A Slender Thread

Margot hailed a cab, gave the driver her address, and collapsed onto the backseat. Her heart pounded as the taxi bumped and lurched out of midtown. When the driver reached West Seventy-Second Street she asked him to let her out at the edge of Riverside Park, hoping that walking the rest of the way home would help to clear her head. Neither the soft, freshly green leaf canopy of the trees nor the gentle evening light mangaged to soothe her. She navigated her way north, dodging baby strollers pushed by nannies, dogs pulling ahead of their owners, clots of teenagers plugged into electronic devices. The sounds of children echoed up from the playground below.

Margot caught her heel on the cobbled path and lunged forward, but managed to regain her balance without falling. At first confused, she felt her anger grow. “Decide? What are you talking about?”

“Mags, the Croft chose twelve paintings and they told me they’d pay the shipping for an additional three. I want you to help me choose. You’ve got the eye.”

Need, she thought. Now he needs me. Alex had needed to talk because only she could understand. And now Oliver. What she needed right now was to be left alone. She slowed her steps. Alone. Did she truly want that? She pushed aside the image of Alex’s anguished face and saw Oliver—energized, driven, wanting to capture in art what no one else ever had. Some days Oliver stayed lost inside himself, unable to surface into the real world. Once, she had awakened in the night and he had held her close, whispering reassurances that only she could get him through, that without her, nothing would matter. She looked once more at her hand, the hand Alex had taken in his. “I’m on my way,” she said.

Margot found a taxi on West End Avenue. The driver began the slow, lurching journey downtown. Thanks to Alex, the memories she’d stowed carefully away like the old photographs in her box of mementos had surfaced in sharp focus.

She and Alex had both gone to Bow Lake by themselves the summer before her sophomore year in college. Margot had volunteered to close the cottage for her grandmother. It was after Labor Day. Alex had come to do some final chores for his parents before leaving for his first year of business school.

The lake was quiet. Most summer residents had departed. The hum of motorboat engines no longer filled the air, voices ceased to echo across the lake, and gone were the creaking and banging of porch doors with the revolving arrival and departure of visiting family and friends. That night only the sound of a loon carried across the water, breaking the silence like a lament.

“On the porch,” Margot replied, immediately recognizing his voice. She listened to the soft approach of his footsteps on the pine-covered path that connected the two camps through the woods. She had arrived that afternoon but had not yet mustered the energy to tackle the chores on her grandmother’s checklist: emptying the flowerpots into the compost heap, draining the hoses, bringing the porch furniture into the living room, dragging the canoe under the porch, stripping the beds, doing the final wash, and stowing the linens and pillows in the cedar chests, out of the way of the hungry critters that somehow always found a way to make themselves a home in the cottage for the winter. Margot knew the routine. She had helped her grandmother do it for years.

Alex opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. “No electricity?” he asked, as though he had seen Margot only the other day. As they had grown older, Margot, Lacey, and Alex had spent less time at Bow Lake, but the old cottages in New Hampshire always remained part of their lives—a special place to which they returned periodically, like migratory birds.

“Too lazy to get up and turn on the lights,” she said. “I kind of like sitting in the dark.” She stood and they hugged briefly, the way they usually did, though being alone with Alex at the lake seemed strange to her, as if they were both playing hooky or had been caught somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. Lacey and all their other friends were already at their jobs or back in school.

“She said she saw you in Boston earlier in the summer.” Margot knew that Alex was starting at Harvard Business School in the fall and that he had spent his summer working at his father’s company in New Hampshire.

“Yeah. I went into the city to look for an apartment.” He shifted his position. The wicker creaked. “She showed me around her neighborhood. I ended up getting a place with two other guys closer to school.”

Margot couldn’t see his face, but his body seemed to give off a kind of energy. Summer after summer they had swum to the raft, raced the canoes, hiked the trails in the woods. Though still tall and lanky, he seemed more solid now, more like a man. Over the summer she’d gone out with a few of the guys she’d known in high school. Compared to Alex, they seemed like boys.

She smoothed her hair back, relieved that it was dark. “Well, you’ll probably get to see more of Lacey,” she said, wondering if there was anything between Alex and Lacey now, or if their summer flirtations were a thing of the past.

Margot realized Alex couldn’t have talked to Lacey recently. “She’s on a retreat with some of the faculty from her school. She starts teaching next week.”

“Mine, too. I’ve missed this place.” Margot leaned forward and rested her arms on her legs. “Bow Lake feels like an escape. Now more than ever.”

Margot could picture her sister, strong even when their mother went into the hospital with her liver barely functioning, and after her death, remaining kind and generous, being a help to their father. Lacey would have had the composure to tell Alex what they had been through, recounting the events in the calm voice of a real grown-up. Margot had either raged at the injustice of barely ever having had a mother or remained curled up on her bed during the final quarter of her freshman year, eventually flunking two of her four classes. It had been Lacey who called the dean and arranged for Margot to take incompletes, allowing her the summer to make up the work.

