Stanley nodded.
Elizabeth looked down at the sand, drew a circle with her finger, feeling that same shaky longing she’d had when Stanley embraced his wife in their driveway. Which made no sense given her skittishness about marriage.
“It took Megan a few weeks to say yes, but Stanley swore he’d keep after her until she gave in, and he did, didn’t you, son?”
“That is actually the truth. I did, and I thank God every day.”
Elizabeth punched the sand circle, obliterating it. “Dominique’s been asking me to marry him for four years.”
“Four years!” People was slapped emphatically against Vera’s thighs. “Good Lord, child, what are you waiting for, tablets from God?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Well you better find out. He’s not going to wait around forever.”
“So he said.” She fisted sand and let it run out between her fingers.
“You girls today think you have all the time in the world to get married and have your babies.” Her voice rose, became quavery with emotion. “That’s not something you can take for granted. Not ever.”
Elizabeth froze, fingers splayed, sand grains sparkling on her fingers. “I don’t take it for granted. I’m just not ready.”
“Ready? What do you have to be ready for? If you can take care of yourself, you can get married and take care of a man.” She made a sound of derision. “Ready. Honestly.”
“Okay, Mama.” Stanley shook his head at Elizabeth, closing his eyes wearily.
“I married Rocky barely knowing him. You’ve been living with this man for years without the benefit of mar—”
“I think what Mom is trying to say is that while committing to marriage is risky, because you can’t know how it’s going to be in advance…” For the first time since she’d met him, Stanley’s face lost its assurance. “If you wait forever, then all you know for sure is that you’ll end up alone.”
“True.” She dug her hand in hard enough to reach dampness underground. “It’s good I came here. I needed space to think this all out.”
“You’ve got that. Uh-oh, watch out.” The beginning of laughter in Stanley’s voice. “Incoming.”
“Starving…” Jeffrey threw himself down on his towel, dripping, hair in wet spikes over his head. His sisters and mother were close behind. “Must…have…chicken.”
“All right, Jeffrey. Here it is.” Megan patiently dug out the containers and plates from their cooler and passed around the food.
Elizabeth looked at her meal without much appetite, not just because of the heat. Around her the family chatted and ate, laughed and teased. Stanley took every opportunity to touch, kissing his wife, patting Jeffrey’s head, tickling Deena, pulling grimacing Lolly close for a hug before he’d give her more food.
Elizabeth needed to get Dominique away from the artifice of New York, away from his addictive ambition and bring him here to Comfort. She needed him to sit by the lake with her, with Stanley and Megan and their children, show him something even more perfect than impressive menus and meticulously arranged store windows of pastry and cheeses. Maybe this family did eat artificially flavored mass-processed food, but when it came to the things that mattered, they were all about beautiful, pure, honest living. Here in North Carolina she and Dominique might be able to recapture the essence of why they were together—and then she could make her marriage decision based on something other than gut feeling.
The thought cheered her up enough to stick her spork into dinner and renew her love affair with KFC. The food was still as good as ever, coleslaw just the right amount of vinegarsweet, slightly blank mashed potatoes hot and comforting, biscuits salty and rich, chicken tender, juicy and peppery. She felt like an adolescent indulging a parentally forbidden treat in their absence, then chided herself. Nothing to stop her buying fried chicken during all the meals she ate alone in their condo. Dominique hadn’t forced her to adopt his values, she’d done it—or tried to—happily.
When she went back to Manhattan—even the thought depressed her now—she’d make it a point to eat more “Comfort” food, and to get outdoors more, to Central Park or away from the city to the Jersey Shore, Long Island or Maine. She could entice a girlfriend or two into leaving jobs and/or families to come with her, since Dominique would rarely have time. That would help. Some.
The light grew tired; the carbohydrate orgy waned. Vera dozed in her chair. The kids wandered off to play in the sand. Megan and Stanley sat close, talking quietly, Stanley occasionally stroking his wife’s arm.
