A Thread So Thin

by Marie Bostwick

  I paused to give Garrett a chance to say something, but he didn’t. He was listening, really listening, making no judgments, offering no solutions, just hearing me out.

  “Next thing I knew, there were all these other decisions that had to be made, and they were all important too. Or at least they seemed like they were. After a while I couldn’t tell the difference between the important choices and the trivial ones. Before long, deciding whether I should take the job offer in Chicago seemed just as overwhelming as trying to decide where we should go on a honeymoon. I was so afraid of getting it wrong! And it wasn’t just the choices I had to make that were bothering me, but the things I was passing up. I told you that I don’t know what I want, but that isn’t quite right. I know what I want—everything! I want all of it! All the time! But,” I said, “it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

  Garrett moved his head ever so slightly from side to side.

  I sighed. “Yeah. I get it. It took me a while, but I get it. Eventually, you’ve got to choose. If you don’t, then circumstances just choose for you. While you were outside thinking things through, I was sitting here trying to do the same. I didn’t come to many conclusions.

  “I still don’t know if I want to go to a big city and be a world-famous museum curator or stay in sleepy little New Bern and be an obscure and underappreciated artist. Heck, I still don’t even know where I want to go on my honeymoon. But, Garrett, wherever I go on my honeymoon, I want you to be there too. I don’t know much, but I know that. For sure. I love you, Garrett. I always will.”

  He leaned down and bent his head over my hand, his lips so smooth that they felt like the caress of a soft sable brush. He looked up at me, still holding my hand in his, cupping his palms around it as though he were cradling a fragile blossom. And in that moment, seeing myself in the mirror of his eyes, I felt like exactly that: a cherished flower, beautiful and entirely loved.

  “And when I go on my honeymoon,” he said, “wherever it is…and whenever it is, I want you to be there too. There’s no one else for me, Liza. There never will be.”

  My heart lurched.

  Whenever it is? What’s he saying?

  I looked into his eyes and knew.

  “Liza, don’t! Don’t cry! It’s not what you think. I’m not breaking up with you. But we’re not getting married. Maybe someday, but not next week. You’re not ready. We’re not ready.”

  I started to tell him he was wrong; I was ready. Maybe before I hadn’t been, but now I was.

  But I couldn’t say any of that. When I tried to speak, nothing came out—not words, not sobs, nothing. Two tears traced a line from the corners of my eyes down my cheeks. Garrett reached out his hand, caught them on the bend of his knuckle.

  “Liza, listen to me. This isn’t an end to anything. If anything, it’s a beginning. We’re going to go back and do this again. Do it right. The way we should have from the first. We’re going to take our time and give you time, time to find out who you are and what you want out of life, to realize a little bit of your own power, time to try things, succeed at some, fail at others, and know that it’s not the end of the world! You need time to know how capable you are, and to learn how to choose, and fight, and tell people what you need. Time. Liza, you just need more time.”

  “You…” I sniffed and closed my eyes for a moment before trying my voice again. “You want to go back? I don’t understand. You want a do-over?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “A do-over. Nothing has happened that can’t be fixed. We were just rushing things. I was rushing things. Until today, I didn’t realize it. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, baby. You tried to tell me that you weren’t ready. I didn’t hear you. All I knew was that I wanted to marry you. As soon as possible.”

  He smiled. “On New Year’s Eve, if somebody had told me the headwaiter moonlighted as a justice of the peace, I’d have tried to talk you into marrying me right on the dance floor. Sitting here looking at you, how beautiful you are, even with your eyes red and your nose running, I almost can’t blame myself. But I should have listened better, been better, and stopped to think more about what you needed.

  “I want to marry you so much, Liza. There are only two things I want more: for you to be happy, and for our marriage to last from ‘I do’ until death. And if pulling back and taking another run at this will make that happen, then I can wait. And if it never happens—if you’re never ready—well, that’s a chance I’ll have to take. I don’t want to, but I can and I will. You’re worth waiting for, Liza.”

  The sun was streaming through the curtainless window, making my engagement ring blink a bright beam of light. The room was quiet. So quiet.

  “Do you want this back?” I asked softly, nodding toward the ring.

  “Do you want me to take it back?”

  I bit my lower lip, thinking. “Maybe you could hold on to it for a while.”

  “I can do that.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until you tell me that you’re ready to take it back and keep it, forever.”

  I started to pull off the ring, but even though my fingers were thinner than they’d been when he first gave it to me, it caught on my knuckle. “What if I told you I was ready now?”

  He raised his eyebrows, asking me to ask myself if that was really true, knowing I already knew the answer. The ring was a symbol of my love for Garrett and his for me, but in my mind, it had become something else as well, a safety net. As long as I was wearing the ring, a part of me would doubt that I could manage on my own, or take care of myself. I thought about everything that had happened today, about sitting alone on the floor, looking at my shiny new diploma, feeling as clueless and helpless as always. I thought about my resolve to quit being clueless or helpless, and to finally grow up. I brushed my finger across the angled edge of the diamond and knew what I had to do. I love Garrett, but it’s time to be responsible for myself, and at least for now, that means working without a net.

  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 imag
ine. 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.

  37

  Evelyn Dixon

  Charlie 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.”