13
Spin: Twist fibers into thread.
The warm days came more frequently in New York, while in San Francisco the weather was cool. It was the end of May. Margot and Oliver had arrived there two days before.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” Oliver said, drawing Margot out of her reverie. The city felt completely foreign to her. The hills, the charming tumble of Victorian houses in sight of a cluster of tall buildings, the colors themselves were all different from the shades in New York. The light was gentle and from a distance the city looked pale and soft, as if it were painted in watercolors instead of oils. The brisk chop in the bay appeared dramatic, if not a little frightening, and the air itself held a sense of anticipation.
He lifted his glass. Piano music tinkled in the background, familiar, watery tunes with elusive titles. They were at the Top of the Mark, a restaurant on the highest floor of the Mark Hotel, perfect for special occasions. The vast view spread below them in every direction. Oliver’s opening had taken place the night before at the Croft Gallery. He had brought Margot here to celebrate with a glass of champagne.
“It’s lovely,” Margot said. Oliver had given her the seat closest to the window. The sunset sky was pink. In the distance pockets of fog hovered at the edge of the bay. Earlier that day she had remarked on the temperature. Though San Francisco had that otherworldly light that made everything look fresh, the air at night was damp and cold. She wore a cornflower blue shawl that Lacey had woven for her birthday the year before. When Margot had put it on before leaving their hotel room, she’d had to swallow back an uncomfortable lump that welled in her throat when she thought of her sister.
“You’re beautiful,” Oliver said, picking up his glass.
“To your success.” She clinked her glass to his, remembering how recently she had raised her glass in a hotel bar with Alex.
“To us.” Oliver took gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “To our California adventure.” He swiveled his chair to take in the view.
“It’s going to be a great week,” she said. She hoped she sounded eager. It was unfair to Oliver to brood.
Oliver had had an amazing few days. Three of his paintings had sold during the opening, and the dealer had called this morning to say he had sold two more. To top that, a favorable review had appeared in the arts section of the San Francisco Chronicle.
Today, he had spent the day with her, walking through Golden Gate Park, stopping for lunch at a restaurant that offered healthy wraps and salads, sitting at an outdoor café in a patch of sun at the end of the afternoon. Oliver’s face had a ruddy glow. The tight lines around his mouth had vanished. He finally looked relaxed.
Margot wished she could stop thinking about Lacey. What could she do for her now? Certainly nothing from here. At some level she was getting used to being concerned about her sister. Perhaps being so far away was making her unduly anxious. She had hoped that the distance between them would make it easier to focus on other things. This was Oliver’s big moment and she wanted to make him happy.
“Are you with me, Mags?” Oliver asked.
“Sorry,” she said. “Maybe we could visit Carmel?” The photos she had seen in the guidebook showed streets of charming houses with flowers tumbling over fences, reminding her of English cottage gardens. “Carl said there are lots of galleries there. We could check out the local talent.” She lifted her glass and smiled.
“Sure, but tomorrow I have a surprise for you.” Oliver leaned back and gave her a sexy look, his lips not quite breaking a smile, his eyebrows lifted.
“What?”
He shrugged, looking like a large, secretive lion. His hair was long at the moment, falling below his collar.
“Come on,” she said. “Tell me. You know I hate surprises.”
“I’m taking you somewhere. I’ve rented a car for the rest of the week. I’ll tell you one part of it. We’re going to start with lunch at the Petite Auberge in Sonoma.” He took her hand again and cradled it in his larger one. “It’s a country inn, sort of French style.”
“Sounds delightful,” she said, grateful to Oliver, who was doing his best to make up for his preoccupied behavior in the spring.
“It’s one of Grant’s favorite spots.” Grant Redfern was an old friend from Oliver’s art school days who lived in Sonoma. Oliver had called him when planning the trip for suggestions on what to see. Grant had left recently for Italy to run a summer painting program in Umbria and would not be there during their visit.
Oliver leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “The real surprise comes after that.” He kissed her neck. “You’ll never guess.” He kissed her once more.
The following day Oliver drove Margot to Sonoma. After the promised lunch, which was lovely, he took a secondary road and headed deeper into the countryside. They wound through fields and acres of leafy green vineyards for some time before turning down a narrow dirt driveway. Oliver pulled to a stop in front of a simple modern house. When they got out of the car the breeze smelled earthy and sweet. Margot followed him along the path around to the far side of the house. She felt as if she’d come into an oasis of calm.
“It’s perfect,” she said, resting her hands on the stone wall that looked out over acres and acres of vineyards. “This is amazing.”
“Grant’s place.”
She had expected he might bring her to a hotel for the night, though they had left their clothes in San Francisco. She turned and looked at the house. “I had no idea your friend had a place like this.”
“I wanted you to see it,” he said.
