17
Shuttle: Tool that carries the weft threads through the shed.
Oliver breathed in the deeply satisfying scent of coffee. He had been studying the paintings in the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art and decided to stop at the museum café for an espresso before heading back to Sonoma. He had driven into the city early that morning to deliver two more paintings to the Croft Gallery. A longtime client from Santa Barbara was coming up specifically to see more of his work.
He knew the caffeine would probably keep him awake tonight, but he had become accustomed to sleepless nights. He’d gotten into the habit of sipping a glass of red wine before bed, the one time of day when he allowed himself to think about Margot. Sometimes the alcohol would help him drift off and forget her for a while. But in the morning his memories of her would be as sharp as ever. Now, at the beginning of August, he had been away from her for more than a month.
Margot would be joining Lacey soon at Bow Lake. Maybe Lacey was worse, and maybe this was the last summer that she would still be able to talk to Margot, but the more he thought about it, the more his irritation grew. He knew he was being selfish, but he hated the way Margot was putting their life on hold. Why did the time with her sister seem to matter so much?
Bow Lake was something Margot had never shared with him in the five years they had been together. There always seemed to be logical reasons for him not to join her there. The family had the use of the place only during the month of August and that was when his sister invited him to share their beach house on Block Island. Oliver had gone there instead and sometimes Margot came there after her visit to Bow Lake The last two summers he’d been too caught up in his work and hadn’t left the city at all, so Margot had gone to Bow Lake by herself. It wasn’t so much not ever having gone to New Hampshire with her that bothered him; it was as if Bow Lake represented a piece of her that she kept hidden from him, inaccessible, much like the way she wouldn’t let him look at her paintings.
Since his arrival in Sonoma, Oliver had tried not to let Margot’s absence bother him. During the daylight hours he kept to a rigorous schedule. After his morning coffee, he would walk up the hill behind the house. The exercise and fresh air seemed to clear his head, renew his creative energy. Usually by ten, he would walk down the path and begin work in Grant’s studio. He found it energizing to paint in a new space and didn’t miss his New York studio at all. Around lunchtime he would snack on some cheese and an apple, and in the late afternoon he’d return to the house.
He could imagine Margot filling vases with flowers, draping a scarf over a chair, arranging pears on a plate. Among the many things that he missed about her were the small ways she made a place feel like home. Her nightgown on the hook behind the bathroom door, her hairbrush and other mysterious feminine accoutrements that lay cluttered on her dresser, around the sink, on the night table—all the small, personal things were missing in this house. One night as he sat reading on the sofa, he half expected her to wander in, sit at the opposite end, and tuck her feet under his legs, the way she used to in New York on winter nights. But it was summer, and he was alone.
In the early evening he drove into Santa Louisa, the nearest town, to do his errands and eat a quick dinner. By now he was a regular at Marconi’s, a Sicilian restaurant in the center of town. Some nights he met up with a few other artists, colleagues of Grant’s, and he had become friendly with the couple who owned the vineyard next to his house. They were in their late sixties and had bought the winery after retiring from jobs in the city.
He liked living in Sonoma. The country felt a bit more rustic than the adjacent Napa Valley, but there were pockets of sophistication. He could buy good coffee, the restaurants were terrific, and on Sundays he could find a copy of the New York Times.
Oliver took a last sip of coffee and looked around. He liked this museum. The light in the modern building made the artwork seem energetic and fresh. While he gravitated to his longtime favorite painter, Richard Diebenkorn, he enjoyed the visiting exhibitions. Most days he loved locking himself away from the world, but he needed a periodic dose of other artists’ inspirations, much the way he sometimes hungered for a hamburger after too many vegetarian meals.
“Would you like another?” the waiter asked, eyeing Oliver’s cup. The café was almost empty. An older woman sat writing postcards a few seats away from him, a pot of tea and a half-eaten cupcake beside her. Two younger women were nibbling at salads, a late lunch after a morning spent looking at art.
“Just the bill. Thanks.” He watched as the server nodded and reached in his apron for his pad. He was a young man with green and purple stains on his hands—probably an artist too, working this job to cover the rent.
