Knit in Comfort (15 page)

She accepted a refill from Dorene, took a sip and set it carefully beside her. “All right. I'll tell you my favorite.”

E
lizabeth turned on Wiggins Street and dropped to a walk so her heart rate would lower by the time she got back to her garage apartment. She'd been restless all day for the first time since she got to Comfort, the same sort of what-do-I-do-now fidgets she'd suffered through almost daily in New York. That morning she'd tried a drive through Asheville's quaint redbrick downtown, taking her sketch pad in case of inspiration that never came. She'd been in a beauty store for moisturizer, an art store for colored pencils, a kitchen store for cute plates for her room, a drugstore for mountain-view and Lake Lure postcards she wouldn't send, a boutique for some casual dresses, and an antiques store, where she fell in love with a crazy brass planter shaped like a cherub holding up a goblet, which Dominique would probably loathe but which she surprised herself by buying anyway.

Back home she'd unloaded her purchases, found satisfac
tion in none of them, and finally set out on this punishing run because she couldn't bear the thought that Comfort was failing her, that she might have merely run away, as David had insisted, and brought her problems with her, that her dream about
Babcia
might have been the product of indigestion and random thoughts, not a connection with The Truth.

Yesterday she'd worked again on her pattern, painted it onto thick paper she'd bought at Pearl Paint, her favorite art store, on Canal Street in Soho. The longer she stared at it, the more she became convinced something wasn't right, and further convinced that no one else would appreciate it either the way it looked now or with whatever fix she could muster. She'd completely lost whatever she found that seemed so right at the Lake.

Elizabeth picked up her pace past David's house, not in the mood to engage him. He'd fed a certain place in her soul that one evening in his backyard, but once she'd met Stanley, whose family embodied what she most loved about Comfort, David seemed artificial, self-consciously clever. Maybe the affect was his way of protecting himself, but it wore her out.

At the end of the Morgan driveway she did her cool-down stretches, enjoying the light air and the day's relatively mild temperature. If she ran this hard in New York in mid-July, she'd sweat off half her body weight and inhale enough toxins to kill a small animal.

She rolled her head around, shrugged to loosen her shoulders and ambled down the driveway instead of going through the house, because if Vera saw her hot pink jogging bra and waist-baring tiny black shorts she'd probably drop dead of horror.

Around the corner, she stopped and smiled at the tableau in the backyard. Father and son across the patio table from each other, leaning forward so their heads nearly touched. Jeffrey
explaining something on a piece of paper, talking earnestly, gesturing with his pencil.

Stanley caught sight of her first. “Hey, Elizabeth. Been for a run?”

She suppressed a response worthy of David:
Jogging suit, sweaty body, gee, I guess.
“Yes, a great one. It's so pretty here. I felt as if I could have gone on all day.”

“All the comforts of Comfort.” Stanley made a discreet inspection of her body, which seemed the wrong thing for Stanley to do, but then he
was
a man.

“Elizabeth, come and see.”

She grimaced. “I'm all stinky, Jeffrey.”

“I don't care. I drew a cool video game. Come and see.”

Elizabeth went and saw, listened to his long explanation involving fang-lined tunnels and fights with “bosses” and tremendously unpleasant weaponry. She put herself on autopilot, nodding and exclaiming at intervals, testing out a fantasy of Stanley as her husband, Jeffrey their gifted son, the peaceful sunny yard their own to enjoy on a warm summer afternoon. Domestic. Tranquil.

No panic, but no longing either.

“Jeffrey?” Megan at the back door, folding a bath towel. “Come inside, honey, you owe me a cleanup on your room.”

“Aw, Mom.”

“You promised you'd get it done before dinner, and dinner's on its way.”

“I was showing Elizabeth my—”

“
Jef
-frey…” Megan frowned at her son. She seemed taller, stronger somehow. Or maybe seeing and hearing her transformation when she told the wonderful story about her great-grandmother Fiona had changed her in Elizabeth's eyes. She'd
been awkward at first, obviously embarrassed at being in the spotlight. Then, as she continued to work on the blanket, her voice had become musical, her eyes lit, the green in them dominant. She'd put her crochet hook down and gestured now and then, a smile hovering over her lips. Elizabeth had been dying to sketch her, but couldn't bear to break the spell.

