Authors: Isabel Sharpe
Knit in Comfort (18 page)
“If that's Stanley, invite him over, we'll hide behind the front door and whack him over the head,” Ella called after him. “You game, Elizabeth?”
“Absolutely.” Elizabeth nodded decisively. “I get the rolling pin.”
“Iron skillet for me.”
They smiled at each other, then smiling became uncomfortable because the rules of their new co-conspirator relationship had yet to be worked out. David's voice came from the kitchen, too high and strained.
“I'mâ¦sorry about Stanley, Ella. I mean that I made you find out.”
“It's for the best.” Ella closed her eyes. Her color had returned; she was doubly beautiful sad and haunted. “Apparently David is right, and I just loved the idea of him.”
“Maybe I just love the idea of Dominique, too. Or of our life together.” Elizabeth sat again, traced a thin jagged scratch in
the tabletop, throat thick, head aching. “A photography crew from
Bon Appetit
magazine came to shoot a dinner party we hosted last May. They snapped us sipping soup on the rooftop among pots of strawberries and herbs and spring flowers. Snapped us in our dining room tucking into quail with
foie gras
and fresh currants. Snapped us sampling a fabulous array of raspberry and chocolate desserts next to the koi pond in our living room.
“But the truth was, I'd been fighting with Dominique earlier, and he was flirting with one of the guests to get back at me. Her husband was fuming, the other couple was drinking way too much, and it occurred to me that readers everywhere would envy our perfect lifestyle and glamorous friends and fabulous party know-how, when we were all having a miserable time hating each other.”
“Oof. I'll have to buy that issue.”
“It was painful.”
“What's Dominique's story?” Ella glanced toward the kitchen obviously wondering about David, who had gone silent. “Did he come from money?”
“No, neither of us is used to it. Dominique grew up on a small family peach farm in the South of France. Great food, no luxury.”
“So you love him for the trappings. And his cooking.”
“No, it feels as if I love him in spite of them.” Elizabeth plunked her chin in her hands. “But yes, he's a god in the kitchen.”
Ella arched her eyebrow meaningfully. “His meat is well doneâ¦?”
“Oh yes.” Elizabeth waggled hers in response. “Very rare.”
They were snickering when David came back into the room
lifting his glass, which he'd refilled to the brim with a clear liquid this time, and only a few ice cubes. Gin from his freezer? The sight was chilling. “Here's to dramatic irony.”
“What happened?” Ella sounded worried. “Was it Stanley?”
“No.” He drank, laughed and drank again. “It was not Stanley. It was my delightful ex-wife. Victoria.”
Elizabeth gasped. “Oh no.”
“What did
she
want?”
“She wanted to tell me that she'd hit bottom after the divorce was finalized and had taken the past few months to get her head back on straight. That she recognized what she'd sacrificed to her ambition and her ego.” Another gulp of whatever it was, another ghoulish laugh. “She wanted to beg my forgiveness.”
Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hands.
Ella gaped. “Oh. My. Sweet. Jesus.”
“But wait, there's more.” He lifted an unsteady hand, formed the fingers into a gun and pointed it at his temple. “Leaving me was all a horrible mistake, says my Vicky. She is so terribly sorry. She lost her head, then she lost herself. She didn't realize that the life we had was the life she belongs in. She wants us to get together. To talk.”
“Are you going to go?” Elizabeth couldn't help train-wreck fascination.
“Of course not.” Ella winked at Elizabeth. “She's offering another chance at that horrible disgusting prison called love. After he's made such a strong and healthy choice to avoid it at all costs and hole himself up here all alone, why would he do that?”
“God help me.” He lifted the glass and drained the rest, Adam's apple jumping to help the liquid down.
“Um⦔ Elizabeth exchanged alarmed looks with Ella. “Was that gin?”
“Believe it or not, it was water.” He lifted the glass and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “In light of all that's happened today, I think I've had my last drink for a very long time.”
