The Scarlet Thread (11 page)

for the rest of the evening.

The next morning, she tried to bring it up again.

“So, go ahead,” he said, sounding impatient. “What’s on your

mind?” He hadn’t even bothered to lower his
Wall Street Jour-

nal.

“Nothing in particular,” she said. How did you start a good

talk when you needed to talk about not talking?

“Pour me another cup of coffee, would you?” he said from

behind the paper.

She wanted to pour the entire pot over him. “We used to talk

about all kinds of things from the minute you walked in the door

until we went to bed.”

“We still talk.”

“About business. About the games you’re working on. About

the kids.”

At last he lowered the paper and looked at her. She could see

him putting on his armor, getting his weapons ready. He had always been better equipped for fighting than she was. “What are

you getting at, Sierra?”

God, what do I say? What do I do?
she screamed inside her

head. When Alex presented his cold front, she felt incapable

of reaching him—and that seemed to be the case almost all

the time now. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes. He

used to sense when she needed him. Now, he didn’t seem to

care what she was feeling or thinking. She wanted to say she

missed him. She wanted to say she was lonely. She wanted to

tell him she was afraid they were drifting apart, and that

Audra was right: She was boring, uneducated . . . and losing

him.

The very thought filled her with a bleak terror. But she was

even more terrified to say those things aloud and find that he was

indifferent.

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Her eyes pled with him.
Just tell me you still love me, Alex. Don’t

make me ask you if you do.

He just sat looking at her, eyes narrowed, posture defensive.

And so she leaned back in her chair, overwhelmed with a sense

of defeat. “I’m not getting at anything,” she finally responded,

aching inside for the connection she had always felt with him.

How could you be with someone you loved so desperately and

feel so alone?

He stared at her, as though he were studying a particularly

curious insect on the window screen. He shrugged. “I guess we

haven’t been out for a while,” he conceded, folding his newspaper and tossing it onto the coffee table. His gaze drifted from

hers. Restless, he glanced at his wristwatch and got up. “I

wanted to get into the office early this morning. I’ve got a lot to

do.” He downed his coffee and headed for the kitchen. “Why

don’t you figure out where you’d like to go and make the reservations?”

He sounded so offhand, so uninterested. . . . She closed her

eyes against the pain swelling inside her. Alex had always been

the one to suggest places they could go and things they could do.

Several times, he’d surprised her with tickets to a show at the

Luther Burbank Center. He used to take her and the children to

pizza and a movie. Once, he’d even made arrangements for her

mother to take care of the children so he could whisk her off for a

romantic weekend at a bed-and-breakfast in Mendocino.

Now, he sounded as though the whole idea of taking her out

was just one more responsibility he needed to handle.

She suggested a rib place.

“Too much fat and cholesterol.”

Since when had he worried about fat and cholesterol?

They agreed on a movie, but that night Alex called and said he

had some work to do. She asked him to reserve Friday night for

dinner out with the children, but he called from the office at the

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couldn’t miss.

She gave up making plans.

Now, it seemed, he didn’t think she had the ability to decorate

their home properly.

The whine of the garage door closing and the roar of Alex’s

Mercedes as he floored it toward work brought Sierra back from

her dismal reverie. She needed to awaken the children soon so

they’d have plenty of time to get ready for school.

Carolyn was invited to a birthday party this weekend. Her

little friend, Pamela, lived somewhere in Studio City. Sierra

went back into the kitchen and jotted down a note to buy a

birthday present.

She glanced at the slip of paper Alex had given her:
Bruce

Davies Interiors.
She tacked it to her noteboard beside the phone.

She didn’t make the call until later that afternoon, after Alex

called and asked if she had done it yet.

The designer’s receptionist had a rich, velvety voice with a

heavy New England accent.

“I’m under orders from my husband to hire a decorator,” Sierra

said.

The woman was polite and efficient, making no promises and

hinting that Bruce was in high demand and terribly busy. Too

busy, Sierra hoped. “Please hold.” Yanni played softly in Sierra’s

ear.

The receptionist came back on the line. “Is your husband

employed by Beyond Tomorrow?”

“Yes, he is.” Had Alex called ahead?

“One moment, please,” the receptionist said, and Sierra heard

Yanni playing again. Plucking a pencil from the kitchen drawer,

she doodled flower and leaf patterns along the top edge of her

grocery list. But she’d barely gotten started when the receptionist was back.

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“I apologize for the wait, Mrs. Madrid. Mr. Davies will be

pleased to speak to you.”

Before she could protest, Bruce Davies was greeting her with

the familiarity of a long-lost friend.