“Yes, Mom, okay, Mom.” He gathered up his drawings. “Hey, Megan, c'n I ask you a question?”

She started laughing before hearing a word. “Yes, Jeffrey?”

“Would you rather throw up on a full stomach or an empty one?”

“Jeffrey.” Stanley ruffled his son's hair. “Go help your mom.”

“Okay, okay, I was just interested. I'm going.” He ran toward the house, clutching his precious papers.

Elizabeth lingered, smiling after him. She should go inside and shower, but her empty apartment didn't appeal and the fantasy of Stanley the father/husband still did. “Your son is adorable.”

“Jeffrey is one of a kind.”

She tried to picture little Stanley. Tough kid? Class clown? Studious geek? “Were you like that as a child?”

“Nah, I was pretty average.” He glanced at her legs again, then leaned back in his chair and kept his eyes on her face. “I didn't make it through college. Jeffrey will, though.”

“I'm sure.” She dropped into the seat opposite him, wanting to understand why the idea of marriage to Dominique panicked her while this domestic scene hadn't. Why she was becoming restless and dissatisfied in this beautiful place that held such promise for a life solution.

“Something wrong, Elizabeth?” His voice was kind, tender. She nearly got tears in her eyes.

“I'm feeling a little lost, is all.”

He covered her hand with his and squeezed gently. “I went through the same thing.”

“Recently?”

“When I graduated high school. I was pretty sure college wouldn't suit me, though I did try eventually. The military didn't appeal, neither did getting an entry-level job. I was probably headed down a path toward self-destruction when I started dating Megan.”

“She saved you?”

“Just about.” He smiled, and Elizabeth felt warmed, even though the smile was for his wife. “After we got engaged I knew I had a purpose in life that didn't just involve me. I had a home to make for her and a future to prepare for children. I grew up in a hurry, settled down and haven't looked back.”

It was that easy for him, and nearly that easy for Megan. While Elizabeth flailed, struggled, analyzed and hypothesized, and the closest she got to “I do” was “I do not have a clue.” “I better take a shower.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. No.” She started toward her little door. “I'm fine. Really.”

He stood and watched her somberly, big, solid, reassuring man whose wife gave him the only reason for living he needed.

Upstairs, she stepped into the tinny stall and turned on the weak flow, allowing herself to miss the twelve-head Swedish shower Dominique had installed in their master bathroom. She scrubbed off the sweat and tried to scrub off the restless, angry mood with it. Maybe it was best to set Dominique free to find someone who could give him what he needed. She might be on the verge of change or she might never change. It wasn't fair
to ask him to live his life without what he wanted so badly just for her sake.

If she did leave him, she'd have to find work, she'd have to support herself, something she'd never done. She had money left to her in trust by her
babcia
, but it could only be used for education and/or the down payment on a house. Emma Burschke had always said Elizabeth should never rely on a man for security. Said it quietly, with a meaningful gesture toward Elizabeth's exhausted mother, for whom Elizabeth had been as much of a trial as her deserter husband and years of dead-end employment.

Elizabeth should call Mom. Maybe repairing that relationship would help, somehow, with this whole process. But what could she say?
Hi Mom, sorry I haven't been in touch, just wanted you to know I'm exactly the failure you worked so hard to make sure I wouldn't be.

She let tears flow with the hot water, then made herself stop so her face wouldn't be telltale puffy at dinner.

Clean and dried off, with that tremulous hollow feeling inside, like her organs and intestines would drop to her feet at the slightest upset, she sat on the carpet near the open window by her bed, crossed her legs, straightened her back, and began to meditate, the first time she'd needed to since her arrival. If she were a praying type of person she'd pray to God please not to let Comfort wear off yet. Not ever.

She went through the familiar progression of relaxation, focusing on single muscles from her toes to the top of her head, making each let go, imagining herself sinking into the carpet. Then the same process with her thoughts, letting them fade away, replacing them with nothingness which she imagined like the snow on TV channels you didn't get.

Deeper and deeper into peace until she felt the familiar tingling rush of warmth down her arms, and the uncontrollable fluttering of her eyelids signaling her descent into the trance state that would take her over until she broke it.