The day of the midsummer dance starts out fine, but clouds move in and the wind makes skirts Thy and jackets Thutter by the time people begin the walk to the laird's house. Barclay Hunter's magnificent mansion built of stone quarried on the Scottish mainland stands like a monument on top of a seaside
brae,
or hill; white columns mark its front entrance, buildings spread on either side, for clerks, workers, animals, and for the hard business of farming.
Fiona loves the twice-a-year parties here, midsummer and Christmas, with other locals dressed in their finest enjoying excellent food, warm hospitality, music, dancing and good fellowship. This year, she wants the event over and done. Calum will be there, with Gillian.
Up the steps, she's greeted at the front door by the laird's wife, Effie, in an apricot gown that skims then
forgives her stout figure. Fiona's dress evokes the color of the dawn sky, slender in the waist, narrower in the skirt than her mother wore, lace collar and trim she knitted herself. She even pinned her curls up and got them to stay. Calum will notice her tonight.
The house is warm and full already, furnished from mainland and continent shops in grand style, drapes at every window, fireplaces blazing in every room, greenery and paper streamers, candles and flowers decorating nearly every surface. The long, fine table in the dining room bears dozens of dishes: hams and legs of heathery Shetland lamb, breads, jellies and salads, puddings and cakes. Whiskey, fruit punch and beer are doled out by servants dressed better than most of those they serve.
Fiona greets friends, neighbors and acquaintances, eyes darting in search of Calum, who is not yet here. She loads a plate with food she has no appetite for, and settles with Aileen Thomson, tries to eat and laugh, gossip and enjoy herself, always on her guard.
The sudden buzz of excitement tells her he's arrived, handsome in his black Sunday best, Gillian in a dress the color of sweet cherries, lips painted to match, breasts pushing the material forward. Her eyes flash green, cheeks pink, shining hair runs down her back, rests on Calum's arm, beckons every man's hand in the room. Taste flees from Fiona's food. She pours back whiskey for courage and smiles, aware of eyes on her, whispers, speculation and worst of all, pity.
In the other room, fiddles tune, including her father's, then fill the house with music. Catriona Tait pulls Gillian aside. Fiona rises and walks straight to Calum,
trembling legs hidden under her skirt, and asks him to dance, cheerful, flirtatious, terrified he'll say no.
He accepts, offers his arm and they stroll together into the parlor, Fiona's heart swelling with hope. They dance, matching their feet to the music's joyful rhythm. Fiona could Thy across the sea with the pleasure pouring into her when their fingers touch.
The music ends. A new song begins. Calum stays with her; they dance together among fellow islanders, stomping, bobbing, swinging, clapping. Another dance, then calls for a song and Fiona is hoisted onto the platform. She takes in a long breath and sings directly from her heart, For the
Sake o' Somebody,
letting Calum know with her eyes who the “somebody” is, blocking out the blot of cherry-red that enters the room and makes its way to his side.
O-hon! for Somebody! O-hey! for Somebody! I wad do-what wad I not? For the sake o' Somebody.
The song ends to applause, whistles, shouts of appreciation. She steps down and returns to Calum's right, ignoring Gillian on his left. Eric Manson climbs onstage, tells a ribald story of fishing for a mermaid wife. Gordon Smith is next, doing magic tricks; the laird's wife, Effie, plays her fancy carved piano as she does at every party.
Between each number Fiona joins in the applause, turns to Calum with a smile demanding he acknowledge the evening's joy. He returns her smile gallantly, but not with his whole heart. She refuses to panic. Didn't he leave Gillian alone to dance three dances with her?
Effie finishes to more applause. Calum leads Gillian to the stage, borrows Andrew Tulloch's fiddle and puts it
into her hands, bows to her and climbs down, leaving her alone on the platform in the sudden quiet, leaving Fiona alone in the crowd. Her stomach fills with dread.
Gillian lifts the instrument, closes her eyes and begins to play a slow, mournful tune. A trance descends on the listeners. The unfamiliar notes weave in and around them, into their ears, taking hold of their minds, transporting them to places they haven't been in years, to dear ones who have died, to homes they left, to loves they lost.
Gillian's eyes stay closed, her burgundy lips parted, a groove between her eyebrows the only sign of her effort. She sways as if the music's rise and fall pushes her with it, as if her body itself is the instrument.