She pointed to the fruit trees that lined the driveway. “Are those plums?” The delicate branches were covered in the palest pink blossoms. Lacey would have known the answer to her question.
“You like it?”
“It’s as if we’re a million miles from New York.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Grant said I could show you around.”
Oliver took a key from its hiding place under a pot of rosemary by the back door. He walked Margot through the house, a one-story stucco building that turned out to be larger than expected once they were inside. The house had a central living area with an open kitchen separated from the living room by a long counter. There were two bedrooms and a bath off to the left, and a small book-lined room with a television and plump chairs off the living room to the right. The other room was an office with a built-in desk and file drawers. The furnishings were modern: sleek wood tables and chairs, a couch in cream-colored linen with a few pale green pillows. The effect was clean and spare but welcoming.
The entire house was oriented toward the view of the valley below. They went back out to the terrace. It was as if a gravitational pull was making Margot want to be outside savoring the view. She thought of the din and commotion that was New York.
“I’m sure Umbria or wherever Grant’s working must be nice, but I can’t imagine wanting to leave this.” Margot enjoyed the sensation of the sun’s heat on her shoulders, so different from the cool San Francisco weather.
“Do you see the building down there? The one with the skylights?”
She nodded.
“That’s his studio.”
Margot thought of the drafty loft where Oliver worked, with the rattling elevator that made her sure each ride would be her last. Grant’s studio couldn’t be more different, nestled in a grove of trees below the house.
She followed Oliver inside. This time she noticed that there was no artwork anywhere. Light poured in from windows high above, and as the sun sank, shadows formed patterns on the walls, a kind of art all its own.
“Here’s the surprise,” Oliver said, capturing her attention. “When I was here in January, I came out to see this place. Grant had just accepted the gig in Italy.”
“You never told me you visited him.”
“You were so preoccupied with Lacey then. Plus you’d have to see this to believe it.” He stopped speaking, raised his hands, and let them fall to his side. “Mags, this place is so powerful. The light, the landscape. All winter I tried to forget about it.”
“I can see why you’d like it,” she said. She sat down on the sofa. “It’s so quiet, too. I’m not sure I could get used to such silence.”
Oliver took a seat beside her. “When I e-mailed Grant last month to get suggestions for restaurants, he asked me if I’d like to rent his place for the summer. A nominal rent, just to cover maintenance and utilities. You can see he doesn’t need the money.” Oliver traced his hand along her neck and jawbone. “I’d like to paint you sitting outside on the wall.”
Margot blushed, remembering the way Oliver used to look at her when they first met. When he had taken her to his studio for the first time he had stared at her intently and with a kind of longing that it made it difficult for her to breathe.
“You don’t do portraits,” she said jokingly.
“I want to do you now.” He caressed her cheek. His touch was always gentle, as if he saw the world with his hands, too. “What do you think? How about we live here for the summer?”
“You mean leave New York?”
“Spend the summer away.”
“But my job?”
“Mario’s there. I’m sure you and Carl could work something out.”
Oliver was right. Carl closed the gallery for part of July and almost no one came in August. Summer was the slow time of year. As much as she enjoyed working at the gallery, her own painting had started to matter more. She pictured her apartment, the easel, and her notebooks with the drawings she had worked on this winter. She could sublet her place to cover her expenses. But Lacey? She would be across the country from her sister. “It is beautiful here,” she said. Her voice sounded tentative in her ears.
“We could both have the summer for painting,” he said.
Still, something weighed on her. “It might work. It’s just that Lacey . . . and the girls’ graduation. I can’t miss that.”
“You don’t have to. You can fly back for that weekend. The summer’s on me. Five paintings sold in two days. It’s like it was fifteen years ago.”
Margot got up and walked out again to the terrace. Rosebushes lined the path to the studio. The buds were white. She could imagine their smell on a June evening. Oliver came behind her and drew his hands around her waist. He rocked her gently from side to side. “I can see us here,” he said. His lips rested above her ear. “I love you, Mags.”
Suddenly, Margot thought Oliver’s idea might work. She didn’t like the way they’d seemed to drift apart this winter and spring. She was as much at fault as he was. She could feel tears coming to her eyes. The grapevines across the valley blurred together below the darkening sky, looking like a vast lake. Margot turned, wrapped her arms around Oliver, and held him tightly.
As Oliver drove back to San Francisco, he felt that comfortable ease and happiness settle back between them again. He thought over their day together. What a relief to be able to make Margot happy. They talked easily about possible plans. He explained that they could return to New York and come back to rent Grant’s place starting the first of June. Margot suggested shipping some of their things ahead of time. She was going to get in touch with Mario and Carl to see if they could work something out. With any luck, in a matter of weeks they could be ready for this interlude in California.
