A Thread So Thin (20 page)

Mom once said I started my teenage mood swings at the age of five and never stopped. And that’s not that far from the truth. Sometimes I feel like an emotional blender set on puree. But I don’t like to show that emotion, just laying it out there for everyone to examine or comment upon. Too much emotion makes people uncomfortable. And why not? It makes me uncomfortable too.

Maybe that’s why I paint. A painting is a safe place to store all those feelings I have too many of. I lay them out on the canvas and then walk away.

And if people ignore them, or like them, or don’t like them, or don’t like me, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got my out all prepared. “Art is a matter of taste.”

And so Garrett hasn’t seen me cry, not often, and never like this.

I don’t blame him for not knowing what to do, for letting Evelyn get to me first. I don’t blame him for shoving his hands in his pockets, swallowing hard, and mumbling something about how he should probably get out of the way before the guests all arrive, then scuttling downstairs while my sisters encircled me, holding on tight, wiping my tears.

I don’t blame him. I’d have done the same thing.

I
t takes a lot to make me mad.

It’s not like I’m a robot. I do have feelings. I get miffed, irked, annoyed, and ticked off as much as the next person, but mad, angry, furious, livid? Those are not emotions that I experience often. In fact, until today I could number on one hand the times I’ve been well and truly furious.

One—St. Patrick’s Day, when I was nine years old and Denny Miles, our “Dennis the Menace” next door, snuck into my bedroom, stole all my dolls, and dyed their hair green.

Two: When my father informed me that I had to be home from my high school prom by eleven. Fortunately, Mom talked him down from that particular position.

Three: When Rob informed me that he’d fallen in love with the receptionist at his gym and wanted a divorce.

Four: When, at my husband’s behest, a guy from a moving company showed up unannounced to inform me that I had to vacate my home.

Five: When Ivy’s abusive ex-husband tracked her down and, after lying in wait for her in the quilt shop parking lot, attacked her.

And that sixth time? That would be today when, after weeks of planning and work to make Liza’s shower special—and staying up half the night to finish her quilt, only to have her burst into a worrying episode of sobbing, then finally calming her down and helping wash her face and reapply her smeared mascara right before the shower guests arrived—Abigail walked in the door.

Make that, Abigail made her entrance. And quite an entrance it was. It wasn’t just Abigail, but Abigail and a phalanx of pink-smocked strangers carting an assortment of bags, boxes, and tables.

“Afternoon, all!” she chirped, her eyes darting around the room, taking in everything. “How is everyone? Liza, how are you, darling? You look lovely. Have you lost a little weight?”

“A little,” Liza said.

Abigail nodded approvingly. “It looks well on you.”

It was more than a little weight. Liza has always been slim, but now she looked skinny. There were dark circles under her eyes, too, and not from any vestiges of tear-streaked mascara. Liza
didn’t
look well, and I was concerned. But Abigail didn’t seem to notice.

“How are things coming along? Everything ready? Everyone well?” she asked and then, without waiting for answers, she turned to one of the women in the pink smocks and started issuing orders.

“Simone, set up the manicure stations along that wall and the massage chairs in the opposite corner. There should be plenty of room, but if there’s not we can just scoot the dining tables into the center a bit. Hurry! We haven’t much time before the guests arrive.”

“Yes, Mrs. Spaulding. Right away.”

Simone nodded to her troop of pink-smocked partners, who began unloading their gear and setting it up per Abigail’s instructions.

Abigail frowned as she scanned the room. “The tables are set for fifty? Hmm. That’s a few more than I’d expected. Well, I suppose we can reduce the chair massage time from twenty minutes to fifteen. That should help speed things along. But that won’t help with the manicures. I don’t want the guests standing in line waiting for a treatment. Simone, can you call the spa and get some more help over here quickly?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Spaulding, but I’ve brought my entire staff. The only one left is Ann Marie, but it’s her day off.”

“Call her, please, would you? Tell her I’ll pay her overtime. I’ll pay you all overtime.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Spaulding. I’ll call her right away.” Simone reached into her purse and pulled out a cell phone.

I didn’t quite believe this was happening, that Abigail was marching in at the last moment and taking over a bridal shower that Margot and I had been planning for weeks. Liza, Ivy, and Mom looked confused, and poor Margot looked like she was about to burst into tears. But I was mad.