“Pay the cashier up front,” the waiter said, placing the bill on the table next to the envelope that held the one postcard Oliver had purchased from the shop.
Before reaching for his billfold Oliver removed the postcard and stared at the picture, his favorite Diebenkorn: Woman in Profile, 1968. The colors weren’t quite true to the original, but the brushwork was powerful even in this reduced size. The woman in the painting sat in profile in front of a window. Light fell across her face and lap. Her right hand rested on the table, but her left hand was lifted, making her seem about to speak. The view from the window was abstracted, vast planes moving into the distance that created a tension with the window frame itself. Something in the reflective nature of the figure, the slope of her shoulders, the level gaze, reminded him of Margot—one of those Margot moments when she would appear lost inside herself. He slipped the postcard back inside the bag.
Not now, he thought, coming to his feet. He headed to the exit to pay his bill and drive home to Sonoma. Could this place, this countryside that kept him engaged in his work, ever be truly home? He had begun thinking about moving here permanently and bringing Margot. What was holding them in New York? They could get married and start over. He imagined her all the way across the country, some part of her mind on Lacey, as if perennially attached by an unbreakable slender thread.
Oliver walked toward the door, then remembered the skinny server with paint on his hands. He returned to his table to leave a hefty tip.
Alex stood at the kitchen sink with the faucet running, waiting for the water to cool. He had returned from his business trip to Texas an hour earlier. His meetings had not gone well. He had made a presentation to a potential new client, but he sensed that he had not connected. He turned his head from side to side, trying to release a crick in his neck. He’d slept briefly on the plane with his head bent at an awkward tilt. The vent above his seat was stuck and had shot icy air directly onto his head.
It was rare for him to be alone in the house and he was unaccustomed to the stillness. After dropping his bags in the hall, he had gone from room to room, opening the windows to let in fresh air. Without the familiar sounds of female voices, footsteps on the stairs, the periodic opening and closing of doors or the echoing noise of movement from other rooms, the afternoon itself seemed to have paused.
He filled his glass, carried it to the kitchen table and stared out into the backyard. Lacey had been away for a week and the garden had already become overgrown. The view from the window no longer resembled a well-tended garden, but a chaotic jumble of plants. An overgrown climbing rose was pulling the trellis away from the wall. Maybe there had been a storm. He would go out later to see if he could fix it.
No sooner had he imagined his family elsewhere—Lacey off with Toni and a few of Toni’s friends at the Bow Lake cottage and Wink with a group of her pals hiking in the White Mountains—than he heard a car in the driveway. A moment later a key turned in the back door and a heavy bag hit the floor with a thud.
Wink came into the kitchen. “Dad, what are you doing here?”
“Hey, Miss Winky.” Alex stood and gave his daughter a hug. “I live here too, remember?” He smoothed her hair away from her forehead. There were dark circles under her eyes. “I just got home. Believe me, Houston’s not the place to be in August.” He stepped away. Her tired-looking T-shirt hung loosely from her shoulders, making her look too thin. “I thought you were off with your friends until next week.”
She slipped out of his arms and sat down at the table. “I got a ride home early. Kristen had to be back for field hockey, so I came with her.”
“How come?” he asked, taking the seat opposite his daughter.
“I haven’t been sleeping. Try hiking when you’re totally shot.”
“So what’s keeping you awake?” Alex knew that Wink was the worrier of the twins. He hated seeing someone so young seemingly so burdened. Both girls were upset by their mother’s illness, but Toni was better at setting her worry aside and living in the moment. Once they had returned from Italy, she had resumed seeing friends and went out frequently in the evenings after work. Wink received her share of calls and invitations, but it was hard for her to join in and act as if her life was still the same.
“I can’t do it, Dad.”
“Do what, honey?”
“I don’t want to go away. Maybe next year. Right now I want to be with Mom.” Wink began to cry.
It always came back to Lacey, the mother, the wife, the one person on whom everyone’s happiness seemed to hinge.
Alex reached across the table and took her hand. “Mom won’t let you give up college. She’s so proud that you got into Cornell. And the scholarship from the astronomy department—that’s pretty amazing.”
“I know the money’s important.”
