“Here we are.” Megan stepped onto the porch carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced fruit punch, chocolate-chip cookies and a plate of lemon bars Elizabeth had smelled baking earlier this afternoon.
“Megan, you should have told me, I could have helped.” Elizabeth guiltily swept the newspaper Stanley had been reading off the table so Megan could put out the food.
“Don’t be silly. It’s no trouble.” She sat in her usual chair, took a folder, a flat box and a book out from under her arm. The folder she deposited carefully beside her, the box she stuffed under her chair, the book she opened: To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, first time Elizabeth had seen her do anything on the porch but knit.
Elizabeth gestured to the book. “That’s a classic.”
“I read it in high school, and saw the movie with Gregory Peck on TV, but haven’t encountered the story since.”
“I wish I liked to read.”
Megan blinked. “You don’t like to read?”
“Nope.” Elizabeth yawned to hide her embarrassment. Some people did, some didn’t. Dominique didn’t. Her mother didn’t. Babcia did, mostly mysteries and books in her native Polish that Elizabeth hadn’t been curious about. Now she was, retroactively, though of course it was too late.
“I don’t know what I’d do without my books.” Megan laughed self-consciously. “They keep my brain challenged. Raising kids can be mind-numbing.”
“I loved every minute of mothering Stanley.”
Megan’s right leg twitched suddenly, as if it wanted to kick something. Or someone.
“So you’ve told me, Vera,” she said pointedly. “Quite a few times, in fact.”
Vera looked startled at the retort. Elizabeth wanted to whoop and offer Megan a high five, though Megan looked nearly as surprised as Vera that she’d said anything, and maybe after finding out about all Vera’s miscarriages, she was wishing she hadn’t.
Elizabeth couldn’t imagine having Dominique’s mother around all day long. Natalie DuParc was tiny with a darting head and constantly puckered lips, very French, very disapproving of Dominique’s choice of partner no matter how hard she tried to hide it, which Elizabeth suspected at times was not very. Her voice, especially when she was upset, could be a weapon of mass destruction. “Tell me more about your reading, Megan. I should do more. Maybe I’ll go to the library tomorrow.”
“I read to fall in love, to travel, to learn.” She drew her hand down the plastic library cover of the book. “And when I read something really wonderful, not only is it a great form of…”
“Escape?”
Megan darted a glance at Vera. “Fantasy, but if the author is particularly brilliant…this will sound crazy.”
“To a woman who came here because of a tea bag? I doubt it.”
Megan laughed, the first time Elizabeth had seen her do so spontaneously, and it lifted her own mood too. “When I feel the world is a cesspool of lies, betrayals and violence, it comforts me that beauty like this is also possible from human hands and hearts and minds. It gives me hope. It raises me above the horrors I can’t understand or explain.”
Elizabeth nodded solemnly, feeling wistful. She didn’t ever have those kinds of deep thoughts, and it had occurred to her a few times that her place in the world might be more assured if she had more of them. She picked up her knitting, thinking that she’d definitely go to the library the next day. Maybe they had another copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.
“Here comes Sally.” Vera pointed down the street to two women heading in their direction. “And Dorene with her. There’s Ella, too, farther down by the Jackson’s. I think she’s finishing a smoke.”
Megan put in her bookmark and put the book down next to her chair, picked up the folder, placed it carefully in her lap and straightened, hands folded, looking ready for a job interview.
“Hey, Vera. Hey, Elizabeth. Hey, Megan.” Sally stepped up onto the porch, beautiful and glowing as usual. She reminded Elizabeth of the old Ivory Girl commercials. “We’re here for our first lace lesson.”
“Have a seat.” Megan poured out glasses of punch and handed them around, offered the plate of lemon bars and chocolate-chip cookies.
While they waited for Ella, Dorene caught them up on Cara and Jocelyn’s hedonistic doings in Vegas, then went on to the story of Stacy Pavone and all the shocking things Dorene was sure she was doing with her visiting male “cousin” who sure came to visit an awful lot when Stacy’s husband was away. And Janie Lincoln had been seen coming out of Roy Aldernack’s garage the previous Thursday, which meant she had the craft-fair contest pretty well sewn up…
“Dorene, I can hear you yacking down the block.” Ella sauntered up the stairs, grabbed a lemon bar in plum-tipped fingers and sank into the remaining empty chair.
Dorene made a face. “Well, I can smell you smoking down the block.”
“Ouch,” Ella said mildly. “Megan, these lemon bars would make God Himself happy.”
“You girls are lucky you’re all so slim. Of course I used to be too, at your age.” Vera sighed heavily. “Rocky could pick me up with one arm.”