Elizabeth got up and retrieved her sketchbook and pencils, strolled restlessly to the lake, then along its edge for several yards before she stopped and gazed into the hills. Clouds made moving shadows that turned the trees dark then golden green again. A hawk flew in circles, riding the breeze that ruffled her hair. She held her pad, inhaling the fresh, natural air, cooling as the evening waned toward night.
Where to start? The lines of the hills? She selected a dark green pencil, took another look, squinting when the breeze blew stronger…and suddenly saw past the view.
She sketched furiously before her brain could forget a single detail: tree lines arching and flowing; fluid, varying patches of green; dark, child-drawn bird squiggles. This was good.
“Elizabeth?”
She jumped at Stanley’s voice. He was standing right next to her and she hadn’t heard him approach. “Hi.”
“Drawing?”
She gestured at the view, laughed for pure pleasure. Before this she’d always worked at a table, straining, stretching, sketching whatever came to her. Bits. Shapes. Motifs. Okay in themselves, but never coalescing into a design that reflected her ideas or style. This was different. This felt right. “I just thought of a pattern.”
“Lace?”
“Oh, no. Fabric.” She laughed self-consciously. “I’m a…that is, I’d like to be a fabric designer.”
“That’s a fine thing to want to be.” He spoke seriously, feeding her excitement. “To make beautiful things people will love to use or wear.”
“That is such a nice thing to say.”
“I wasn’t saying it to be nice. I meant it. You and Megan can talk design.”
“Oh…” She couldn’t quite imagine Megan into fashion.
“Clothes?”
“Not clothes…” He was looking at her curiously. Cautiously.
“D’oh!” She smacked her forehead. “You mean the lace! And her garden!”
“She’s very talented, but she has so much to do with the kids and with me gone so much, that she neglects her creative side.” He touched Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Maybe you can inspire her to start again.”
She gazed up at him, noticing the sun highlighting the dark gold in his eyes and occasional strands of his hair, noticing the fullness of his lower lip, the faint lines crossing his forehead. She wanted to draw him: brother, father and lover all at once. “I already volunteered her to design lace for Sally’s wedding gown.”
His surprise told her Megan hadn’t mentioned it yet. “And she agreed?”
“I didn’t give her much chance to refuse. I get sort of enthusiastic when I’m excited about an idea.”
“You are a miracle, Elizabeth.” He chuckled and the power of his confidence seemed to flow right into her. “I had a feeling.”
“Thank you.” She felt herself blushing again, wondering how Megan could stand having him gone, wondering if he’d let her sketch him sometime.
“Thank you.” He gestured back toward the car. “We’re on our way. Kids are getting tired…”
Elizabeth started, as if she’d had to wake suddenly from a delicious dream. “Oh. Yes, sure. I’m ready.”
He waited until she pulled alongside him, then fell into step with her, his long stride a contrast to Dominique’s small, hurried steps.
“How long have you wanted to be a designer?”
“Not long.” She forced herself to be honest, bracing for his disappointme
nt. “I’ve tried a lot of things. But this one feels good.”
“Then it’s right.”
“Dominique says I have too many dreams too often.”
“No one can have too many dreams.”
She wasn’t sure about that, but the words sounded wonderful, and she loved hearing them from him. “Are you living yours?”
“Yes. Not that I’ve always wanted to sell physical therapy equipment, but I love working with people, I love what I do, it’s good honest work that helps people get better, and my family life is incredibly important to me.”
“That’s obvious. Your kids adore you. Megan, too.”
“I don’t get to see them enough, but it makes the time we do have together special.”
“I can see that.” She tried to imagine Dominique saying any of those things and failed. He was always about wanting more than he had, complaining about how long it was taking him to get it. She stopped impulsively, before they got within earshot of the rest of the family. Stanley turned questioningly and she laid her hand on his arm. “Megan is a lucky woman, Stanley.”
He smiled, though not naturally that time. “Well. Thank you.”
“C’mon, Dad!” Jeffrey yelled. “Race me to the car.”
“Excuse me. I’m being paged.” He squeezed Elizabeth’s shoulder, then turned to his son. “Watch out, here I come!”