“Sierra, I’m
so
glad you finally called. I knew anyone with such

a charming name wouldn’t let me down. Of course, I expected

your call several days ago, but this works out just as well. I’ve

just finished a stunning home only a few blocks away from you,

and I’m ready for something new and exciting! And believe me,

the ideas I have for your home are definitely that!”

After a two-minute conversation with Bruce, Sierra felt she

had been run over by a steamroller. He made the appointment

for late Thursday afternoon and informed her he would bring an

assistant with him. He knew who Alex was because Audra

Silverman had faxed him an article from a well-known computer

game magazine.

“Decorating for a game designer will be a challenge,” he said,

clearly eager.

“I’m not sure Alex will want to have much involvement, Mr.

Davies.”

“Oh, but he must. I
insist.”

Surprisingly, Alex didn’t quibble and assured her he would be

home early Thursday.

Bruce Davies turned out to be an attractive man in his late forties, trim and elegantly dressed, who absolutely exuded energy.

His assistant attended him in silence, writing notes as they

walked through the house, Alex at Bruce’s side.

It became apparent very quickly that Sierra was going to have

little say in what was done to the house. Country, Bruce informed her, was a definite “no-no,” and anything even remotely

Victorian “just wouldn’t do, darling.” Bruce was interested in the

architecture, made suggestions for some changes, and poured

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“A man who is going to change the future of gaming must have

a house that reflects his creativity,” Bruce said, his eyes sparkling as he surveyed the entryway.

By the time Bruce and his assistant left, Sierra was convinced

the house would bear the stamp of Bruce Davies Interiors, a

slight mark of Alejandro Madrid, and absolutely nothing of her.

“It’s going to be expensive,” Alex said, not noticeably worried

about it, “but it’ll be worth it. Bruce said he’ll have sketches

within a week, and decisions can be made.”

She knew who would be making the decisions.

The next morning, after dropping the children off at private

school, Sierra drove to the closest mall to look for a suitable present for Carolyn’s new friend. Nothing looked right to her: The

selection was too wide and the prices too high.

Depressed, she purchased a cappuccino and sat watching the

hustle of people in the mall. Most were women. Some strolled at

a leisurely pace, looking lonely and bored as they paused at window displays. Others moved with quick efficiency, looking for

all the world as though they knew exactly where they were going

and what they were doing.

Sierra longed for home. She wished her mother were sitting

across from her so she could pour out her heart and ask her

advice. But she’d done enough of that lately over the telephone.

Her mother’s parting words after their last conversation still

echoed in her ears: “Remember, honey, God is in control.”

If that was true, why did she feel so desperate?

Shaking her head, she turned her thoughts back to the matter

at hand. What was she going to do about that blasted birthday

present? When she was Carolyn’s age, she had liked nothing

better than taking her friends up into the attic so they could

spend hours dressing up in her mother’s and grandmother’s old

8 2

clothes, high-heeled shoes, hats, and jewelry—all perfect props

for pretending to be Cinderella or Snow White or some other

fairy-tale character.

Did children do that sort of thing anymore? All the dress-up

Carolyn had ever done was back in preschool. The Windsor

School had provided plenty of clothes to choose from: surgical

gowns, nurses’ uniforms, suit jackets and briefcases, a fireman’s hat, a policeman’s uniform. Nothing frivolous or fanciful.

Everything geared to answer that all-important question: What

are you going to be when you grow up? Sierra could still remember her frustration when she’d discovered the teacher was

asking Carolyn and her classmates this. Was it really necessary

to know at the age of four or five what one was going to do for

the rest of one’s life? It seemed so long ago. Now she wondered.

Wasn’t being a wife and mother enough anymore?

Feeling defiant, Sierra finished her coffee and drove to Cost

Plus, the area warehouse store. Wandering through, she found

an intricately carved box imported from India. It was pretty and

inexpensive. She bought it and drove to Kmart, where she purchased three beaded necklaces, a gold-tone charm bracelet with

African animals on it, and two bright rhinestone pins, as well as a

long, thin multi-colored scarf. Pleased with her choices, she

headed home.

While watching her soap opera, she used the scarf to wrap the

gift. Twisting the tied ends, she curled them around until they

looked like a plump flower on top of the box. During a commercial, she rummaged through her wrapping-paper box in the hall

closet and found some gold ribbon. Cutting a long strip, she

tucked it around the fabric flower and wrote on the ends:

“Happy Birthday, Pamela. From Carolyn.” She sat back and

smiled, perfectly satisfied with the gift.

Then she drove Carolyn to the birthday party on Saturday.

Pamela’s house was near the top of the hills with an iron gate

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