The song ends on a long, quiet, high note that calls every listener's heart out to its beauty. A breathless hush falls, during which calls of cliff birds take their turn to be heard. Then hands meet, mouths open and the room erupts into applause and shouts, tears streaming down more than one cheek.
Calum climbs to the stage, takes Gillian's hands and kneels at her feet. The room grows still again, this time as if a spirit has passed over and turned the audience to rough stone. Fiona's hands and heart go cold as the sea.
Calum speaks in his deep voice, praises Gillian's playing, praises her grace and loveliness, her dignity and courage, her purity of heart. And there on his knees in front of the laird, all his tenants, and in front of Fiona, Calum asks Gillian to be his wife.
Megan dragged the vacuum cleaner into Jeffrey's room. Clothes were strewn on the floor in a haphazard pattern, shirtsleeves
akimbo, pant legs half inside out. In the clothes hamper, only one item: a crumpled, damp bath towel, which Jeffrey carefully deposited there every time he showered instead of hanging it back up in the bathroom, no matter how often Megan reminded him. She grabbed out the towel, sniffed for mildew, and draped it over the rack in the kids' bathroom where it belonged. Back in his room, she bent to plug in the vacuum, sweat prickling under her arms as much from annoyance as the Carolina heat. What wouldn't she give for a few hours on the Shetland coast, comfortable in the welcoming sunshine, salty breeze freshening her skin?
Back, forth, over and over the same worn blue carpet she'd vacuumed the week before, would vacuum again the next week.
“Mom?” Behind her Deena came into the room, shouting to be heard over the motor. “I can't find my drawing pen.”
So go look for it!
Megan had spoiled these kids out of love and eagerness to make up for their half-absent father. Now she could see she'd also made herself indispensable to give herself some purpose in life. Fifteen years later, the kids were helpless without her, and that purpose was no longer enough.
“You're sure it's in your room?”
“
Yes.
”
“Did you check your desk?”
“
Ye-e-es.
”
“Look under your bed, in chair cushions, and so on. I'll help when I'm done here.” She finished the floor in Jeffrey's room, flinging clothes into the hamper, tossing books, empty CD cases, pencil drawings of armed and armored figures onto his desk. Near the bed she always got down on her knees and checked underneath for Lego pieces or coins, stray underpants or dice.
Today she didn't bother, thrust the power nozzle under his
bed. A sudden jolt, the engine roared in protest. Megan should have known better. She wiped her forehead, punched off the machine and pulled the wand back, examined the brush rollers, jammed with a white cotton sock covered in dust and grime. Fine. She was done. Jeffrey's room was clean enough.
“Mom?” Deena again. “I still can't find it.”
Had she even
looked
?
“Okay.” She went into Deena's room, lifted one piece of paper off her desk, and handed the pen to her daughter with a withering look.
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.”
“
Mom?
I'm hungry.” Jeffrey this time, from his room next door. “Can I have a snack?”
“I'm ho-o-ome.” Lolly, shouting from downstairs; the screen door slammed. “What time is dinner? I want to go to the movies tonight.”
Megan leaned against the wall, trying to keep back the angry words forming in her throat. Her kids didn't deserve her bad mood. Her midlife crisis wasn't their fault. “Jeffrey, there are pretzels in the cabinet over the counter, don't have too many. Lolly, dinner will be at six, as usual and yes, you can go to the movies.”
“
Sweet!
”
“Okay, Mom, thanks, Mom. I'm pretzel ma-a-an!”
Megan took the vacuum cleaner downstairs, put it away in the closet in the family room, where Lolly gabbed her good news into the phone, then went into the kitchen, passing Jeffrey cupping a handful of pretzels. For dinner, bean-and-cheese burritos with salad from their garden and too-ripe peaches stewed and served over ice cream for dessert.
She leaned on the edge of the sink and sighed. Making the meal seemed overwhelming. Not because of fatigue, she'd been overwhelmed by fatigue before, by indecision, by bad moodsâthe kids' or hers, by the volume of tasks at hand. This was different. She felt lost, alone in her house in a way she hadn't since she found out about Stanley's other wife.