By the time they reached their hotel in the city it was dark. Oliver left the car with the valet service. They planned to drive south of the city the next day and possibly go as far as Carmel. Neither of them was hungry, so they agreed to go out to dinner later at a Japanese restaurant near the hotel. He tilted his head to each side, trying to release the crick in his neck, and followed Margot into the lobby.
Oliver knew that Margot didn’t like change. She had her half dozen favorite restaurants in their neighborhood, and the three upscale places they saved for special occasions. She stuck to her limited repertoire of recipes, always went to the same Duane Reade drugstore, despite the fact that there were almost identical others every few blocks, ordered the same coffee drink at her preferred Starbucks, and used only one particular cash machine. She even had a favorite bench in the park.
He found this single-mindedness endearing and frequently teased her, saying she acted like a little old lady, set in her ways, not daring to try something new. Surely she would agree that some changes could be a good thing—his recent success, this trip, their plans for the summer.
He also wanted to talk about marriage again. Soon he would be fifty-seven. As old-fashioned as it seemed, he wanted to grow old with someone he loved. Like his parents had done. Maybe he had a traditional streak. Somehow growing old with a girlfriend, a lover, was not the same as being married.
When they returned to their room, Oliver told Margot he wanted to shower before going out. While he undressed she rummaged in her purse and pulled out her cell phone.
“I forgot to turn it on,” she said, pushing the requisite buttons. “I’ve got a message.” Her lips pulled together as she listened. He paused at the bathroom door. “It’s from Alex,” she said.
“Alex?” he said, feeling the warmth of the afternoon slip away. “What could he want?” This could only have to do with Lacey, he thought. Oliver’s lower back hurt. The car they’d rented was a compact, the cheapest available. It had been impossible to adjust the seat to a comfortable position. Or was he just getting old? Margot glanced at her watch. He calculated the time difference. “It’s not too late,” he said.
In the shower Oliver made the water as hot as he could stand, letting it pummel his back. A call from Alex couldn’t be good. Oliver was sorry about what Lacey and her family were going through, but selfishly he didn’t want Margot to be so tied up in their affairs. He wished she could simply live with it and move on.
One of the abilities that came with age, he thought, was getting used to unhappiness. You had to accept a backlog of disappointments, hurts that could never be healed, sadness for which there was no cure. You got better at putting some of the tough things aside.
Oliver lived with the knowledge that he wished he had told his father many things before he had died. Regrets cluttered his mind—the way he’d reacted to past criticism, the way he’d let it get him down. He knew he’d been difficult to live with this spring—preoccupied, jumpy, not as attentive to Margot as he should have been. Art was hard. That was his excuse, at least.
Early in their courtship Margot had told him how she had once planned to become an artist. She had wanted to go to graduate school in painting after college, but it had seemed impossible then to come up with the time or the money. Her sister, who also loved art, was the practical one who had majored in education to be able to teach it. Margot had taken classes in art history, thinking it might be useful for getting a job, but eventually she couldn’t resist the lure of the art studio at college, that huge, bright space that smelled of paint. Naked in his arms, she had told him all that as if it had been a confession. Later, when he asked what made her stop painting, she blamed it on a bad marriage. He knew what that could be like and didn’t press her for more.
Oliver reached for the shampoo. This summer would be a reprieve for both of them. He stayed in the shower longer than usual, then turned off the water and grabbed a towel. He put on the thick hotel robe and gave his hair a quick comb. When he emerged from the bathroom Margot was seated on the edge of the bed still holding her phone.
“What’s up?” he asked, trying to recapture the upbeat mood of the afternoon.
“I spoke to Alex.”
“Yeah?”
“His mother died. He sounded terrible.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, recalling the angular, vigorous woman whose eyes were blankly clouded and remote. He had met her one summer, a number of years ago. It must have been when the family had gathered for a family birthday in New Castle, when she was still well enough to leave the nursing home.
“Massive stroke,” Margot said before he had a chance to ask. “At least she didn’t suffer.”
“Will there be a service?” He sat on the bed beside her.
“Alex said he didn’t know when. Lacey’s started to plan the funeral.”
“It’s Alex’s mother. Why isn’t he planning the funeral?”
“He’s stuck in Chicago. He can’t get home until the end of the week. There’s some environmental issue with the company he’s selling and he’s in crucial meetings with a mediator. They’re trying to avoid a lawsuit.” Margot put her hand in his. “That’s not the real problem.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, wondering what could be wrong on top of this.
“Wink called him, saying that Toni’s been acting really strange and that she’s been sneaking out at night. Wink is terrified of getting Lacey upset. Wink thinks something weird is going on. She hated telling on Toni and said she never would have called her dad if something wasn’t really wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Mags.” Oliver felt bad for Alex. The death of a parent was always hard, and a troubled teenage daughter was not what Alex needed right now. He remembered that volatile stage with Jenna.
“I need to book a flight.”
“You want to fly back?”