“Yes, Megan, they’re wonderful,” Sally said. “I’d love the recipe. Foster loves lemon desserts. And speaking of wonderful, I can’t stop thinking about that story you told.”
“Oh, me neither,” Dorene said. “How much of it is true?”
Megan shrugged. “Mom insisted all her stories were true. I think she pulled them out of her imagination to suit the occasion. Gillian couldn’t have been real, with all her magic.”
“Oh, I loved Gillian.” Elizabeth felt oddly bereft.
“Wasn’t she wonderful? So mysterious and beautiful.” Sally bit off the corner of her lemon bar and waved the rest toward Ella. “Like you, Ella.”
Ella grinned. “Which makes you Fiona?”
“Oh not me.” Sally shook her head. “Megan has that honor. She’s her granddaughter.”
“That works perfectly,” Dorene announced. “Because Megan and Ella were in love with the same guy. Only Stanley chose Fiona instead of Gillian.”
Elizabeth looked up from her chocolate-chip cookie. Stanley and Ella. Another piece had fallen into place. Ella’s longing looks at Stanley. The strange tension on the porch that evening. The “someone” Stanley was dating when Megan came to town.
“Oh thanks, Dorene.” Ella rolled her eyes. “We all needed to have that brought up one more time.”
“Dorene, I’m telling you, your mouth is like the Energizer Bunny.” Vera folded her plump arms across her chest. She looked strange not knitting, as if something were missing from her body.
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.” Dorene glanced at Elizabeth. “You have no idea what we’re talking about, do you?”
“I have a pretty good idea now.”
“I dated Stanley for four years. He married Megan. That’s it.” Ella put down her lemon bar. “Megan, you’d better teach us this lace thing before I strangle Dorene.
“I can’t wait to learn.” Sally wiped powdered sugar off her fingers. “Especially for my own wedding dress!”
“Here’s the idea I had.” Megan held up the folder and passed it to Sally. “What do you think? If you don’t like it, we can get started anyway. I can always change the design.”
Silence on the porch, everyone watching for Sally’s reaction, Elizabeth glanced at Megan. She looked nervous and excited.
A gasp first, then a long ohhh of ecstasy. Megan’s face relaxed. Elizabeth grinned and stood to see with the other women, who crowded around the folder, exclaiming. Megan had made a beautiful sketch and perfect use of lace to trim the plain dress, exactly the way she’d described.
“It’s perfect, Megan.” Sally’s voice was choked. “I can see Fiona getting married in a dress like this.”
“How are we going to do all that in a few weeks?” Ella pointed to the paper from over Sally’s shoulder. “The panel I can see, but what about the shawl around her shoulders? That would take months.”
Vera’s head turned abruptly toward Megan. She did not look happy. Elizabeth followed her gaze and found Megan staring back at Vera with guilty defiance. “The shawl is already made. It’s right here.”
“Really?” Sally clutched the folder to her chest. “Can I see it?”
“Yes. You can.” Megan got up and dragged a flat box from under her chair, opened it and pulled out an exquisite lace shawl. “The cream color should match your dress.”
“Oh my gosh.” Sally’s bridal tears flowed; she accepted the lace reverently, then looked up as if she’d seen a ghost. “Oh my gosh. Is this…Fiona’s wedding shawl? The one she—”
“No.” Megan gave a short laugh. “That part of the story was my mother’s fabrication. I’m sure we’d still have that one if it were real.”
“You didn’t wear this at your wedding,” Dorene said. “I would have remembered.”
“No. I didn’t.” Megan glanced at Vera and sat back down. “I made it later.”
“You made this? How can you part with it?”
“Easy.” There was an edge to her voice. “It’s my wedding gift to you. Enjoy it.”
“Oh, gosh.” Sally handed the shawl back. “Put it back in the box before I cry all over it. Thank you so much. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Can I take it home today?”
“Of course.”
“Megan.” Vera’s voice, so distorted Elizabeth had to look to make sure she’d spoken. “That was supposed to be for you and Stanley.”
The happiness on the porch froze, dropped, shattered. Even the breeze stopped blowing.
“Vera.” Megan stood again, facing down her mother-in-law. “It’s mine to do whatever I want with.”
“I’ve never said anything, not a word, but this is beyond anything. Stanley doesn’t deserve this.” Vera’s voice was chilly. “He’s been a wonderful husband.”
“Yes, he has been.” Megan’s chin lifted. She came alive the way she had telling the story, eyes flashing hazel, but this time she was angry. “As wonderful as Rocky was to you.”
Vera gasped and took a step back. Apparently Megan had scored some kind of victory. Elizabeth discreetly looked around. Everyone else appeared as bewildered as she was.
