
“Mom okay with that?” Lacey had complained less about all the time Toni spent with Ryan, having decided that once Toni went off to college the romance would probably peter out.
“She’ll be home for dinner.”
Alex looked at his watch, then back at the fire. “Let’s hope so.” The smoke didn’t seem as bad to him. He reached for the poker and pushed the logs farther to the rear, then took a seat in the chair opposite his daughter. Part of him wished she had a boyfriend too. Wink, always so studious, seemed almost brooding these days. Even now her head rested against the back of the sofa as if she were too burdened with worries to raise it. “What’s going on with you, Mouse?” he asked, using his special pet name for her.
“Have you paid my fall tuition yet?” She appeared to be studying her fingernails and then pushed at her cuticles.
“We sent the amount to hold your place,” he said, watching her face carefully. Her initial excitement after being accepted at Cornell had waned. “The first-semester tuition is due in August. Don’t worry. Your old man is working hard.” He smiled, wanting her to think this was a joke. Although he and Lacey had saved for years, knowing they would have two in college at once, he couldn’t afford to let his business slack off. He was well aware of when the tuition payments were due.
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Know what?”
“If I want to go. That’s all.”
“Wink, Cornell was your first choice. Going to that university is a dream come true.”
“Mom’s dream.”
“Not just Mom’s dream. You told me you loved the place. They’ve got that awesome observatory.”
“It’s not the school. I’m kind of thinking I’d rather be home.”
“Winky, everybody leaves home sometime.”
“But Mom needs me. I can help her when it gets harder for her to speak.”
Alex got up and went to Wink on the sofa. He put his arm around her. “Mouse, you already help her so much. Mom’s going to be fine without you. She’s strong. She’s going to figure out how to deal with this. I’m going to help her. The last thing she wants is for you to put your life on hold.”
“I’m afraid, Dad. I think it’s worse.” Wink curled forward.
Alex rubbed her back. What could he tell her? Lacey was worse. “You’ll make Mom proud and happy by going to college. She wants you to move on.” He kissed the top of Wink’s head. Her heavy golden hair fell across her face. “There’s a whole world out there just waiting for you,” he said.
“Alex, this room is filled . . . with smoke.” Neither had heard Lacey come in. Wink sat up. Alex withdrew his hand. Lacey went to the front window and struggled to lift the sash.
“Wait,” he said. He got to his feet and crossed the room. “Let me help you. I think it’s drawing now,” he said, raising the window. “Still, if you want to air it a bit . . .” Before he could complete his sentence Lacey went over to Wink.
“What’s the”—she coughed and flapped one hand up and down as if the smoke was making her cough—“the matter?”
“Wink and I were just talking about college. She’s concerned about going away.”
“She’s going.” The words flew off Lacey’s tongue.
“Mom,” Wink said, her voice imploring.
“You’ll be fine.” Lacey spoke carefully, her words measured.
“Mom, can’t we just talk about it?”
“Not now,” Lacey said. She gave Wink a hug and squeezed her shoulders. “The chicken.” She gave Alex a dark look, as if she assumed he had been the one who’d raised the question of college in the fall for Wink. Her lips were pursed and trembling. “Is ready.”
Before Alex had a chance to explain his discussion with Wink, a door slammed in the distance and Toni called out, “I’m home. Where is everybody?”
Lacey turned away and headed to the kitchen. Her back was rigid, her step determined.
“Dad,” Wink said, “I just want to be able to talk about it. I tried to tell Mom the other day and she had a meltdown.”
“Not now, Mouse,” he said. “We better get in to dinner.” He poked once more at the fire and moved the screen to the front of the hearth. He could hear Toni and Lacey in the kitchen and wanted to get in there to keep the peace. He pulled Wink to her feet. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “I promise.”
Margot was surprised to hear from Alex the following Monday. She had been at her apartment all day painting and had to dig wildly through her handbag to retrieve her cell phone, thinking it might be Oliver wanting to make plans for dinner.
“I’m on the last shuttle tonight,” Alex said.
“Oh,” she said faintly, disoriented that it was him.
“Any chance you could meet me for a drink?”
“You’re in the city again?” Hearing his voice so unexpectedly made her feel as if she’d been swimming underwater and had just broken through the surface, her ears still clogged and her eyes blurry.
“Yeah. I’ve had a lousy day. I just wanted to talk. I mean, well, you must be busy. You and Oliver probably have plans.” His voice faded.
“No. It’s fine.” She looked over at the canvas she’d been working on. A wet brush filled with a leafy shade of green lay on the table. “I need a few minutes here to clean up.”
His voice brightened momentarily and he asked her to join him at the bar in the Michelangelo Hotel, where he usually stayed when in the city. He paused and added, “If it’s not a good time . . .”