Alex had come to their mother’s funeral. He’d worn a navy blazer, and a recent haircut had made him look boyish and vulnerable. At the end of the service, he hugged Lacey outside the church, and he hugged Margot, too. It was a windy day. His blazer had felt cool to her touch.

There was a reception at their house in Concord after the service. The living room was filled with neighbors, some of her father’s friends from work, and a few of the cousins from South Carolina, one of whom monopolized Margot in the dining room. Lacey passed trays of sandwiches while her father remained by the door greeting their guests. Margot kept watching for Alex, thinking how seeing him made her feel better.

Now at the lake, sitting on the porch with him months later, she found it easy to talk. “I wasn’t that sad when Mom died. Part of me was relieved. How shitty is that? Now I don’t know if it’s guilt or what, but some days I just start crying for no reason.”

“I’m really sorry.” Alex reached over and placed his hand on her back. “It’s going to get better. You’ve got college ahead, your friends, and . . .”

“It’s like I can’t move,” she said. “I got here this afternoon, and all I’ve done is look out at the lake, like maybe I can just stop time if I stay totally still.”

Alex shifted closer to her and took her hand. His hair was thicker now and coarser than she remembered, curling slightly where it met his collar. Being in the near dark gave her courage, and without a second thought she sat back and leaned against him. The sleeve of his flannel shirt was soft on her cheek. “I’m kind of a mess these days,” she said.

Margot felt the warmth of his breath in her hair. They sat quietly for a while. Never-forgotten images of past summers rose in her mind: his tanned legs, the length of his back as he climbed onto the raft, the fine blond hairs on his hands.

Alex brought his hand to her face. His fingers traveled across her forehead, down the length of her nose, touching her lips and chin, pausing at her neck. She imagined he was feeling her profile as if to compare it with Lacey’s. She and Lacey had the same nose, the same chin, and in the dark he might think she was Lacey, maybe the Lacey she had seen him flirting with over the years.

She sat very still. Yes. In the dark, she could be Lacey. She could be the Lacey who teased the skinny boy next door, who joked with him, who coaxed him onto the sailboat in a stiff breeze, who hiked ahead of him on the trail to Boulder Mountain. Lacey, the capable one, the leader, the girl who made Alex laugh, the girl who made him come alive. Had he ever made love with her sister?

The wicker settee squeaked again. Margot raised her face to his. She wasn’t so different from Lacey. They shared the same history and the same love of this place. She put her arms around him and kissed him first.

“I want to be with you.” A voice she didn’t know she had poured into the dark. “I’ve thought of you so much.” She kissed him deeply this time. He said nothing, but kissed her back, bringing his hand to her waist.

“Let’s not talk.” Margot kissed him again. Suddenly nothing mattered anymore to her except to be held and loved by Alex. Whether her need rose from loneliness, simple longing, or something more, she wanted him.

The wind brushed through the trees high above them. He smelled like the pine woods around the lake. His body felt warm and familiar to her, as if she had always known it.

The following morning Margot awoke with the light. Alex had left her asleep sometime during the night. He had covered her with a blanket, though it hadn’t been cold.

Throughout the morning, as Margot went about her chores, she heard from his cottage the sounds of a ladder being moved, a car engine starting, a screen door slamming. Maybe he was cleaning gutters or putting on a coat of paint to touch up the camp before winter.

Margot went down to the water for a swim before lunch. Alex didn’t appear. She closed her eyes and dozed on the dock, replaying the feeling of his hands, the scent of his skin, and the warmth of his body. No matter what happened, she was glad they had been together.

She spent the afternoon packing the staples in the kitchen into boxes to bring home and then started on the laundry. Eventually the memory of the previous night began to fill her with doubts. Why hadn’t he come over to visit and acknowledge what had happened? Did he regret their night together? She had come on to him. Maybe he was wishing she had been Lacey.

Before losing her courage entirely, she took the path to the Georges’ cottage. Alex was seated on the porch sipping a beer. “Margot,” he said, coming awkwardly to his feet.

“I don’t care.” Margot laughed uncertainly. The tightness in her neck released a bit. She shrugged. “Let’s not think about that.” She walked toward him. “Come on. This is Bow Lake. The last days of summer.”

He handed her a beer and asked if she wanted to go down to the dock. They walked side by side on the worn path, their arms brushing. The bottle of beer was cool and wet in Margot’s hand. She sipped from it when they reached the water. The sun was about to set and the trees on the opposite shore formed a purple silhouette against a pink sky. She remembered Lacey telling her to keep her eyes off the setting sun when they were little girls, saying she would go blind if she stared too long. The memory of Lacey at Bow Lake on an afternoon like this felt like a bubble caught in Margot’s throat. She took another swallow of beer, telling herself there couldn’t really be anything between Lacey and Alex.

“I was thinking about what you said last night,” Alex said, breaking the silence that had settled between them. “You’re right. It’s like time stops at Bow Lake. I’m here and I’m almost twenty-three, but it’s like I’m still ten. Nothing changes.” He sat down on the dock, cross-legged, facing the water. Margot joined him, allowing her knees to touch his.