“It’s not just the money. It’s the opportunity to be part of their program.”
“Dad, you’re not listening. It’s making me crazy.”
“I am listening, but we talked about it earlier,” he said. “Mom thinks you’ll feel different when it’s time to leave for college.”
“I don’t feel any different. I don’t want to go.”
“Didn’t you talk to Mom before you left?”
“She doesn’t understand.”
“Did you try to explain? If she knew how unhappy you were about this . . .”
“How can I argue with her? She starts stumbling over words. Then her speech gets worse. Shit, Dad. It’s awful.” Wink drew her arms across her chest and continued to cry. She had an angry red mark on her arm, a bug bite she had scratched. His sweet daughter, the one the mosquitoes loved to attack.
Alex got up and came behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Winky, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Can’t you just talk to Mom? Tell her I’ll have a breakdown or something. Anything. Please.”
Alex massaged Wink’s shoulders gently, trying to think. He had no trouble talking to clients. Even when his projects weren’t going well, the problems were concrete, definable. He could illustrate his reasoning with detailed spreadsheets, projected sales figures, product research, demographics. He had answers ready before the expected questions were posed. At work no one burst into tears.
With his family, his decisions came from his gut. He knew that Wink’s delaying school might be a good solution, and that in the long run it would hardly matter. But how could he explain that to Lacey?
Suddenly Wink jerked away from his touch and got up. “No one can say anything in this family anymore.” She wiped at her face with her hand, grabbed for a tissue on the counter, and blew her nose. “It’s hard for Mom to talk. You won’t talk. You’re either away or leaning on Aunt Margot to bail you out.”
“Wait a minute,” Alex said, suddenly defensive. “Aunt Margot is worried about your mom. She loves our family and only wants to help.”
“Come on, Dad, I love Aunt Margot. You know that. It’s just that when she’s around it’s not the same. It’s like we’re not our real selves.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Face it. Whenever things get bad you bring her in—like to get yourself out of a bad situation. Don’t you remember? You couldn’t even tell us about Mom’s illness until Margot got here. Then you have her talk Toni into Columbia. Gram dies. What happens? In a nanosecond she’s here.”
“That’s because you were worried about Toni and I couldn’t get home.”
“I know, but then she stuck around.”
“She helped Mom with the funeral. Remember?”
“I know. I guess what really makes me crazy is that you and Mom aren’t the same. You never talk like you used to.”
“You seem to be forgetting your mom has a problem.” Alex regretted his words as soon as they shot out.
Wink winced, then shook her head. “Dad, what you call ‘the problem’ isn’t only that. Think about it. It’s about communication. Don’t you see? It’s not only the not talking. It’s like you guys have totally disconnected.” Wink turned her back to him and stared out the window at the abandoned garden. Her shoulders drooped.
“But if you stay home, what will you do? Mom doesn’t need taking care of now.” Alex felt his throat constrict. He knew that Lacey would need care someday. In three years, five, maybe ten if they were lucky. The doctors could give them no definite answers. He pushed these thoughts aside.
“I just want another year at home.” Wink bent her head and blew her nose again. “College will be there. Mom won’t.”
“Don’t say that.” Alex felt tears burning his eyes. He took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. “Sorry. Would you get a job?”
Wink turned to face him. “I want to go see the admissions person at UNH. I know I turned them down, but if I lived at home, maybe I could take some classes and defer going to Cornell. I want to see what my options are.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Please, Dad.”
“You’re serious about this?”
She nodded. Wink had always been a thoughtful child.
“Will you talk to Mom?” Wink twirled a strand of her hair.
One evening at dinner in Italy, Wink had worn her hair swept up on her head. Toni had put eye makeup on her sister before they left the hotel and Wink had worn a new sundress that flattered her shoulders and long neck. There, in the candlelight, she had looked as if she could have been thirty. This afternoon, with her tearstained face, his daughter looked like a tired twelve-year-old.
“Please, Dad.”
Alex sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”
“When?” She eyed him dubiously.
“Soon. I’ve got to go to New York for a few days.”
“How come?”
“I’m hoping to finally close the fertilizer deal.”