“Abigail, what are you doing? We’ve got everything set up already and there isn’t—”

“Yes,” Abigail replied without looking at me, her eyes fixed on the front door as she walked over to the punch table and began shifting everything on it—punch bowl, cupcake trays, and flower arrangements—into slightly different positions, “and it’s all very nice. Though I must say I’m surprised about the daisy theme. Daisies are perfectly nice flowers, of course. Serviceable. But they aren’t terribly elegant, are they? If I’d known, I’d have ordered in some orchids for you. Or gardenias.

“Though,” she mused, “gardenias have such a strong scent. Perhaps a bit overpowering in so small a space. You really should have rented a room at the country club. Well. Too late now. It’s done. I suppose we’ll have to make do with the daisies. But I do like the cupcakes. Very sweet. Where did you get them?”

“We made them. I baked them and Margot decorated them.”

“Really?” She sounded surprised. “Well,
they
turned out very nicely,” she said.

“I’m so relieved that you approve.”

Abigail didn’t notice my sarcasm. She picked up a bright green plate, pinching the edge between her thumb and forefinger and making a tsk noise with her tongue. She looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Paper? You can’t be serious.” She looked at her watch. “I wonder if there’s time to call Hilda and ask her to bring over my Limoges.”

“Listen, Abbie. Margot is in charge of this shower. It’s supposed to be casual, relaxed. You don’t need to call your housekeeper and have her scurry over with your china. Everything is fine as it is. Lovely, in fact,” I declared, glancing at Margot.

“Abigail, the wedding is your baby and I understand that. I’ve kept my mouth shut on that score. But the shower is the responsibility of the maid of honor. Margot was kind enough to let me help. You could have, too, if you’d bothered to ask. Or if you’d bothered to show up at any of the quilt circle meetings for the last month. But you didn’t! And now, at the last moment, you can’t just expect to traipse in here and—”

Just as I was winding up to tell my dear friend Abigail exactly what I thought about her rude, manipulative behavior for the last few months, I felt a hand on my arm and looked to see my mother standing close by my side.

“Evelyn,” she whispered through the side of her mouth, jerking her head in Liza’s direction.

I glanced across the room to where Liza was standing. Her eyes were glistening.

“This isn’t the time, Evelyn.”

Mom was right. With the party set to begin in fifteen minutes and the bride teetering on the brink of another crying jag, now was not the time to confront Abigail.

I bit my tongue. Hard.

Abigail barely noticed. Truly, I don’t think she had the least clue that I was mad at her or that I had any reason to be mad at her. I’m not sure she was aware of anyone or anything besides her single-minded vision of what she wanted this shower to be.

“Where in the world is Greg? He called three hours ago saying they were leaving the city. They should have been here by now.” Scowling, Abigail strode past me to the front door and opened it.

“There you are!” Abigail said to the short, dark-haired man wearing a tuxedo and carrying a violin case. He was followed by three other similarly clad men, all of them with instrument cases.

Oh, dear Lord. Why did I have the feeling that some tearoom maître d’ in New York had recently learned that his entire string quartet had called in sick?

“Sorry,” the man puffed. He was winded. “We couldn’t find a place to park that was close. And then, we all had to help Mark carry the cello. It’s pretty heavy.”

“Yes, yes,” Abigail said impatiently. “Fine. Go ahead and set up there in the corner. And, Greg, remember what we talked about. I want you to play
quietly
. This isn’t a concert. You’re here to provide background music. And do not
move
from your corner. No strolling. There’s nothing more irritating than trying to carry on a conversation while someone is standing next to you playing a tango in your ear.”

Greg looked a bit annoyed but didn’t say anything. Abigail was clearly paying too much to be argued with. He picked up his case and skulked off to his corner with his fellow musicians following behind.

The door to the shop opened yet again.

I thought it might be an early guest, but it was Charlie. He was carrying an enormous, foil-covered tray and beaming. Gina and Jason, two of the servers from the Grill, were right behind him, also toting trays.

“Hello, everyone! Hello, Liza! You look wonderful. Big day, right?” He walked to a nearby table and set down the tray, then came over to give me a kiss.

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you? Everything ready for the party? Sorry I’m late. It was hard finding that exact brand of caviar on short notice. I really had to jump through some hoops to find a supplier.” He smiled. “Worth it, though, twice over. This is one caviar that’s actually worth the exorbitant price you pay for it. Do you want to try some?”

“Charlie! What is all this?”