She'd wanted to leave him then. Or, more to the point, had wanted the symbolism of leaving him, the you-can't-do-this-to-me finality of leaving him. But she'd had nowhere to go, nothing but her husband and coming baby. No degree, no job experience, no skills outside of knitting. Nothing that would make any kind of decent life for her and her child.
So she stayed. Pushed way down inside her every feeling of resentment and anger that she couldn't let out in her favorite spot in the woods. Was it true, what David said, that those denied feelings couldn't be reabsorbed, but bided their time until they could emerge? Was this their time? She had no desire to encounter them again.
Through the window her beloved garden bloomed and flourished, home and restaurant to bees, butterflies and ladybugs. If only she could sit in it, undisturbed, knitting Sally's lace with a cup of tea. For about three weeks.
Fierce concentration was required at the beginning of a new pattern, one stitch at a time. But as the rows mounted she'd relax as always into groups of stitches at a time, rows at a time, whole patterns. Then near-total freedom, thoughts blowing like helium balloons still safely anchored by the tethering yarn. The peaceful, hypnotic rhythm of the clicking needles, the soft-sharp pull of wool over skin, the satisfaction of producing beauty with her own handsâ¦
Yet looking now she could see the tomatoes needed water, okra needed harvesting again, green beans needed picking. She should be out there gathering lettuce, choosing tomatoes for dinner; or setting peaches to simmer with sugar, a squeeze of lemon and a hint of nutmeg, perfuming the kitchen with the aroma of fruit and spice. Work had been her solace for fifteen years, it could be so again. This discontent was like a swarm of carpenter ants eating at her from the center outward, starting with David's divorce and intensifying with Elizabeth's arrival. David with his culture and passion, Elizabeth with her freedom and youth, all the things that had passed Megan by.
She took peaches from the refrigerator, peeled the soft fuzzy skin, cut out the brown spots, sliced the remaining fragrant fruit into a pan. Sugar, lemon, nutmeg, and allspice added at the last second. She set the pan on the stove over medium heat, took out the ingredients for her version of burritos, a can of black beans, flour tortillas, garlic, cumin, corn, cheddar cheese, salsa. From her garden she'd need a tomato and ingredients for salad.
On the way out she stopped in the laundry room to pick up her gathering basket: hoop-handled wide curved wicker that fit comfortably over her arm like an old friend. Northern climates might suit her thick blood better, but she did love the long Carolina growing season.
Outside she picked lettuce, a cucumber, pungent fresh basil and soothing mint. Two tomatoes gently twisted off the stem; she never tired of the spicy scent of the plant. The tomatoes were smooth and warm from the sun; she held one up and inhaled, feeling peace returning.
“Megan.”
David's tone made her turn abruptly. His haggard look drew her to the fence between their properties. Peace would apparently continue in short supply.
“Reaping nature's bounty?”
She nodded, searching his face. He hadn't been sleeping. But she also didn't think he'd been drinking. “What is it?”
“Victoria.” He barely got the word out.
Megan clutched the tomato to her chest. “Is she all right?”
“Vicky could survive a nuclear holocaust. Her, Twinkies and roaches.” He laughed harshly; the sound was chilling. “She wants to see me. Apparently being apart didn't work out for her.”
Megan put the tomato into her basket, stared down at it, absently appreciating the bright red against the fresh green of the herbs, the dark length of the cucumber and the lighter shade of the lettuce. If she thought about anything else she might develop cracks and shatter, like a cartoon character who's just absorbed a blow. Anvil maybe. Cinder block. Piano.
“What are you going to do?” She couldn't look at him. Basil trembled dark green against the rich auburn wicker. Shaking like a leaf. Haha.
“Megan, I don't know.” He was pleading now. With her? With himself? With fate? “She was my wife for nearly twenty years.”
“Yes I know.”
And you came to me so many of those years when you were here because she couldn't give you what you needed.
Dear God. She gripped the basket handle. She'd done it again. Completed a man who loved and needed another woman. Maybe Megan hadn't married half a husband. Maybe she was only half a woman.