A Thread So Thin (31 page)

On my list of hard days, really hard days, I number the day my mother died, the day I got arrested for shoplifting in New Bern, and the day Abigail told me the truth about the betrayal that came between her and my mom and tore our family apart for so long. And now this, the moment I tugged at my ring and gave it to Garrett for safekeeping.

But then I remembered something else.

All those terrible things happened to me? Those tragedies and trials and endings that, at the time, I was sure marked the end of the world as I knew it? They were awful, but that wasn’t all they were. Each ending was also a beginning, a chance to grow up, to try again, to make myself over into someone a little bit wiser, braver, and better.

Garrett was right. This wasn’t an ending. It was a beginning. Do-overs are possible, and this time, we are going to get it right. I’m sure we are. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t scared.

“So what am I supposed to do now?”

Garrett scooted around on the wooden floor so he was sitting with his back against the wall, next to me, and put his arm around my shoulder. “Whatever you want,” he said.

I thought about Chicago and room after room of white-walled gallery spaces waiting for me to fill them with treasures of my choosing. I thought of my room back in New Bern, of light streaming through a south-facing window and painting whatever came into my mind, of sitting upstairs in the quilt shop on a Friday night, drinking good red wine. I thought of stories told, confidences kept, silences respected while we sat and stitched and figured out the meaning of everything, of walking through the woods with Garrett on a Saturday afternoon, of going to sleep and waking again and knowing he was only three blocks away. I thought of Paris, or what I imagine Paris must be like, city of lights and artists and scents and inspirations. I thought of being alone, and being happy being alone. I thought of painting in plein air on a beach, or a mountainside, or in a meadow among a cloud of butterflies. I thought about all the possibilities, of the things I know and the things I don’t, and the things I’ve barely dared to imagine. And I thought of the doors, all the doors….

“What if I don’t know?”

“Then you’ll figure it out,” Garrett said in a voice so sure that I could just about believe he was right. “I’ll help you. I’ll listen. You talk.”

So I did.

Facing the empty apartment with the bare walls and the naked floors, I looked beyond the boundaries of Sheetrock, brick, and mortar, and spoke of windy cities and quiet villages, of beaches and mountains, of friends and strangers. The words spilled out like paint on canvas, like handfuls of wildflower seeds scattered on a field, like rainbow yards of fabric laid out on a table, uncut, unbound, untraced—the stuff dreams are made of, ideas and inklings and desires that might yet be formed into anything imaginable.

Garrett listened and I talked, laying my head on his shoulder, opening my mind to the possibilities, embracing the choices, in love with my beloved, and for the first time ever, in love with my life.

C
harlie was aghast.

“Seriously? You blew off your reservation at Maison La Mer so you could eat hot dogs in the park? Are you mad?”

Mom glared at Charlie through narrowed eyes. “I
like
hot dogs.”

Charlie put his hand over his eyes and groaned. “I can’t believe it. Brandade de morue for a starter, a spring salad with sherry mustard vinaigrette, moules frites, champagne poached pears for dessert or maybe strawberry napoleon. Or a hot dog with all the trimmings.”

“And a Nutty Buddy ice-cream bar for dessert,” Mom said proudly, which elicited a laugh from everyone at the table. “Don’t forget that. It was delicious.”

Charlie covered his face with both hands, as if it were all too much to bear. “Virginia, you are a mystery to me. As inexplicable as your darling daughter.”

I gave Charlie a quick glance, wondering if this barb was in reference to my response to his many proposals, which would have been a violation of the six-month moratorium on proposals, but I could see that it wasn’t. At the moment, marriage was the farthest thing from Charlie’s mind. He was totally focused on trying to fathom my mother’s plebian palate.

In fact, when it came to the moratorium, he’d been as good as his word. Since that day in the pizza restaurant, he hadn’t uttered even the slightest hint of a proposal. Which, I’d just realized, was starting to annoy me. For a man who claimed to have been sick with love for the past three years, he seemed to have recovered awfully quickly.