Charlie looked confused. “It’s the hors d’oeuvres you wanted for the bridal shower—beluga caviar, grilled scallops on mini brioche with red pepper coulis, and marinated Kobe beef skewers. Abigail called late last night and said you wanted a few more appetizers, more
better
appetizers, and that you were too busy with the party arrangements to call yourself. The restaurant was already closed, Maurice had gone home for the night, so I was up until two baking mini brioche. I woke up half a dozen restaurant suppliers in the middle of the night, trying to find that caviar. But Abigail said my girl needed brioche and caviar, so my girl gets brioche and caviar.” Charlie ended this speech with a proud little smile and paused a moment, waiting for the adulation his Herculean efforts surely deserved.

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at Abigail, who, oblivious to my ire, was going around to each individual place setting and moving the napkin rings up one inch from where I had placed them, then standing back to make sure each ring was precisely even to the one next to it.

The room was silent. I turned to look at Charlie.

He spread out his hands. “What?”

F
or Liza’s sake, I followed Mom’s advice and didn’t confront Abigail about her high-handed hijacking of the bridal shower.

I would have as soon as the party was over but for the fact that after the musicians, masseuses, nail technicians, and all the guests with the exception of Liza’s three roommates had departed, Abigail turned to Liza and said, “Well, darling. I suppose we’d better be off too.”

“Off to where?” Liza asked.

“To the city, of course,” Abigail said with a little laugh. “We’ve got to work on the wedding plans. I’ve booked us a suite at the Algonquin for the week.”

“But,” Liza sputtered, “I just got here. I was looking forward to spending my spring break at home. You said you’d taken care of all the wedding stuff. You said that after that marathon planning session at the restaurant, it was all done.”

“Well, the
plans,
yes,” Abigail replied impatiently. “That’s all in place, but there’s still a lot to do. You’ve got final fittings for the gown and your going-away outfit. And we haven’t even talked about your trousseau or lingerie. The florist has made up test bouquets for approval and we need to visit the printer to see the proofs of the invitations. Plus I’ve scheduled appointments with Emiliano Vargas’s assistant to do a test run for your makeup and hair. We certainly can’t leave that until the last minute. And tonight, the wine importer has scheduled a special tasting, just for the two of us, so we can make certain that the vintages we ordered are all they should be.

“In fact,” Abigail said, glancing at her watch, “we’re due there in three hours, Liza. So we’d really better get moving. I’ve got a car waiting outside. Don’t worry about luggage. I had Hilda repack your things and give them to the driver.”

Liza closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head, as if she couldn’t quite understand what her aunt was saying.

“But…now? Right now? Shouldn’t we stay to help clean up? And what about Zoe, Janelle, and Kerry? They’re supposed to be staying overnight, then I’m driving them to the airport in Hartford tomorrow so they can catch their flight to Acapulco.”

“I know. Very regrettable that you can’t stay to entertain your friends, but you understand, don’t you, girls?” Abigail glanced quickly at Liza’s three roommates but didn’t pause long enough to give them the opportunity to answer.

The short one, Zoe, had an irritated look on her face, as if she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. Probably, like me, she didn’t want to make a fuss in front of everyone and risk upsetting Liza.

“And it isn’t like you don’t see each other every day.” Abigail chuckled. “After all, you do all live in the same apartment. Don’t worry about your friends, Liza. I’ve arranged everything. I made a seven o’clock dinner reservation for them at the Grill. My treat.”

She tossed a beneficent smile in their direction.

“And I’ve booked a car to take you to the airport in the morning. The driver will be there promptly at seven, so don’t stay up too late, girls.” Abigail picked up her purse and looped it over her arm, preparing to leave.

“Thank you so much for coming so far out of your way to attend Liza’s shower. I hope you enjoyed yourselves. Have a wonderful vacation. I’m sure you will.”

“Wait a minute! What about
my
vacation?” Liza asked.

There was an edge to her voice and she put her hands on her hips. The old Liza—the stubborn, pigheaded girl who could go fifteen rounds with her equally stubborn and pigheaded aunt without even breaking a sweat—was back, and that Liza can be a serious pain in the behind. In the past I’ve often wished she would grow up and learn to be a little more accommodating. But recently, Liza has become too accommodating, letting herself be steamrolled by Abigail at every turn. Mom was right: I couldn’t confront Abigail during Liza’s party. But Liza could. And it seemed, at last, she was ready to do so. It was everything I could do to keep from standing up and leading a cheer.

“I’ve been working like a dog for months! Between classes, and the art show, and helping research that article for Professor Williams, and the wedding, I’m exhausted! And I’ve really been looking forward to having some time, just one week, where I didn’t have to be someplace or do something for somebody else.”