“It’s okay. Sure. Tell me where again.”
Alex gave her the street address, in midtown.
Margot didn’t need to hurry home. Oliver had been working late all week. His paintings had to be shipped soon for his show’s opening at the end of May. The night before, he had arrived home after eleven, smelling of turpentine, his hands speckled with paint. He’d brought his supper on a tray and a glass of wine for each of them into their bedroom. Margot had been reading, trying to stay awake. Drinking the wine dulled her earlier annoyance, but later, when sleep eluded her, she thought back to Oliver’s marriage proposal at Christmas. That intense discussion of their future together seemed to have been forgotten in his all-consuming painting. Lately, when they talked at all, it was about California, the show, Oliver. She might as well have vanished. Why not go out for a drink with Alex? Didn’t she deserve a little fun?
When Margot emerged from the subway, the early-evening air was gentle. The people on the street seemed to have spring fever. Two young women passing by her had bare legs and tropical-colored scarves knotted around their throats, as if in anticipation of summer. One man clutched a bouquet of daffodils and took a moment to straighten his tie while waiting at the light. Margot felt a brief twitter of excitement at the idea of going into a bar to meet Alex. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d even been in a bar by herself.
But as she approached the hotel, thinking of Alex again made her slightly uneasy. She remembered the way he had stared at her painting of Bow Lake. His expression had grown distant, as if he’d forgotten she was there. While he’d fumbled with his jacket on his way out, she had wondered what memories he still kept from those long-ago summers. All week her mind had wandered back to his visit. Why had he come in the first place? After leaving so awkwardly, why did he want to see her again?
Before stepping through the revolving door into the hotel, she smoothed her T-shirt over her pants and buttoned her linen blazer. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The hotel was an expensive one, filled with businessmen during the week and offering theater package deals on weekends. The lobby had a hushed seriousness that promised comfort and anonymity. Margot didn’t spend much time in midtown. She felt out of place and quickly scanned the room.
The bar was to the right of the reception desk, between two ornately carved doors. She stepped into the darkness and waited for someone to seat her, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. A hostess in a slim skirt and four-inch heels asked her name and then led her across the room to a banquette along the wall, where Alex sat. He wore a dark suit and white shirt. His angular nose gave him an elegant profile. It would have been an austere face if not for his mouth, which was wide and softened when he smiled. He stood and kissed her lightly on the cheek while the hostess moved the table out so that she could join him on the bench. The chairs and the walls were covered in brown velvet, giving the room an expensive intimacy.
“You look like spring,” he said.
Margot felt underdressed in the swishy bar. She slid in next to him. Her legs seemed to stick on the velvet banquette like one piece of Velcro to another.
“So, you had a bad day?” she asked, wishing he wouldn’t look at her so intently. She noticed he was already sipping a glass of wine.
“The whole deal is starting to unravel.” He lifted his glass. “I hope you don’t mind I started without you.” He smiled and asked her what she’d like.
“Whatever you’re having,” she said.
He signaled the server and pointed to his glass. The waiter returned in no time with a glass of wine for her. Alex looked serious and important to her tonight, more at ease than when he had come to her apartment. He raised his glass and she clicked hers against his. She was startled to see their reflection when she glanced in the mirror across the room. Here, in this unexpected environment, they looked like two strangers.
“It’s a long way from New Hampshire. I hope this place is okay.” He put his glass down after taking a sip.
“Is this about the company you’re helping in Chicago?”
“It’s tough when you’re dealing with a family business. For the people involved, everything is personal.” He told Margot about the complexity of family-run businesses and how family-owned companies rarely lasted beyond the second generation. She listened, sipped her wine, and began to relax.
“I came to talk to the potential buyers in person. They’re getting nervous about some environmental issues.”
“Because it’s fertilizer?” she asked.
“Anytime you deal with chemicals.” He stopped abruptly. “Gosh, Margot. I’ve gone on too long. Please forgive me.”
“No, not at all. You make it interesting.”
“You’re great to listen. Tell me about your painting.”
“I seem to be hooked again. Carl lets me start at the gallery at eleven and I’ve cut back my hours. I’ll put in extra hours when we hang the next show.”
“Lacey’s always said you have real talent.”
Margot straightened, realizing that they hadn’t spoken yet of her sister. “How is she?” she asked.
“The same.” He motioned to the waiter. “Would you like another?”
Margot hesitated, but Alex raised his hand to indicate two more glasses of wine.
“She sounded pretty good earlier this week,” Margot said quickly. “She gave me the date for the girls’ graduation in June to be sure I had it on my calendar.”
“Always planning ahead.” Alex leaned against the bench as if weary. “I’m trying to get her excited about Italy. I’m hoping this trip will be good for all of us.”