No, no, I told myself. It was best this way. For the moment I had all the wedding worries I could handle.

In spite of Mom’s assurances that Garrett and Liza were adults and could work everything out on their own, I couldn’t help but worry about them. I hadn’t heard a word from Garrett since we left Liza’s apartment. It was everything I could do to keep from calling his cell phone. So even though I really should have stayed home and finished sewing the sample for the upcoming hunter’s star table runner class, when Franklin called and said the whole gang was getting together for a late dinner at the Grill, I was quick to accept, eager for a distraction.

The big round table in the back was too small for our group. Charlie had pushed together a row of small tables along the wall to make room for himself, me, Mom, Franklin and Abigail, Margot and Arnie, Ivy, and Dana. Dana had barely said a word since she arrived, but she was smiling as she sipped her glass of wine and nibbled at a plate of crispy spring rolls. She appeared to be enjoying herself. I hoped so.

“Now, now, Charlie,” Mom said soothingly, patting him on the arm, “don’t take it so hard. I’m sorry you went to all the trouble of getting that reservation for nothing, but I really wanted to eat a hot dog in the park. It just seemed like such a New Yorky thing to do. Besides, why would I want to eat somebody else’s moules frites when I can eat yours?”

Dana frowned as she crunched into another spring roll, looking a little confused by the terminology but saying nothing.

“Moules frites are mussels with French fries,” Ivy explained.

“And a fabulous sort of garlicky mayonnaise to dip them in,” Mom added. “What’s that sauce called, Charlie?”

“Aioli.”

“That’s right! Aioli. It’s wonderful! Delicious with the fries or the mussels. You should try some, Dana.”

Dana covered her mouth with her hand and swallowed quickly, hesitant to talk with food in her mouth. “Oh. No, thank you. I don’t like seafood.”

Charlie made a noise and started to say something, but Mom cut him off.

“Neither did I, dear, not unless it was fried. But Charlie started encouraging me to expand my horizons. Now I like mussels, cod, haddock, and even calamari! That’s squid. Never in a million years did I think I’d eat squid. And like it!”

Dana looked nervously down at her plate, as if wondering what frighteningly exotic ingredient Charlie might have snuck into her spring rolls.

“And before you know it, I’ll have you eating oysters,” Charlie declared.

Mom made a face. “Oh no. That’s where I draw the line.” Mom shuddered. “Oysters. Yech. They’re so slimy.”

“Now, Virginia, don’t be like that. Haven’t you heard? Oysters are an aphrodisiac.”

“Aphrodisiac. Ha!” Mom said as she speared a circle of calamari with her fork. “Sure they are.”

“They are!” Charlie insisted. “Isn’t that right, Abigail?”

Charlie grinned at Abigail, who had just put a shell to her lips prior to slurping down the last of a half dozen oysters she’d ordered. “Since they got married, Abigail and Franklin have been going through oysters like nobody’s business. At least a dozen a week—each! And look at them, Virginia. The picture of health and vigor, both of them. I’m telling you, if you want to put a spring in your step and a twinkle in your eye, not to mention add a bit of spice to your love life, nothing will do the trick like a nice plate of fresh oysters.”

Franklin beamed at this teasing homage to his ongoing vitality and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Abigail, however, was not amused. She lowered her oyster, uneaten, and put it back on the plate.

Charlie’s grin faded. He’d known Abigail long enough to know when he’d gone too far. Margot, ever the diplomat, jumped in and changed the subject.

“Abigail, how are things going with the wedding? Arnie was just saying how much he’s looking forward to it.”

Arnie nodded. “Margot told me you’re putting us at Judge Gulden’s table. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. And, Arnie, if you’d really like to make a good impression on the judge, I suggest you develop a sudden interest in stamps. Harry is a collector.” She rolled her eyes. “Personally, I can’t imagine a duller hobby, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Actually,” Arnie said, turning a little pink around the ears, “I collect stamps too.”