“Dad . . .” she said.
“Look, Wink.” He heard annoyance creeping into his voice. He swallowed and went on. “I need to think about this. Don’t worry. I’m going to talk to your mother.”
“You think you can make her understand?”
“I’m going to try.”
Wink sighed. “I’m telling you, Dad, I need to be home. Please help me.”
Alex came over and hugged his daughter. Despite her height, her shoulders and spine had a fragility that made her still seem like a little girl. He kissed the top of her head.
She pulled away. “I’ll go unpack my stuff.”
Alex dropped his arms to his sides. It used to be so easy to solve his daughters’ problems: wiring the head back onto a broken doll, running beside a two-wheeler, helping to solve a math problem for homework. He carried his water glass to the sink. Convincing Lacey to let Wink stay home in the fall would be difficult. Lacey had been adamant. She wanted everyone to go on as if nothing had changed.
New York was a different city in August. All those who could afford to had escaped. Tourists still clogged the streets and the large buses with open upper decks continued their rounds with their loudspeakers belting out a litany of facts about the Big Apple. Margot pulled her nightgown on over her head. She had been painting in her apartment all day. It was nearly ten, and rather than make her way back to Oliver’s apartment, she’d decided to stay at her place for the night. She put the kettle on to make tea.
The Van Engen Gallery had shorter hours in summer. Carl decamped to the Cape for all of August, and Margot and Mario were covering the few administrative duties between them. After a few hours in the morning working in the office, she returned to her apartment to paint. With Oliver gone, she had started spending several nights a week at her old place. Their apartment on the West Side had begun to feel huge without him.
They called each other less frequently now. Why would he want to tell her about people she didn’t know? They were living in separate worlds. If they were meant to be together, surely they could survive a summer apart. Besides, the time alone wasn’t all bad. Margot remembered the relief she had felt after Teddy was gone. That solitude was like drinking a glass of clear water after months of acute thirst. Her days were finally hers to fill—no one telling her what to do and what mattered. She never wanted to be under that kind of pressure again. Fighting off loneliness now and then was nothing compared to that.
Some days she practiced drawing, and did exercises from a workbook she had used in an art class she took when she first moved to New York. Her paints continued to lure her, and she could feel her breath quicken when she’d been able to mix just the right shade of green. She had set up different still-life arrangements. Perhaps it was the summer heat, and her recollections of childhood that kept pushing to the surface, but she found herself more and more attempting to capture scenes of Bow Lake. A combination of memory and old photographs served as her muse.
She had gone back to working on the picture of the moon path at the lake. Painting the water itself was extremely difficult, all the more so because the view was at night. The hardest part was getting the color, or the noncolor, of the lake. Water was so elemental, so basic, and at times totally impossible to paint. The moonlight on the lake was an entirely different problem. How to achieve that silvery glow, brilliant, completely mesmerizing as if drifted into the distance?
She took the canvas off her easel and propped it up at the table. Stepping back, she considered the composition. Maybe the image was too stark, too bold. What if she was farther away from the lake and viewed the moon path through the trees? She had no photos of that view to work from. Seeing the moon on the lake once again in real life might be her only hope.
The kettle whistled just as Margot’s cell phone rang. Whisking the kettle off the burner, she flipped open her phone, thinking it must be Oliver calling from the West Coast. Instead, it was Alex.
“My Chicago deal went through.”
“That’s great,” she said, hearing the excitement in his voice. “Are you here in town?”
“Yeah. I know it’s late. I’ve been meeting with auditors and got the final approval. I was hoping if you were free we could meet for a drink. I’m flying home in the morning.”
Margot hesitated. She’d caught up with a few old friends since Oliver had been away, but she hadn’t been out at all recently. Suddenly, taking a break seemed like a good idea. “I’m at my old apartment,” she said. “I’ve been painting.”
“Is there someplace near you?”
“There’s a little French bistro, Chez Antoinette on Lexington. This late, I’m sure it wouldn’t be busy.”
“Maybe some dessert, too? We had sandwiches in the office hours ago. I’m starved.”