Margot remembered what Lacey had said about Alex, the way he acted almost afraid of her. She shifted her position and looked around the crowded bar. The wine tasted good and slipped down easily. “Where will you be going?”
“A few days in Rome. Then we’re driving up through Tuscany. Two weeks in all.”
“It sounds dreamy.”
“The girls are at least pretending to look forward to it.”
“You know they’ll have fun.” Margot hoped Toni wasn’t making a fuss about leaving Ryan for so long.
“We haven’t been to Europe since our honeymoon.” He swirled the wine in his glass and seemed to study it.
“I’m sure it will make her happy.”
“I don’t know, Margot. Things are strained.” He turned to face her.
She swallowed and met his gaze briefly.
“I probably shouldn’t have called you again, but I wanted to talk. You’re the only one who understands.”
“I’m not sure what I can say.” She wished they weren’t sitting side by side. The velvet bench held her trapped.
“Lacey’s shutting me out. No matter what I do or say, it’s never the right time. We used to tell each other everything. Now, she tells me nothing. It’s not just the speech.” He interlaced his fingers and pressed his hands together, then drew them apart.
“She’s working through so much,” Margot said. “I mean, the girls are graduating, going away in the fall. That’s got to be hard for her too.”
“Wink’s getting nervous about going away from home. Lacey’s trying to convince her it’s for the best.”
“At least they’re talking about it,” Margot said, knowing she didn’t want to get involved.
“It’s not just that. There’s the homeless shelter. She’s trying to get a grant for the arts project for the kids. Now she’s formed a committee for that.”
“She’s always liked being busy.”
“Busy all right. I’m the last person on her list. If I’m even on it.”
“Alex, you mustn’t say that.” Margot eased slightly away from him.
“I know I sound like a selfish bastard. Is it wrong to want time with her? She won’t let me in.” He picked up his napkin and tossed it onto the table.
“Talk to her,” Margot blurted out, feeling annoyed. “She needs to know how you feel.” She longed to be outside again, drinking in the warm air and not this wine that was making her head fuzzy.
I’ve tried,” he said. “This disease is turning us into different people.” He pushed his glass away from him and slumped back in his seat.
Margot drew in her breath and tried to remain patient. “You’ve got to give her time. Lacey is trying to find a way to live with this too. And you’ll have those weeks in Italy. Getting away will help.” Just then Margot longed to get away herself. She wanted to help Alex, but this conversation was going nowhere. She’d given up her precious painting time for him, and was thinking now about the shade of green she wanted to layer into the woods on a canvas she had begun that day.
“I’m sorry to unload on you.”
“There’s also Bow Lake. Lacey loves it there. She’s never missed a summer. Time up there in August will do her good.”
For the next few moments neither of them spoke. The bar was growing busier. The hostess seated two couples next to them and Margot had to shift closer to Alex to make room for the woman’s oversized handbag on the banquette between them.
He turned to face her. “I’ve been thinking about your paintings.”
“They’re not very good.” She smoothed her hand across the table. The surface was cool and polished. “I should try something else.”
“That one of Junior is amazing. You got that light—the way it spills across the water in the late afternoon.”
“Life was so simple then, so uncomplicated.” She brought her hand to her mouth. She considered the group of paintings she’d been working on over the last weeks. Was that why she kept trying to paint the scenes from her childhood summers? Real artists challenged themselves, pushing themselves into uncomfortable zones, reaching for the edge, whereas she kept hungering for the simple beauty of something long ago. She was making pretty pictures. That was all. Oliver wouldn’t call it art.
“I’ve been thinking of all our summers there.” Alex paused. “There was that time. . . .”
Margot was afraid of what he might say. She put her hands in her lap and felt for her napkin. She twisted it in her fingers. Her stomach churned and she regretted having had a second glass of wine.
“I still feel bad that I didn’t talk to you after I left that last summer.”
“There’s no need to say anything.” She threw her napkin onto the table, suddenly knowing that he hadn’t forgotten that last summer either.
“I shouldn’t have . . .” He reached for her hand, and held it briefly.
“Alex, all that was a long time ago.” Margot pushed the table out an inch or two. “Please.”
“Your paintings make it real again.”
“You mustn’t talk about that. Not ever.” She had to get out.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. Please forgive me.”
“I need to go.” She motioned to their waiter, who pulled out the table, releasing her.
“Please, Margot.” He stood as if to embrace her. The waiter stepped away.
“We mustn’t look back,” she said, aware of the people around them who must be wondering what was going on, the table ajar, Alex looking distraught. “Really. I’d better leave.” She hurried to the door.
Once outside, Margot breathed in the fresh air. The evening had cooled. Her legs felt wobbly and her balance unsteady. She looked down at the hand Alex had held, half expecting some kind of mark to remain on her skin. Ridiculous. All that remained was what was inside her head.