19
Loose ends: A woven piece not properly tied off.
An instant energy came into the city with the first wave of cooler air. It was as if the inhabitants were tired of the long, lazy summer days and glad to resume life at a faster pace. Now, in late October, New York grew chilly in the early evening. The leaves had turned color—the blue sky in brilliant contrast to the burnished oranges, reds, and bold yellows. They even looked beautiful clumped together in wet clusters on the sidewalks after a rain. Margot needed to wear more than a heavy sweater outdoors. Soon it would be the season of hats, woolen scarves, and boots.
She had come home to New York with a new resolve. Her final glimpse of Bow Lake had been in the rearview mirror of her rented car. How fitting, she had thought. For the first time in years she wasn’t sad that the summer was over. Lacey was right. Margot knew it was time to decide what should come next in her life. Over the last months she had come to the conclusion that painting truly mattered to her. As though it was a foreign language that she hadn’t spoken in many years, she discovered that much of what she once knew was still there. Her skills, along with tubes of paint, brushes, and a simple blank canvas, were helping her discover another voice, a voice she hadn’t known she had.
Oliver was supposed to have returned in mid-September, but at the last moment he’d decided to stay on in Sonoma for another month to complete a commission for his new collector. When he’d called her with news of his delay, she hadn’t fully concealed her disappointment and anger.
“You could have been here all this time,” he had replied bluntly, his tone acid.
Planning their future wasn’t the kind of discussion they could have on the phone. She could tell that he was distracted and thinking about his painting. How simple it had been when they first met—those early months together, when she was sure they were in love. She and Oliver had been swept up in the early energy of romance, a time of discovery, excitement, and pleasure. Later, as they blended their lives together, the relationship had become more complex. She thought of Lacey’s weaving, combining the warp and weft to create a tapestry, a smooth whole. But she and Oliver brought past stories with them, like threads unraveled from a different cloth that were impossible to weave into a smooth, effortless new design. Or was it possible?
Margot stepped into Joe’s, the new coffee place where Toni had suggested they meet. The rich aroma immediately carried her back to Oliver’s elaborate coffee rituals—grinding the beans, pouring filtered water into a certain gold cone best suited for the perfect brew, the dark blue ceramic mug he preferred.
Despite her annoyance and hurt feelings over Oliver’s delayed return, Margot missed him. The sound of an elevator door sliding open reminded her of his step in the hall coming home in the evening. The smell of paint or the sight of a blank canvas brought to mind his intense feelings about art—bemoaning the difficulty of creating tension between positive and negative space, or even his frustration in trying to mix the right shade of purple to create the shadow on a wall. Art wasn’t his job, it was his passion. Late at night, Margot thought about the feel of his hands, warm and solid, reaching for her in the dark.
“Over here,” Toni called out. She was sitting at a table along the wall. Her hair had grown longer and she wore it in a ponytail anchored on top of her head, flopping every which way like an elaborate bird plume. Margot pushed aside her momentary nostalgia and smiled at her niece, then motioned that she would get a drink at the bar before joining her.
Margot scanned the blackboard. When the man in front of her stepped aside, she ordered a mocha drink. She paid her $4.60 and wondered how so many young people could afford coffee habits at prices like these, though once the cup was in her hand the fragrant chocolate mixed with coffee made her think she should indulge herself more often.
She sat opposite Toni, who was just closing her phone.
“A text from Mom,” she said.
“How’s it going?”
“I’m almost afraid to say it, but she’s better than she was this summer.”
“Her speech?”
“That’s pretty much the same. I guess that’s a good thing.” Toni paused as if to reflect. “I think it’s like her attitude has changed.”
“Her attitude?”
“Well, sort of her outlook. She seems calmer, more accepting of what she can and can’t do. Being home seems more important to her than before.”
“How do you mean?”
“Her weaving, for one thing. No more place mats, or those table runners. She’s not even doing the juried craft shows. It’s like she’s making art. She has this giant project going on the floor loom. And”—Toni’s eyes began to tear and her voice became more childlike—“some days it seems like she’s almost normal again. Not her speech, but more like her old self.”
“Really?” Margot said. Her heart lightened at this news. “What kind of project?” she asked.
“A huge tapestry. I saw some of it when I went home for a weekend. She’s been spending hours in her studio. It’s like she’s putting herself into her weaving.”
“She’s always done that,” Margot said.
“This is different. In the spring, it was like Mom was hiding up there, angry all the time. She was making some weird stuff.”
Margot felt her own eyes begin to well up. She reached for Toni’s hand. “That’s so good. I mean, I’m happy she’s found a way to express herself.”
Toni nodded and sniffed. She wiped her eyes. “Yeah, it is good.”
“I’m glad you’re staying in close touch with your mom.”
“We text all the time. And she’s really okay about Wink being home.”