Father and son raced to the minivan, Jeffrey winning but only by a fingertip. Elizabeth went to help Megan lug the picnic things, still feeling as if she was part of something sleepy and golden and not quite real. “Your husband is amazing.”
“Thank you. He’s…remarkable.” Her tone suggested maybe she didn’t know what she had. Or maybe she was one of those annoying happily married women who complained about their husbands for something to do.
The trip home through the oncoming twilight was quiet, but once the car stopped in the driveway, the kids sprang into action as if they’d been released from hypnosis, tumbling out of the car and racing into the house, arguing about who got to use the computer first. Elizabeth unloaded the minivan with Megan and Stanley and insisted she help clean up and put things away. Afterward, though she knew she should go back to her rooms and leave the family alone, she joined them on the porch, where Vera sat finishing her final blanket square. Just a few minutes, then she’d climb up to her little apartment and refine her pattern before she painted it. With luck she could get the colors right, the shapes the way she envisioned them. With even more luck she wouldn’t wake up tomorrow and realize her beautiful vision was a piece of crap. She’d done that plenty of times.
“That was a really lovely trip today. Thank you for including me.”
“You’re welcome, Elizabeth. The lake is special, we always enjoy going.” Stanley rubbed the nape of his wife’s neck, fingers tangling in the rich auburn strands. Megan’s eyes half closed in pleasure. Elizabeth stretched, wanting that sweet touch herself. She’d need to call her masseuse when she got back.
“Good evening Morgan family, good evening Ms. Elizabeth.” David and Ella strolled over from a path in the woods, up to the front of the house.
Stanley’s fingers stilled. Megan’s eyes shot open. Vera stopped knitting.
“David.” Stanley nodded briefly. “Hello Ella.”
“Stanley. Welcome home.” Ella must practice making her voice as sexually charged as possible. Elizabeth wanted to smack her. Right in front of Megan!
Stanley rose, his size advantage bolstered by his position on the porch of his home territory. “You two taking a walk?”
Below him David stood solidly, hands on his hips, chest lifted. “Looks that way, doesn’t it.”
“David.” Ella giggled, not taking her eyes off Stanley. She looked so beautiful in the soft evening light, younger, and more vulnerable. Elizabeth wanted to shoo her away, not that Megan had anything to worry about. Stanley, obviously, wouldn’t even glance at another woman.
“It’s a beautiful night for a walk.” Megan sounded so unlike herself that Elizabeth snuck a peek, surprised to find her looking agitated.
“Yes. It is.” Vera glared at the intruders. “So keep walking.”
“Mom…” Stanley warned.
Elizabeth glanced sharply at Vera, shocked by the venom in her voice. Who was her target? Ella for being attracted to Stanley? David for drinking? The two of them for the sin of taking a walk when they weren’t married? Or for doing a lot more than that? Though if they were lovers, why was Ella looking at Stanley like he was her first meal in a week?
“Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth turned to David, confused by too many undercurrents. “Yes?”
“I’m going to pour some bourbon next door. I know you’ve been seriously deprived here—”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Stanley’s voice was overly hearty. “Elizabeth? Have we deprived you?”
“Oh. No. Of course not.” She shook her head too many times, feeling sick.
David smiled, dark-eyed Paul Newman in the warm night. “I hope you’ll join me.”
“Us,” Ella said.
Megan made a small sound. Surprise? Disapproval? What the hell was going on?
“You told me you were going home, Ella,” David said.
“Did I?” Her smile was artificially sweetened. “I guess I changed my mind. Woman’s prerogative.”
Elizabeth hated this. After such a beautiful, simple day being able to share the family’s happiness, and with her first decent design idea making her so excited and proud, the Twins of Doom had to show up and complicate everything in ways she didn’t understand, and what’s more, didn’t want to. Comfort wasn’t supposed to be like this.
She stood up next to Stanley in a show of solidarity. Her motion turned the porch light on, flooding the group of tense faces. “Thanks for the invite, but I’m staying here.”
Stanley’s arm landed strong and warm around Elizabeth’s shoulders. “She’s with the family tonight. You two enjoy yourselves.”