“Okay,” she said. “Half hour from now?” She gave Alex the address and went into the bedroom to dress. The gray linen pants she’d had on earlier were a wrinkled mess. She slipped them on anyway. This was Alex, her brother-in-law. It was dark out and he wouldn’t care what she wore. She turned up the collar of her white shirt, making it look marginally more sophisticated,
Somber thoughts began to darken her mood. She remembered the awkwardness of meeting Alex at the bar last spring. Would that happen again? Suddenly she doubted what she was doing. Her hands trembled as she rolled the cuffs of her shirt. Seeing him alone didn’t seem like a good idea at all.
She glanced around her living room—paint, canvases, brushes everywhere. She drew in her breath and realized all that she had accomplished here. Somehow reassured, she pushed aside her ridiculous thoughts. Meeting Alex would be fine. His deal had been successful. He and Lacey had had their trip to Italy. Why not take a moment to celebrate? Margot picked up her keys and headed out into the night.
Alex was seated at a tiny table by the front window when she arrived. “I ordered a bottle of Prosecco,” he said a little nervously, half standing to greet her, but pulling back, as if he too remembered the awkward ending of their previous encounter in the bar, when Margot had gotten up from the table and fled. “Hope that’s okay. They’re bringing a dessert menu too.”
“Sure.” She smiled and sat. “Congratulations. So you sold the company?”
“Finally. It’s been a real roller-coaster ride.” His hair was windblown. There had been a thunderstorm in the afternoon, but warm, humid air was still blowing in from the south. The evening was tropical. He wore a blazer over a pale blue shirt, and no tie. “I wanted to celebrate. I’m glad you were free.”
His eyes were fixed upon her. Maybe this had been a mistake. She felt color rise to her face. “So how was Italy?”
The waiter arrived with the sparkling wine. Alex tasted his and nodded. The waiter filled her glass and returned to top off Alex’s.
“I guess I shouldn’t have ordered Italian wine at a French place.” He shrugged. “Italy was great. We had some really good days. At times Lacey was almost her old self.”
Margot sipped her wine, imagining the family exploring sun-drenched villages a world away. “So the trip helped.”
“For a while.” The lines in his forehead deepened. “On our last night in Rome, it totally fell apart. Lacey sort of closed up and became angry all over again.” He rubbed his eyes, as if exhausted from the memory.
“What happened?”
“Nothing, really. I guess going home reminded her of what we would face there.”
“Sometimes being away makes everything feel different—the power of a place.” Margot thought of Bow Lake. Soon she would be there with Lacey.
“Yeah, but we’re home now.”
“Lacey loves her home. Don’t forget that.”
Alex cleared his throat. “Have you talked to Wink lately?”
Margot and Lacey had been exchanging e-mails recently instead of using the phone and Margot realized she had fallen out of touch with the girls.
He went on. “She’s upset again about college. Doesn’t want to go.”
“I thought she was over that.”
“She’s tried to talk to Lacey. They both get too upset.”
“What do you think?”
“What’s wrong with taking a year off?”
“Alex, you know how I love the girls, but this is something you all need to figure out. I’ve already upset Lacey with my meddling.”
“It’s not like that.” Alex hunched forward and raised the dessert menu the waiter had left on the table to examine it more closely. He looked worn down. “I’ve missed you, Margot.” He tossed the menu down.
“You’re all managing fine without me.”
“Not true.” He lifted his head and met her gaze. “I’m really glad to see you. You’re the only one who hasn’t changed.” He reached across the table and took her hand.
For a moment, he was the young Alex, smelling of sunshine, youthful and lean, pulling her close to him in the dark long ago at Bow Lake. “Alex. No.” She withdrew her hand and picked up the menu.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“It’s okay,” she continued, her voice growing stronger. “You need to talk to Lacey, not me.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You should be celebrating this deal with her, too.”
“She doesn’t care. It’s always the girls. It’s weaving.”
“Stop it. You love her, Alex. I saw you both at graduation. When the girls received their diplomas, I saw the way you looked at Lacey, the way you took her hand. I’ll never forget that.”
Alex lowered his head and closed his eyes. “It’s just not working now. This goddamned illness has made life impossible.”