Margot sipped her drink, the hit of caffeine and sugar going right to her veins.
“Have you heard?” Toni smiled fully, looking happier.
Margot shook her head.
“Wink’s dating some guy. Mom says he’s ‘adorable.’ Wink loves that he’s interested in astronomy too. And wait till you hear this—he’s a lepidop . . . something. He actually collects butterflies.”
“Is it lepidopterist?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Can’t you just see Wink and her boyfriend holding nets and stalking around the woods?”
Margot laughed.
“She assures me he’s totally cool, very cute, and not geeky at all.”
“What about you? Any cool new guys in your life?”
“Funny you should ask.” She grinned. “I’ve sort of been seeing this guy.” She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “We met the second week of classes. I didn’t think I could ever feel anything after Ryan. It’s so weird. Sometimes I can hardly picture him. Ryan, that is. Aunt Margot, I’m sure you figured out, he was . . .” She paused. “Well, you know, my first.”
“I’m glad you’ve met someone new. I had a feeling you would,” Margot said, not wanting to seem to lecture Toni on how she was so young, and that there would probably be many men in her life. Sitting in this coffee bar surrounded by all the students made Margot feel middle-aged and fading.
“Do you think I’ll forget Ryan one day? Like totally? I didn’t think that could ever happen.” Toni took a sip of her latte. “Do you ever think about your first guy?”
Margot felt her breath catch in her throat. She stared into her cup. “Oh, I guess some part of you . . .”
“Did I tell you that Mom’s running in this year’s Turkey Trot?”
Margot glanced up, relieved that Toni hadn’t waited for her answer. And why should Toni care about her own first love? She turned her attention to Toni’s lively chatter and plans for Thanksgiving. Kate and Hugh were hosting the dinner this year. Their sons would be there, too. “I’m dying to meet Wink’s butterfly dude. She invited him for dinner, so you’ll get to meet him too. You are coming, aren’t you?”
“Not this year.”
“No? But you always come.”
“It’s good to mix things up for a change.”
“Mom counts on you. Dad, too. Thanksgiving won’t be the same without you, Aunt Margot.”
“Toni, you’re so sweet. I love you all dearly, but I may do something different this year. It sort of depends on Oliver.”
Toni had finished her latte. She drew her teeth across her lower lip. “I was wondering what was going on. I know he’s been out in California. Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”
“No, that’s okay. I hope he’ll be back soon. We need to sort some things out.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s kind of complicated.”
“I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.” She stared into her now empty latte cup.
“It’s been a hard year in lots of ways.”
“You don’t have to explain. Still, he’s a wonderful guy, Aunt Margot. Wink and I always loved it when he came home.”
“Thanks for saying that.”
“I hope things work out okay.”
“I hope so too.” She reached across and brushed her hand across Toni’s upright ponytail.
“You like the hair?”
“Pretty funky,” she said, and smiled.
After leaving Toni, Margot waited on the corner for the crosstown bus. She had decided to go over to her old apartment. It was too late in the day to paint, but she wanted to look over her recent work. It was the evening rush hour. The wind had picked up and she turned up the collar on her jacket. Two older ladies sat on the bench inside the bus shelter, both with shopping bags gathered around their feet. A cluster of teenagers huddled at the far end, several with backpacks, one on a cell phone, two more wearing earphones, their bodies moving slightly to their separate music.
She reached into her handbag for her MetroCard. Slipped into the side pocket next to it was Oliver’s postcard. She had found it with the mail on her return from Bow Lake. Diebenkorn’s portrait of a woman. On the reverse side he had written, “I love you, Mags. Like they say on postcards—wish you were here.” He had signed it with his large letter “O.” She knew the message by heart. She had carried the card with her ever since.
A few days later Margot sat at the edge of the living room sofa, tense and very aware of Oliver’s presence. He had arrived home that afternoon from California and Carl had given her the rest of the day off. When she had come through the door they had hugged and kissed each other awkwardly, more like a couple at the early stages of a relationship, when you weren’t quite ready to give in to the pleasure of it, uncertain of what your partner’s response was going to be.
“Mags, we need to talk,” he’d said.
He stood before her now, holding two glasses of white wine.
“It’s the same Chardonnay we had that afternoon in Sonoma,” he said.
She reached out, took the glass, and said, “That seems like years ago now.”
“I wish you’d been with me this summer.” He sat at the far end of the sofa, looking distant, a little removed. He was tanned, but Margot thought maybe the lines around his mouth had deepened. She wanted to push his lips upward into a smile.
She sipped the wine, remembering the feel of the California sun and the gentle landscape outside Grant’s house. That had been a perfect afternoon. It had been later, back at the hotel, when they had quarreled and everything had begun to fall apart.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said. She drew in her breath, trying to muster up all her courage. “Every time I walk in Central Park I think about our last argument. I’m sorry, Oliver.” She lowered her head. “At the time I thought I was doing the right thing and—”
“Wait,” he interrupted. “Let’s not look backward. It’s not a good idea.”