“Really?” Abigail said without the slightest embarrassment about her earlier remark. “Well, that’s perfect then, isn’t it?”

Margot giggled and squeezed Arnie’s arm. “I can’t believe the wedding is just a week away! Do you need help with any last-minute planning or errands?”

“No, thank you. I’m happy to report that, at long last, everything is done. There was some fuss about getting enough sorbet cups to serve two hundred, but Byron called me just this morning and said he’d found a place in Westchester that had enough in stock. Of course, I had to buy them rather than rent, but that’s all right. The supplier gave us a break on the price, and I’ll use them again. They’ll be perfect to use at the Stanton Center fund-raiser in the fall.”

“That’s right!” Ivy said. “Donna told me you’d agreed to chair the event after all. That’s great, Abigail!”

Franklin squeezed Abigail’s shoulders. “And did you hear about her idea? After doing the same event for seven years, the auction was beginning to lose a little steam. So Abigail proposed something new—an authors’ luncheon. They’re inviting four local writers from the area to read and talk about their work and then, afterward, they’ll sign books, with all the profits from the sales going to the Stanton Center. I think it’ll—”

“Really!” Dana exclaimed, interrupting Franklin and surprising everyone with her enthusiasm. “You mean we’re going to have real writers at the Stanton Center? Who?”

Abigail closed her eyes for a moment and tapped her finger on the end of her nose, summoning the list of names from her memory. “Oh, now. Let me see. Janice Greenow, Phil Rensler, Dorothy Deloitte, and…who was that other one? Oh, yes! Estella Perez.”

Dana’s eyes widened. “Estella Perez! Estella Perez, who wrote
Comes the Morning
?”

“Why, yes. Estella and I are old friends. Do you know her work?”

Dana gasped. “I’ve read every one of her books five times! She’s my favorite writer. I even wrote to her once. I was going to send her one of my poems but…” She ducked her head, embarrassed.

“Dana,” I said, casting a quick glance in Abigail’s direction, “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

“Oh…well, I’m not. I just scribble a little bit. Poems. A couple of short stories. Just for fun. It’s not like I’m good or anything. I just…” Dana’s voice drifted off. She looked down at her plate.

“Do you think,” she said without looking up. “Do you think that maybe I could go to the luncheon? I couldn’t afford a ticket, but maybe I could help out. Sell tickets or clean tables or something?”

“Oh,” Abigail said casually, “I think we can do a little better than that. Ivy, I’d just been thinking that, after the luncheon, we might ask one or two of the authors to come to New Beginnings and give a little writing workshop.”

She smiled and gave Dana a sideways glance. “Do you think any of the women might be interested in something like that?”

“I can think of a couple.” Ivy winked at Dana, who was positively beaming. “But are you sure you have time to organize another event? I know how busy you’ve been with the wedding and all.”

“I am
never
too busy to help support the Stanton Center,” Abigail said haughtily. “But speaking of the wedding, where in the world are Liza and Garrett? I left a message with Hilda, asking them to join us when they got back home. Where can they be? I assumed they’d be here hours ago.”

I started to say something about traffic when Garrett and Liza walked in the front door, holding hands and smiling. What a relief!

After our encounter with that strange woman and Garrett’s stormy response, I’d worried that something terrible had happened, but obviously, I’d been worrying over nothing. Sitting across the table from me, Mom gave me a “what did I tell you?” look.

“Hi, everybody. Sorry we’re late,” Garrett said. “It took us a while to unload the car.”

“It turns out I’ve got a lot more stuff than I thought.” Liza laughed.

“Oh, that’s all right,” Abigail said magnanimously, getting up to give Liza a peck on the cheek. “You’re here now, and that’s what counts. Garrett, I bet you had a time carrying all Liza’s boxes up the stairs to the apartment. You should have left it until morning.”

Franklin nodded. “Yes, Garrett. It could have waited until tomorrow. Arnie and I would have given you a hand.”

Garrett licked his lips nervously. “Well, we didn’t exactly move everything up into my apartment. We took it all to your house.”

