A Slender Thread Read Online Free PDF Page A

these few days, but it would be good to be with his daughter.
    He shut his eyes, imagining Jenna’s funky apartment. She had painted the rooms in food colors—aubergine, celery, and cream—and filled them with her treasured “antiques,” the kind of furniture dating from his own boyhood. Oliver knew that Jenna’s Thanksgiving table would be surrounded by a hip, ragtag group of friends and covered with all the expected dishes, along with some unexpected ones too. She made delicious dishes with tofu and bowls of brownish grains for her vegan guests. Leo, Jenna’s boyfriend, would valiantly carve the turkey into strange, uneven lumps, while she smiled indulgently at his ineptitude.
    How different from the meal that would take place in New Castle. There, the always competent Alex would carve the bird into thin, elegant slices, and the dining room with its sleek sideboard made by a Maine cabinetmaker would be covered in an array of artfully plated dishes. The silver on the table would be gleaming, the napkins starched and white, a fire crackling in the grate. Lacey, a natural hostess, would bring everyone into the conversation, putting her guests at ease. Everything would be perfect with Margot’s sister at the helm. In his present frame of mind, Oliver was glad he didn’t have to be there.
    The plane hit the tarmac in a final lurch. Oliver was thankful that he and Margot would be apart for only a few days. He missed her already.

2
    Loom: A device to hold warp threads taut so that the weft threads can be woven under or over them.
    M argot tiptoed down to the kitchen on Thanksgiving morning. She wanted to make a cup of tea to bring up to bed. The guest room, a small space under the eaves, was on the third floor, across the hall from Lacey’s studio. Margot had had a second sleepless night and her body was sore, as if holding back this news from her twin nieces was some kind of physical endeavor. She had spent the day with them yesterday, taking them shopping and out to lunch in Portsmouth, their annual day-before-Thanksgiving tradition. Lacey and Alex had gone off somewhere together for the afternoon. They had not said where.
    The stairs creaked in the old house. Margot paused and looked out the window on the landing. The sky had begun to lighten; the garden behind the house was cloaked in silvery shadow. All the leaves had fallen and the flower beds had been heavily mulched, awaiting the full impact of winter. One lone bench was set in the curve of the lawn with two empty pots on either side. Lacey called it her tea place, where she would pause, drink a glass of iced tea, and decide what she would tackle next.
    Lacey had designed and planted this garden by herself. Margot had helped her drag a hose around to determine the curve of the beds the first summer she and Alex had owned the property. Lacey loved her flowers, particularly the richly colored blooms—the deep blues of her delphiniums early in the season, and later the hot pinks of the cosmos and zinnias, and the dahlias, whose jewellike shades didn’t fade until frost. She never tired of the relentless daily tasks that a garden required: weeding, deadheading, dividing, pruning, staking a tall top-heavy bloom, or coddling a rare rose more suited to an English cottage garden than the uncertain climate of the New Hampshire seacoast. Margot admired her dedication.
    â€œThe best part about gardening is that you always have another chance,” Lacey had explained to Margot. “If it’s not perfect now, there’s always next year.” She had wiped a smear of soil off her cheek before picking up the shovel. That was Lacey—positive, always looking ahead, certain that she could make it right. Now she was facing a future she could not fix. What would next year bring?
    Margot wasn’t used to thinking of her sister as vulnerable. Lacey’s life had always been like her garden, well tended, orderly, predictable,