That’s it! You tell her, Liza!

Abigail lifted her chin, took her purse off her arm, set it back on the table, and stared at Liza, unblinking.

“I see,” she said in a voice as cold and even as an ice floe. “I can certainly understand that. I’m pretty exhausted myself. For the last three months I have devoted myself to nothing but this wedding, working myself to a frazzle, not to mention spending a small fortune, because I want your special day to be perfect in every detail. It’s been an enormous task, but I haven’t minded. You’re my niece, after all. And I want to give you the wedding your mother would have, if she’d been able.” Abigail sighed.

“But if that’s not what you want…” She shrugged. “If, after all the trouble everyone has gone to on your behalf, you’re not willing to make a few sacrifices to make sure that everything goes smoothly, I certainly can’t force you. But I’m disappointed, terribly disappointed. On many levels.

“After so many months of us passing like ships in the night and you hardly ever coming home for weekends, I was looking forward to spending this week with you, just the two of us. Besides our appointments, I’d planned all sorts of little treats for you: an afternoon at a wonderful new spa, theater tickets, opera tickets, dinner at Jean Georges and Le Bernardin, and a private tour at the Museum of Modern Art…”

Abigail raised a fluttering hand, indicating that there were other delights on her list, delights that had taken her a great deal of time and effort to arrange, but if Liza wasn’t interested, then there was no point in going on.

Liza was standing next to me. I waited for her to say something sharp and cutting, but she was silent. Her shoulders drooped. I could feel her deflate under the weight of guilt Abigail was so obviously trying to heap upon her.

What was going on?

Six months ago, Liza would have seen right through Abigail’s manipulative machinations and wouldn’t have had the least compunction about saying so. What had happened? The sassy, hard-edged, smart-mouthed Liza I knew suddenly had no more spine than a limp dishrag.

“No matter how important this trip is,” Abigail said, “I can’t
make
you go to New York with me, Liza. If you want, I’ll cancel everything. We’ll stay here all week, and I’ll just have to keep shouldering all the responsibilities of the wedding myself and hope that after all the time and money I’ve invested, everything turns out all right.”

Abigail paused, her hand suspended in the air. She looked Liza in the eye.

“Is that what you want?”

Liza bit her lip. Her eyes darted around the room, avoiding Abigail’s piercing gaze. After a long pause she mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s your wedding, Liza, your day. You’re in charge. I’m just here to do your bidding. So? What is your bidding? What shall we do? Go to New York, put the finishing touches on your wedding while we enjoy a wonderful week of treats and adventures? Or stay here, while away the days doing nothing, and hope against hope that the invitations are free of mistakes, the wines haven’t corked, and the gown fits? Which will it be?”

Abigail waited. We all did.

“I don’t know,” Liza whispered. “I can’t decide.”

“No?” Abigail said.

“No.”

Abigail smiled sweetly. “Well, in that case, why don’t you just trust me on this? Come to New York with me. It’s the right decision. Later you’ll thank me for it.”

Liza nodded but said nothing, her silence denoting her consent.

Abigail smiled. “Good girl. Very wise.”

Abigail breezed out of the shop with Liza in tow, barely waiting long enough for Liza to give good-bye hugs all around and to thank everyone for everything (whispering in my ear that she liked daisies better than orchids any day) including the quilt, which she said was absolutely the most wonderful gift she’d ever received.

Liza’s roommates offered to stay and help clean up, but I said we had it covered, so they left with Abigail and Liza.

I kept my game face on until the last moment, standing at the door, waving good-bye until Liza, who kept turning around to call out her thanks, crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the alleyway. Then I closed the front door of the shop and screamed at the top of my lungs, letting out all the pent-up fury and frustration I’d been swallowing back for the previous four hours.

“Better now?” my mother asked.

“No!”

“Evelyn, calm down,” Mom clucked as she started stacking empty punch cups onto a tray.

“Did you see the way she just barged in here and took over like she owned the place?”

Margot, in a feeble attempt to defuse the situation, said, “Well, technically, she does. I mean, Abigail does own this building.”

“Yeah,” Ivy said sarcastically, “along with every other building in town.”

“That may be, but she doesn’t own this business. Or me. And she doesn’t own Liza! Did you see how she bulldozed her into going back to New York?”