“Our house?” Abigail clucked. “Why in the world did you do that? You’ll only have to move it again in another few days.”

Liza moved closer to Garrett and squeezed his hand. “Actually, he won’t. He…I mean, we…” Liza took a deep breath. “Abigail, we’ve decided to postpone the wedding.”

“What!” Abigail and I shouted simultaneously.

I couldn’t believe it.

When Garrett stormed off to talk to Liza, I knew he was upset, but not that upset. Not upset enough to call off the wedding! I flopped back in my chair, stunned into silence, and looked at my son.

But Garrett didn’t look upset. Not at all. Nor did Liza. In fact, they looked happier and more relaxed than I’d seen them in weeks. I didn’t understand.

Like me, Abigail was stunned—but not into silence.

“What do you mean? You’re postponing the wedding? Do you have any idea what you’re saying? At this moment, ten cases of crystal sorbet cups are being rush delivered to New Bern so they’ll be here in time for your wedding! Do you have any idea the lengths I had to go to
find
ten cases of crystal sorbet cups? And now, you just blithely walk in here and say you’re postponing the wedding? Why? Until when? And what in the world gives you the right to think you can just make that decision without consulting me!” she shouted.

And then, something wonderful happened. Liza shouted back.

With hands on her hips and fire in her eyes, Liza—the old, stubborn, firecracker Liza, the girl who had been missing for lo these many months—stood up to her aunt and shouted her down.

“You? This isn’t your wedding! Since when do I have to consult
you?
Garrett and I have talked this over, and we’ve both decided that we’re not ready to get married yet. Maybe someday we will. Or maybe we won’t. When the time is right, we’ll decide.
We
will! Not you, Abigail. It has nothing to do with you!”

Abigail started to protest, but Liza didn’t give her a chance. “No! Don’t say anything. Don’t ask any questions. If something changes, then you will be advised on a need-to-know basis. Got it? And as for your rush delivery, well, that’s your problem. Garrett and I aren’t going to rush into marriage before we’re ready just so you won’t have to return two zillion crystal sorbet cups! There’s a pretty long list of good reasons to get married, Aunt Abigail, but your sorbet cups don’t even make it into the top five thousand!”

Liza stopped for a moment, breathing hard through her nose, and crossed her arms over her chest. “And if you’ll think about it for a second, you’ll see I’m right!”

That last statement pulled her up short. Abigail pressed her lips together before speaking. “And you’re sure this is what you want?” she asked Liza and then looked at Garrett. “And you?”

“It’s for the best,” he said. “We were rushing things, and there was no reason to. We’ve got plenty of time.”

I raised my eyebrows, silently testing Garrett’s veracity. He gave me a quick nod and a little smile so I’d know he was all right.

Abigail’s shoulders drooped, signaling her defeat. “Well. Obviously, if you’re not ready to get married, then…you’re just not. But, Liza, if you’re not getting married, what are you going to do?”

Liza laughed, the first time I’d heard her laugh in months. “Anything I want! I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I do know that, for a little while at least, it involves Paris.” She leaned her head on Garrett’s shoulder and gave him a questioning look.

“Oh, right,” he said and turned to me. “Mom, would it be all right if I took a couple of weeks off? I’m going to Paris.”

I smiled with relief. He really was all right. “Of course, sweetheart. Whenever you like. We can manage without you for a little while, can’t we, Margot?”

“Sure we can!” Margot enthused and then sighed. “Paris. How romantic! I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”

Abigail scowled at Margot. “Well, isn’t that just ducky! I’m glad everything has worked out so well for everyone. Why don’t we all just drop everything and run off to Paris, hmm? Oh, wait! I can’t. And do you know why? Because I’ve got two hundred two-pound lobsters on order from Maine and it’s too late to cancel. Not to mention a full orchestra, a chamber ensemble, two hundred bottles of champagne, a six-layer wedding cake, and a small army of florists and a hairdresser—a
celebrity
hairdresser—all of which have been paid for in advance!”