“The air smells the same. The lake too.” He paused and appeared to be lost in thought. “You know how when you’re swimming and the water is icy cold, and then you hit a warm pocket, maybe a spring-fed place, or an area heated by the sun?”

He had been looking across the water, his gaze set on Junior, the island now a dark mound in the distance. He turned to Margot and spoke softly. “This is one of those times.”

He picked up his beer and drank, arching his neck to swallow the last of it. He set the bottle down. “Still, even when it’s like that, one of those amazing warm places, there’s all this cold water you’ve got to swim through to get back.”

“Please. For now let’s just pretend that time’s stopped.” Margot got to her feet and pulled him up beside her, leading him up the path to her grandmother’s porch. They made love again that night.

During the three days that followed, they did their chores at their separate places, but at the end of each afternoon Margot went to Alex’s cottage, or he to hers.

On Margot’s last day at Bow Lake, Alex met her on the dock to help her carry the green canoe up to the cottage to stow under the porch. There, she would cover it in the heavy gray tarp that smelled like the old raincoats pushed to the back of the hall closet.

When they reached Junior, Margot, who had rolled up the legs of her jeans, swung her leg over the canoe and waded toward shore. Alex followed, towing the canoe by the rope. After pulling the boat onto the beach, he sat beside Margot on the shale-covered shore, digging his heels into the stones. The water lapped at their feet.

A steady breeze was coming from the west, though the sun was warm. The surface of the lake was broken by a light chop. Margot’s arms were tired. She followed Alex’s gaze as he shaded his eyes with his hands and looked across the lake. The two old camps were barely visible in the distance. Neither said a word. She closed her eyes, happy for the beautiful day, comfortable that there was no need to talk.

There was a clearing on the wooded shore of Junior where they used to take picnic lunches when they were children. Margot pointed to it now. “Let’s stay just a while longer,” she said, pulling him toward the shelter in the trees. “Please, just once more.” She imagined making love with him there under the branches with the sun peeking through the leaves.

“I’ve got to get back.” His brow had furrowed and he went over to the canoe, shoving it into the lake. Resigned, Margot yanked up her pant legs, waded into the cold water, and helped push the canoe off the shore. They paddled back. The wind picked up. Goose bumps emerged on her arms. Their easy banter had trickled down to a few words.

They each carried an end. Water dripped off the edges when they flipped the boat over, hoisting it above their heads. The canoe wasn’t heavy as much as ungainly as they made their way up the path.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said, pulling and then pushing the awkward green form up under the porch decking. Like a fish, she thought, the canoe looked more graceful in the water.

She nodded. She knew he had to leave. His mother had asked him to be back in Newfields for a family dinner that evening. “Thanks for everything,” she said.

Margot wanted to say more, but couldn’t think what. He bent and kissed her lips lightly, then turned and walked back to his cottage to finish loading his car.

Margot went to the screened porch to bring in one final chair. Her father expected her home as well. Tomorrow the caretaker and his helpers would take in the dock and drain the pipes in the cottage. Soon, she and Alex would be hours away from each other. Who knew what might happen? And there would always be next summer at Bow Lake. She remembered Granny Winkler’s words—if you don’t go home, you can’t come back. They didn’t make her feel any better.

“Don’t say anything right away,” Oliver said. He looked a mess. His hair needed washing, as did his jeans, which sagged at the knees. He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to the elbows and rubbed his hands together in a nervous gesture. “Just walk around and take it in.”

She forgot her irritation at being summoned after her unsettling meeting with Alex. She couldn’t have spoken if she had wanted to. Oliver had hung the walls of his studio with half a year’s work. He had created a new world, and she was immediately drawn in. The paintings appeared abstract on an initial glance, but after looking more carefully, Margot could see distant figures and objects. She saw layers of color, some nearly transparent. The paintings seemed to have a kind of energy, almost a pulse that moved her from one to the next.

Within minutes the turmoil of the afternoon dissolved. She let herself sink into the work, completely forgetting Lacey and her family. Oliver’s paintings were so utterly compelling that without even thinking, she was caught up in the language of art. Where had this vision come from? How was it that a single individual could close himself off with nothing but blank canvas, tubes of paint, and brushes, and make this? She faced his view of the world, the results of his creative drive, and she was speechless. From a few materials came this extraordinary beauty. The pictures were all different from anything he had painted before.

She was touched that he had such confidence in her eye. Walking back and forth and studying the last wall, she paused before a tall, narrow canvas that looked like sheets of ice breaking up. “That one, for sure,” she said. “And this one would be a good counterpoint.”

Margot studied the gray and brown markings that looked like spring branches. Tiny dots resembling buds seemed about to burst. The background was a pale blue, barely a color at all. “It makes me think of lying on my back under a tree and looking up through the branches to the sky. I did that when I was a kid at Bow Lake.”

“Ah, the famous Bow Lake,” he said, stepping away from her. He looked like he was going to say more, then shrugged. “Let’s not talk about that now. I want to go home, Mags.”