Ivy, who had begun helping Mom clean up the refreshment table, frowned and shook her head. “Or the way Liza caved in and went with her? What was that about?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, my ire tempering a bit as I thought about Liza’s baffling behavior. “She’s been under so much stress lately. Maybe she was just too exhausted to put up a fight.”

“Weddings have gotten to be such a hullabaloo,” Mom muttered. “In my day, you either eloped and went off for a quickie honeymoon to Door County or, if you had a little money, you had a nice church wedding with fifty or sixty guests, just family and very close friends, and afterward everybody trooped down to the church basement for cake and punch. Weddings today are too stressful. Poor Liza.”

Bells jingled as the shop door opened and Garrett walked in, flanked by Charlie, Franklin, Arnie, and, much to my surprise, Gibb Rainey, wearing his Huskies cap and grinning at Mom. Even more surprising, Mom was grinning back.

“Cleanup crew is here,” Garrett said. “I heard you needed a few big, muscular guys to help cart away these tables and chairs. Unfortunately, the temp agency was fresh out of big, muscular guys, so they sent us instead.”

Margot giggled. “Thanks for coming, fellas.” She walked over to Arnie and planted a kiss on his lips. “It was nice of you to give up your Saturday to help.”

“Wouldn’t have dreamed of missing it,” Arnie said, kissing her back. “You want us to start taking down those tables?”

Margot nodded and returned to work while the guys started breaking down tables and stacking chairs in a corner.

Gibb looked pretty fit for his age, whatever age that was. Even so, I wasn’t sure I wanted him hefting heavy tables and chairs in my shop, and I was pretty sure my insurance agent would feel the same way.

“Um, Gibb, could you do me a favor?”

“Sure!” he said affably while I racked my brain to think of some mission to send him on.

“Could you…Could you run upstairs to the workroom and get me a few empty boxes? I need some to store things in—the punch bowl, leftover cups, and…things.”

He beamed, happy to be singled out for an important task. “Sure! Shouldn’t take me a minute. Be back in a jiffy,” he said and winked at Mom, which kind of threw me.

“Um. Actually, it might take you a little longer. The boxes are all broken down, flattened, and ready for recycling. I’ll need you to put them back together. There’s a big stapler on the worktable upstairs.”

Gibb’s smile faded a little. Clearly he didn’t relish the idea of going off into another room, away from Mom, for more than a few moments.

“Oh,” Gibb said hesitantly. “Well, if you really need me to…”

“I do,” I said earnestly. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Gibb smiled weakly, tipped his Huskies hat, and headed for the stairs. Mom glared at me, but I pretended not to notice.

“Thanks, Gibb!”

“You’re welcome.”

“So, how was the shower?” Garrett said, clapping his hands together. “Did the guests bring useful gifts? Lingerie, perhaps?” He raised and lowered his eyebrows before walking toward the break room. “Liza! Come out here and model some of your presents for me!”

“She’s not here,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Abigail took her back to New York.”

Garrett frowned as he placed another chair on the pile. “She did? Why? When will they be back?”

“Wedding planning. They’ll be there all week.” I should have stopped right there but, angry as I still was, I couldn’t resist adding one more detail. “Liza didn’t want to go, but Abigail insisted.”

Even with my eyes fixed on my son, I could feel my mother’s disapproving gaze beaming into me from the other side of the room. Don’t ask me how, but I could. Some childhood memories are indelibly branded into our psyches, such as the heat that can be generated from eyes of a miffed mother giving her offspring “the look.”

“What?” Garrett said, his face beginning to flush. “Where does Abigail get off dragging Liza back to New York for the week?”

Garrett was ticked. And I was happy he was. If there’s one emotion that loves company more than misery, it’s anger. I was still angry and glad to have Garrett as a member of my club. And it wasn’t just Garrett. It turned out there were any number of people who were irritated with Abigail—a fact that, at that moment, pleased me more than I now care to admit.

“We’re supposed to spend the whole week together! I’ve got plans! Concert tickets! Dinner reservations! How much planning can one wedding take, anyway? We’re supposed to be planning for our future, not just the ceremony. Liza’s my fiancée, but for the last three months, I’ve barely had a chance to see her!”

“And I’ve barely had a chance to see my wife,” Franklin added, no more pleased than Garrett about this turn of events. “When I do, the conversation breaks down into some sort of argument about this wedding. It seems like we argue all the time now. I don’t understand what’s gotten into her. Abigail enjoys a little friendly banter, the occasional intellectual sparring session, but she’s never liked arguing for the sake of it.”