“You’re right,” she said.
“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass, but not looking cheerful at all. After taking a sip, he stared down into his glass. Now that they were together, he didn’t seem to know what to say. Finally he spoke. “I was miserable without you, Mags.”
“Oliver,” she said, choking back the start of tears. “I’ve missed you too.”
“You have?”
“I know I’ve made it hard for you.”
He moved closer to her and placed his hand on her knee. “I don’t want to go into all that.” There was an edge to his voice.
“I’m painting a lot now,” she said. The apartment seemed especially quiet to her. She was aware of the sound of her own breathing.
“You know I’ve wanted that for you.” He took her hand. It felt warm and solid. “Have you thought about us? I mean the future?”
Margot felt the weight of his gaze upon her. “I kept wondering what you were thinking. You didn’t call much.”
“You know I hate the phone. And it was never the right time.”
“I began to think you no longer cared. That I’d ruined what we had.”
“Margot, I love you. I need you to know that.” He stroked her face with his wide hands, and cradling her head, he gently kissed her hair. “Mags, we need to be together.”
Margot nodded and allowed her body to relax against him.
“I want to make plans,” he said.
She put her fingers on his lips. “Please, just hold me.” After more than three months apart he felt immediately comforting, familiar to her. “Let’s talk later.”
He pulled her into his arms and it felt so right. Suddenly, loving Oliver seemed simple. He kissed her on the lips. “Okay?” he asked.
“More than okay.”
Oliver smiled fully, looking like his old self. She followed him to the bedroom.
Later that evening he ordered Indian food, saying he’d missed all the great take-out meals available in New York. They had both showered and Margot’s hair was still wet and slicked against her head. They sipped the rest of the Chardonnay while waiting for the food to arrive. Oliver rested his hand on Margot’s thigh.
“I’ve got so much to tell you,” he said.
Margot smiled. He looked younger now, his eyes brighter as he launched into his plans.
“I’ve been thinking of staying in California. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
Margot stiffened.
“I’ve found another house in Sonoma, one I’d like to rent,” he went on. “I love it out there, Mags.”
Margot’s throat tightened. “Wait,” she said. “You just got home.”
“You told me you’re painting more now. You loved it when you came out last June.”
“What are you saying?”
“California would be a great place for us to start over. I’m getting closer to sixty. I want to get married.”
“Leave the East?”
“Not totally. I’d keep this place for a while. I can rent out my studio.”
“So I’m supposed to quit my job.”
“Is it all that important? You said you wished you had more time to paint.”
“Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I’m supposed to follow you across the country?”
“Mags, change is good. My work is evolving. I don’t totally understand it. In many ways I’m not on solid ground. It’s scary. But it’s exciting, too. I want that for us.”
“And move to California?”
“We could divide our time. Maybe part of the year there, part here. You could still spend time with Lacey. I know that’s important to you, and to her, too.”
“Oliver, I don’t know. I . . .”
He took her hands and pressed them between his own. “What don’t you know? We love each other, right?”
“Of course.” The words came out jaggedly.
“Mags, are you with me on this? I’ve found this place. I need to let the guy know if I want to take the house.”
“Wait just a minute. You’ve picked out a house. You expect me to immediately quit my job, pick up my paints and follow you?”
He dropped her hands. “I don’t want to have the same argument all over again. It’s time for us. Don’t you see that?”
“This is different. You’re asking me to move across the country. Not just take an extended vacation.”
“I’m asking you to marry me.”
“On your conditions.” Her irritation grew. That smooth, mellow feeling that came from knowing she was loved began to twist and knot.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Suddenly a loud buzzer came from the intercom. The deliveryman had arrived with their dinner. Oliver pressed the door release button, his face in a grimace. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his billfold, taking out two twenties.
“Oliver—” She started to explain.
“Wait a minute,” he said, turning on the hall light. A moment later, after a soft knock and a mumbled thanks, he carried the bags to the dining table by the window, and set them down. He came over to her, ignoring the food.
“Oliver,” she began, “I want to be with you. I just want some say in it.”
“You said you wanted to be with me. I need to be in California. You want to paint, too. I don’t see the problem.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Why isn’t it?”
“There’s a lot to consider. It’s almost Thanksgiving.”
“Here we go. I can see it already.” He lifted his arms and gestured dramatically. “We have to be with my poor sister. I need to be near her to help.” He dropped his arms. “We’ve been down this road before.”
His words stung. “I know I’ve made mistakes.”
“Do you? You’re so stuck in that family, you can’t live your own life.”
“That’s not true.”