“Alex is dealing with this work crisis.”
“He expects you to fly across the country?” Oliver was furious.
“He didn’t know I was out here. He wants me to see what’s going on with Toni and to be there for Wink until he can get home.”
“Why doesn’t he tell Lacey?”
“I guess he’s afraid of upsetting her.”
“She’s his wife, for God’s sake.”
“But she’s not well.”
“So he’s telling you?”
Margot said nothing, as if trying to make sense of his argument.
“I hope you explained you were in California,” he went on.
“I told him I’d come.”
“What?”
“I didn’t think.”
“I’ll say you didn’t think.”
“Oliver, I want to be able to help the girls. I really should go home.”
“Home?” The pain in his back was stronger. “So Lacey’s house is home.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Mags, this is our vacation. We have plans.”
“Alex was really upset. He’s worried about Lacey. Stress only makes her worse.”
“Alex calls and you jump?” He slapped his hand down on the bed. His breath was coming faster.
“How can you think that?” She stood and moved away from him.
“Come on, Mags. I’m sorry about his mom,” he said, trying to regain his calm. “Toni’s having some kind of boyfriend trouble. She’ll get over it. Besides, it’s their family. They’ll be able to manage. You can go up for the service. I’m sure it won’t be until after we get home.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I know you want to help. I just don’t think you need to be involved right now.”
“I’m already involved. This is my family.”
“It’s Alex’s family. His mother. His daughters. Remember?” Oliver recalled his fights with his ex-wife, Linda. Was he out of line? Was he acting like a shit?
“I came out here for your show,” she said. “I was here for you. But I think Toni might need me. You told me when Lacey got sick, I should think about her children and what I could do for them.” She hugged her arms to her body. “Oliver, I really think I should go.” She looked suddenly small to him and unhappy. “We’ll have the rest of the summer.”
Oliver reached for his clothes and started to dress. “So you think you can fly in and fix everything?” He yanked on his pants, then his shirt.
“I think I have to try.”
“I don’t want you to go.” His fingers fumbled with the buttons. “We were off to such a great start. We need to think about us for a change.”
Margot’s voice grew louder. “I am. You know that. I’m willing to rearrange my whole summer for us.”
He continued to dress. “I’m worried.”
“About what?”
He didn’t know exactly. He just knew the entire day seemed to be fizzling before his eyes. “Go ahead and get ready for dinner. I’m going out for a walk.” He grabbed his coat and left the room.
The fog had come up and the city was covered in a fine, damp mist. He started down the hill toward the marina. His stomach had tightened into a knot. Was he asking too much of Margot? Linda had accused him of putting art before his family. He would fire back, “You’ve got to understand. I’m an artist. First and foremost.” Selfish. He had been selfish saying that.
Was he being selfish in wanting Margot to himself? Did some part of her always have to be caught up with Lacey? Or with Alex? He strode on through the night. Seagulls screamed and soared above his head as he drew closer to the water.
Big mistake. Not a mistake. Yes, a mistake. Not a mistake. A mistake. Margot watched the luggage on the conveyor belt at Logan Airport, designating each item the way she used to pull off daisy petals—he loves me, he loves me not. She glanced at her watch. The bus for Portsmouth came in ten minutes. If she missed it she would have to wait another hour for the next one. A lumpy brown duffel went by. Not a mistake. A red plaid suitcase, three black suitcases.
Oliver had stayed in San Francisco to complete the week. He had changed her ticket, sending her to Boston to see Lacey and her family. The luggage continued past her feet. Wink was going to meet her bus in Portsmouth. She had told her mom that Margot was coming to help with the funeral. Lacey was still unaware of anything going on with Toni. Wink had said that Toni hadn’t come home at all last night and that it was getting harder to cover for her sister.
“I know I’m a traitor for ratting on her,” Wink had said, “but if Mom were to find out, she’d have a breakdown or something.”
Oliver felt it was wrong to keep Toni’s troubles from Lacey. When he put Margot in the cab to go to the airport in San Francisco, he’d told her again he thought she was making a mistake.
At this point Margot felt physically sick. She took a swig of water from the bottle in her tote bag. Her mouth was sour from the diet soft drink and a bag of chips, all she had eaten on the nearly six-hour flight. The movie on board had been some goofy comedy and she had been unable to concentrate on her book. Mostly she had closed her eyes and thought of Oliver. The sight of him walking into the hotel without her as her taxi pulled away, his shoulders slumped and the back of his head with clumps of hair still messed from a fitful sleep, tore at her heart. What was she doing? Yet Wink’s voice had been so relieved when Margot told her she was coming and that she would agree to talk to Toni and figure out what was going on. More suitcases passed by. A large brown bag, another black one. A mistake, not a mistake. The carousel was temporarily empty. Another round of luggage passed down the chute. Her gray duffel bag appeared next.