“Hard,” she said. “Not impossible.”
“Dessert for you folks?” The waiter had appeared at their table. He looked sweaty and frazzled. Margot smiled briefly and shook her head, as did Alex. The waiter reached for the bottle of Prosecco and refilled their glasses.
“Will you be okay?” she asked when they were alone again.
Alex said nothing. His pressed his lips together and looked away.
“You have all those years between you,” she said softly. “You’ve built a life together. That’s a gift. You mustn’t ruin it.”
“Maybe I already have.” Alex’s face grew slack.
Margot shook her head, thinking how she might have ruined what she and Oliver had together. This time she reached across the table and held fast to Alex’s arm. “You haven’t ruined it. Alex, you love her. She loves you.”
He stared at her hand. “I’m sorry about . . .”
“Don’t be sorry about anything. Just go home to Lacey.” Margot pulled her hand back and felt relieved. At one time she had wanted this man more than anything. Not this man, but the boy, Alex, from a different time and place. There had been that moment of attraction between them. It no longer mattered. She thought of the moon path, that twinkling light on a warm summer night, dazzling, ephemeral, then gone. What always remained was the lake—deep, mysterious, and enduring.
“Daddy, I love it here,” Jenna said. She lowered her fork into the deep bowl of pasta. She had made pasta carbonara. Oliver was pleased that she’d remembered it was one of his favorite meals. Jenna’s cooking tasted especially good after so many dinners out.
He twirled the strands of spaghetti against his fork. “I’ll walk you down to the studio later.” He had given Jenna the money for a ticket to San Francisco so she could have a short vacation from her restaurant. “Kitchen okay? It’s fine for me, but I’m not a professional.”
“Perfect. Pretty easy to cook for two compared to my regular shtick.”
“Speaking of regular shtick, how’s Leo?”
“He’s the best. Don’t look at me like that.” She reached for the Parmesan, a pale brick of yellow on a turquoise plate, and ran it across the grater directly over her bowl. “I’ll give you plenty of warning when we decide to tie the knot.”
“So you’re thinking about marriage?”
“One day. Come on. And speaking of . . .” She pushed the cheese his way. “What’s going on with Margot?”
“You mean why isn’t she here?”
“Man, you sound cranky.”
“She didn’t want to be away this summer. First there was Toni and Wink’s graduation. Mostly, she’s been upset about Lacey’s illness. She wants to have the end of the summer up at the lake place with her.”
“That makes sense.”
“You think so?” he said wearily. He had gone over it a thousand times in his head. Had he pushed Margot too hard?
“Dad, she loves her sister. And they’ve gone to Bow Lake since they were little.”
“Has she ever taken me there?”
“Have you ever wanted to go?”
Oliver had finished almost all of his pasta. He needed to slow down. “I get your point, but since Lacey’s been sick, it’s like Margot is in this whole other mode. It’s always Lacey and her family, never us.”
“Yeah, but Margot’s parents are dead. She has no kids of her own. It’s natural that she wants to be near them and part of their lives when she can.”
“I guess.” Oliver pushed his bowl away and took a swallow of wine. He knew Margot had had a sad childhood and a disastrous marriage. For a long time all she’d had was Lacey and the girls. And Alex. In the depth of his heart, Oliver could feel that snake of jealousy rearing its head. Oliver had been furious that Alex seemed to seek out Margot at every turn.
“Come on, Daddy. I can see how Margot would want to be with her sister, especially as time runs out. It’s really sad.”
He sighed. Jenna, so young, all of a sudden seemed wise.
“Don’t brood, Daddy. I’ve seen that before. It’s not cool.” She stood. “Let’s clear this away and then give me the tour of your studio. From what you’ve said, you’ve been making a ton of art.”
Oliver picked up his bowl, balanced the plate of cheese on top, and followed his daughter to the kitchen. When they went out to the terrace, it was beginning to grow dark, but the air was soft and a full moon cast a path eastward over the vineyards.
Jenna took his arm as he led her down the path to the studio. “You’ll be home again next month,” she said. “I bet Margot is missing you as much as you’re missing her.”
Oliver looked up at the sky and wondered.