“Every time old Alex calls, you jump into action. That’s how it was all winter. I’ve always wondered if there’s something between you two. Now wouldn’t that be interesting? The poor older sister fades away while the beautiful young one is waiting in the wings.”
Margot felt her face go hot. She stood, flooded with anger. “You are so totally wrong. How could you ever say that?” Her legs felt weak, her knees like jelly. “I refuse to listen to such horrible things.” She started toward the bedroom.
“Now what?”
“I’m going to get some things and go over to my apartment. I can’t be with you when you’re like this.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I need to think. Let’s just say you’re not too good at marriage proposals.”
“So you’re saying no?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It damn well is.”
Margot’s pulse raced. “I hate it when you’re like this, Oliver. Pushing me. Telling me what to do. I don’t know what to think anymore.” She gulped back tears. “I wanted things to work between us.”
“Yeah, right. So go back to your precious little place. Your hideout.”
“Stop it!” she shouted. Margot didn’t think she’d ever been so angry. The walls of the room began to spin. She had to get out.
“Wait, Mags,” Oliver said, his tone more placating. “You have to understand what it’s been like for me.”
“Me, me, me. Do you hear yourself?”
The Indian food sat cooling on the table. She was no longer hungry. The smell of it sickened her. “I’m leaving,” she said.
Oliver sat hunched forward, his face buried in his hands. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t try to stop her.
Oliver felt someone pinching his elbow in the crowd.
“Mr. Famous doesn’t have time for an old friend?”
“Hannah? Sorry. I didn’t see you.” The huge gallery space was packed with guests.
“How about a smile? You’re looking like a tortured artist. Aren’t you a little old for that?”
“You read people pretty well.” He tried to say it jokingly.
They stood facing each other in the Kalvorian Gallery at a reception for a Norwegian artist whose name kept slipping out of Oliver’s mind and whose sculpture was composed of twigs, grasses, and hay. The overheated space smelled remotely like a barn.
“Good thing no one’s allowed to smoke.” He nodded at the closest piece and grinned. “This place would ignite in a flash.”
“You’re a wicked boy, Oliver.”
He shrugged. “I’m strictly a painter. I don’t get a lot of this.” “I understand you made waves out in San Francisco.”
“Yeah. It was a good summer.”
“I heard you might not come back to New York.”
Oliver’s expression darkened. “Who knows?” All he thought about now was Margot—his anger, her fury, and how now, in the same city, they were further apart than ever. She hadn’t answered her cell phone since their argument. When he’d tried to reach her at the Van Engen Gallery, she wouldn’t take his call. He was too afraid to stop by the gallery. Yet he didn’t want to imagine a future without her.
Hannah seemed to be studying him intently. “California’s been good for my work,” he said. “I may spend some more time there.”
“I knew you’d get suckered in.”
“Is June here?” he said, changing the subject.
“Over there, talking to Stanley. I’ve heard the grand master himself wants to show your work. Rumor has it your prices will be going up.”
“We’ve had some conversations. These things take time.”
“No Margot?”
“Not tonight,” he said, glancing at the door. Why did he even hope? She didn’t know he was here. It had been three days. Three long, painful days without her.
He felt something tickle the back of his neck. He turned. A strange mound of twigs and woven grasses loomed up behind him at nearly eight feet. Was this art? Did it even matter? He thought of his own work. So what if Stanley Kalvorian was finally interested in his paintings? After years of wishing for only that, Oliver didn’t seem to care. Without Margot, everything felt purposeless and flat.
Suddenly, he couldn’t take it a minute longer. He excused himself from Hannah and worked his way to the door. The cold night air hit him—a relief. He began the long walk north from Chelsea, block after block, stoplight after stoplight, the sidewalks busy, then less so, then busy again.
Why had he let his anger overtake him the other night? He had come home to New York with such hopes. So many plans. A new life with Margot. Had he already blown it? He was ten years older. He had one failed marriage behind him. But so did she. And her adored sister was failing before her eyes. Margot couldn’t change that. Yet life went on. Family went on. Toni and Wink were great girls, women really. And Jenna. He smiled at the memory of her visit this summer. You had to find the bright spots. Like a speck of yellow on a canvas, or a shot of light. The small things were powerful.
Close to an hour later he reached his building. Hector was on duty.
“Good evening, Mr. Levin.”
Oliver greeted him and hurried to the elevator, thankful that Hector didn’t ask after Margot, though he probably knew that she’d left. The doormen in New York knew everything that went on—a human comedy played out before them every day, he thought darkly. He let himself in at his apartment and tossed the keys on the table. He crossed the living room and stared out at the Hudson River. The wide expanse looked black and cold. Soon it would be winter. He turned to go into the bedroom. The red light of the answering machine blinked, on and off, hidden by a carelessly tossed jacket.