Silence. Clarity. Peace. Comfort.

Her lips curved; her body swayed slightly. Her calm felt permanent, her joy solidly reinstated. She gave her subconscious free reign to travel wherever it wanted to go.

It headed to Shetland, treeless islands covered in wildflowers, sheep, ponies, a woman striding over hills, arms out, a Scottish Maria from the opening of
The Sound of Music
. Lace flowed from her fingertips like Spider-Man webs, intricate, cobwebby and beautiful, covering the heather, the cliffs, the entire islands, waving in the breeze.

Then 1920s Shetland became Milwaukee, Jones Island on Lake Michigan, houses built on stilts to keep floors dry from storms that swept lake water all the way over the island. Immigrants there, her ancestors, fishermen, hard drinking, hard fighting, law-unto-themselves; children roaming wild, dogs roaming wild, neighbors helping neighbors.

Her Shetland.

She zoomed in for a close-up, saw her great-grandmother and great-grandfather dancing together on the third day of their Polish wedding, the bride playfully trying to avoid having the wedding cap placed on her head, a symbolic acceptance of the end of her girlish freedom. The woman—girl really—turned and Elizabeth was looking at herself, beaming with happiness, finally allowing the cap on her head and turning in surrender to her groom.

Was it Dominique? He was blurry. She couldn't tell…

The whole scene went wrong and thrust her out of her trance.

Elizabeth opened her eyes. She couldn't place him there with her at the altar. Not at a peasant wedding on a tiny island in the Midwest. Maybe not in a sunny backyard in Comfort either.

Outside she heard Deena calling for dinner. She got up slowly, calm still, but not joyful-calm anymore, tired and pulled down. Maybe she just needed a good night's sleep. Or one of Megan's wonderful meals. Or a big martini with David. Or a reassuring talk with Stanley. Or to knit out on the porch and learn more about the women who lived here. They seemed to hold the key to something important, but as usual, she was big on hunches, low on the ability to interpret them.

She tried to imagine her friends in New York sitting on her and Dominique's rooftop knitting night after night, sharing stories and themselves, and couldn't. Tried to imagine herself here permanently, without Dominique. She couldn't.

What kind of life did she want?

Terrible questions to ponder on low blood sugar. Downstairs, she crossed the garden, caught sight of David drinking alone in his yard and hurried past to avoid another invitation. Inside, she joined the Morgan family and forced spaghetti and meatballs into her confused stomach, tried to chatter and answer questions from the kids the way she usually did, aware that Stanley glanced at her several times, the only person who appeared to notice her mood.

Vera told stories of Stanley's tremendous gifts and precocious abilities as a child, when he beat every kid in town at a race, when he subdued a rabid dog just with his eyes. Megan for the first time chimed in too, with a story of the year she lived
in Minnesota, how a fox family made its den in their backyard, how in Florida they'd constantly had lizards in the house. Stanley told of a physical therapist client who worked from a home office and had fourteen cats roaming her place. The kids recounted, as far as Elizabeth could tell, every single second of a movie they'd seen the previous night on television, with extra time needed for disagreements and corrections. Still they charmed her; the whole family charmed her.

Afterward, over sweet, too-weakly chocolate bargain-brand ice cream, delicious and totally satisfying, Megan actually let Elizabeth help with the dishes, then received a lingering kiss from her husband before he went upstairs to do some work. The kids dispersed for summertime kid stuff, and Elizabeth and Vera headed to the front porch and their assigned seats in the cooling evening air to wait for Sally, Dorene and Ella to show up for their first lace-knitting lesson.

“Here we are.” Megan stepped onto the porch carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced fruit punch, chocolate-chip cookies and a plate of lemon bars Elizabeth had smelled baking earlier this afternoon.

“Megan, you should have told me, I could have helped.” Elizabeth guiltily swept the newspaper Stanley had been reading off the table so Megan could put out the food.

“Don't be silly. It's no trouble.” She sat in her usual chair, took a folder, a flat box and a book out from under her arm. The folder she deposited carefully beside her, the box she stuffed under her chair, the book she opened:
To Kill a Mockingbird
, by Harper Lee, first time Elizabeth had seen her do anything on the porch but knit.