“Actually.” Ella edged toward the porch. “I think I’ll visit here. I haven’t seen Stanley in a while, and Megan and I have to talk knitting and Sally’s wedding plans.”
“Et tu, Ella?”
“Sorry, sweetie.” Ella mounted the steps, pushed past Elizabeth and stood on Stanley’s other side. “I changed my mind again.”
David nodded, hands shoved into his pockets. He glanced at Megan and for a brief, shocking second the cynical sneer dropped and he looked like the kid last picked in gym class. “I’ll be going home, then. Good night all.”
Megan made a quick movement in her seat, then got up and went into the house. Ella still hovered hopefully behind Stanley, who was staring murderously after the retreating David and didn’t see Megan’s face, which was just as well. One look would have made it obvious his wife was about to cry.
Chapter Seven
In Eshaness over the next weeks there is constant talk of Gillian. Of her chanting to the sky at sundown. Of her bewitching birds to eat from her hand. Of her swimming nude every morning and every evening—she has been seen coming back from the cliffs with her hair wet and clothes dry. Boys and men, young and old, start scanning the shores, morning and evening. There is talk that Alban Tait spotted her, but when he called, she dove and resurfaced as a seal, letting out a mocking bark. Others swear she is no selkie, but a mermaid after a mortal husband. Still others confirm she is a witch brought to curse them all. Their crops will fail, their animals will die, many will be lost at sea. All murmur that nothing good will come of having her there.
Fiona says nothing; she merely listens. One evening as she and her mum, her Aunt Charlotte and her Granny Nessa knit by the peat fire, a recently completed shawl stretched on a frame behind their bench, father’s fiddle hanging next to the hearth, mutton and fish drying in the rafters, there is a knock at the door. Fiona opens to Gillian. Her house is lonely, she says, she needs the companionship of women. Fiona longs to shut her out, but that is not the Shetland way. She draws back
, lets in Gillian’s beautiful colors, her flowery sweater, her green eyes and red-plum lips, welcomes her and fetches a chair, in which Gillian sits as if she’s been there every night of her life and pulls out her knitting.
The women dart glances first, then longer looks, then finally give in to their longing and stare. This is lace such as they have never seen before, finer than theirs, more intricate, with patterns new to Eshaness, maybe new to Shetland, maybe new to their world. The chatter stops and they watch, spellbound by her needles working, by the cobweb lace falling in cascades like mermaid’s hair onto her lap.
Gillian tells them in her lovely lilting voice how she was orphaned by the sea and by disease, taken in by an old woman the rest of her village distrusted, who taught Gillian how to pluck the finest hair from the necks of her sheep, how to spin so that a spider would envy her, nine thousand yards from a single ounce, taught her to look for patterns, not from other women or from tradition, but in the foam of waves, in the branches of trees, in the arrangements of stars, in her mind’s eye and most of all in her heart.
Fiona and her mother and aunt and grandmother listen and it seems their own knitting goes more quickly, their stitches are more even, their backs not so stiff and their hands not so tired.
When her story is done Gillian admires Fiona’s lace, clumsy in comparison to her own, and asks where she learned, did her mother or granny teach her? In Fiona’s heart the black snake of jealousy thrashes. She says she learned from a woman who appeared only at night—dripping wet from the sea, where she’d swim naked every day—who would sit with Fiona and teach her ’til just before dawn, when she’d disappear back into the darkness.
Fiona’s mother and grandmother laugh and tease her for the story. Gillian nods in peaceful acknowledgment and Fiona bends over her knitting again, angry and ashamed of her lies. In the ensuing silence, she looks up to find Gillian watching with her green gaze full of wisdom and understanding.
The talk turns idle, the needles Thy. Gillian rises to go. Fiona sees her to the door and Gillian presses her hand, said she was privileged to hear the story of Fiona’s mysterious teacher. Then she leans in and whispers that Calum has spoken highly of Fiona in all ways a man can speak about a woman, and that if Calum truly belongs to Fiona, Gillian will not be an obstacle to their happiness.
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