“Megan. I don’t—Are you sure?”
“Yes, Sally.” Megan’s face softened into its usual peaceful demeanor. A mask, Elizabeth realized in an intuition worthy of Babcia. Not her true nature. Was anything in Comfort what it seemed?
“Well,” Megan said brightly. “Let’s get to business. Vera and I will do the front panel. You ladies can do the trim around the hem. Here’s the pattern I picked for that: old shell border with fan edging. It’s not too hard, and with all your knitting experience you’ll be able to whip through it. The hardest thing is getting used to the tiny stitches and having to count so carefully. But you’ll get used to it.”
Megan went through the pattern chart, the symbol chart, then passed out lace wool and more of the size two needles Elizabeth had been using while the group sat in an anxious silence.
“You just happened to have this wool sitting around, Megan?” Sally spoke tentatively, testing the atmosphere like an animal sticking its head out of a burrow for an exploratory sniff.
“My grandmother Bridget, Fiona’s daughter, kept buying wool even after her arthritis got too bad to knit. She was convinced the quality of what was available would deteriorate and she wanted my mom to have access to the best. When she died, it all came to Mom, and what she didn’t use, she gave to me.”
“Wow.” Even Dorene’s big hands handled the wool reverently. “So this is really from Shetland. To think, we’re sitting here knitting on a summer night just like all those ladies.”
Ella snorted. “If any mermaids pop up let me know.”
“Ella, you make me tired, bashing everything.” Dorene turned on her. “I dare you to be sappy and sentimental about one thing. One. Right now. In front of everyone.”
“Why don’t we all do it?” Elizabeth spoke into the abrupt silence. She couldn’t bear this evening to go the way the rest of her day had gone. She was already fantasizing about packing her bag and moving somewhere, and she couldn’t do that. Babcia had to have something in mind for her to learn here, or everything would start to seem pointless and dirtied about the world.
“Good idea, Elizabeth. I’ll go first.” Megan was expertly casting on, fingers flying, face lit. “I am really happy to be helping my friend Sally have the wedding dress she wants.”
“I’ll go next. Mine’s easy. I am really touched that my best friends have come together to support me.” Sally turned to Dorene. “Your turn.”
“I am thrilled to learn to make something so pretty with my clumsy hands,” Dorene said. “Ella?”
“Okay.” Resigned sign. “I’m very grateful that I am on this porch knitting with a bunch of women instead of riding some well-hung wild male I barely know.”
Everyone but Vera laughed, though uneasily.
“Vera.” Ella lifted an eyebrow. “You’re next.”
Heads turned to Vera for reassurance the tension would pass soon. Vera glanced over her red half-glasses at her daughter-in-law. “Lace knitting is like life. Best shared among women.”
Appreciative murmurs. Heads turned to Megan for her response. “Thank you, Vera. That was very nice.”
“You’re welcome.” Vera nodded kindly. “Elizabeth, your turn.”
And just like that, the storm had blown over. The knitting went on, lips counting, brows drawn in concentration; the silence was peaceful and comforting. Around them night descended, soft and fragrant, embraced the house and stretched beyond, stopped by mountains still reflecting the sun’s last glow.
Best shared among women.
“Elizabeth?”
“Sorry.” She smiled, made eye contact with Vera, Ella, Dorene, Sally, and finally, Megan. “Mine’s easy too. Being part of this group, even as a fringe member, is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Chapter Ten
Elizabeth opened her eyes, feeling as if she’d been encased in acrylic. She hated afternoon naps, always woke up sick and disoriented and groggy. But today had been warm, she’d slept badly last night, spent the morning trying to sketch, took a long walk, brooded, meditated, brooded some more, then turned down the chance after lunch to go with the family to Hendersonville for shopping and a movie. They’d taken two cars in case Vera got tired and wanted to come home early; Elizabeth had parked hers at David’s so they could get back into the garage easily.
Without the Morgans around, her apartment had been too quiet; the yard felt foreign and lonely, making Elizabeth even more miserable and restless than the day before and the day before that, then suddenly exhausted to the point of stupor. Even working on the lace for Sally’s dress didn’t help much. She’d hoped, having discovered that cherished sense of belonging to the Purls, that the euphoria would carry over, but it hadn’t.
She’d dragged herself to bed, even knowing she’d regret it later, and hit a deep sleep almost immediately. Dreams had come, first of Gillian and Fiona in thong bikinis mud-wrestling in a Shetland peat pit surrounded by shouting, leering men. Then of David’s wife, Victoria, in black leather chaps and bustier, flogging a group of groveling, naked man-slaves.
Nice.
Slightly more awake, she tried to sit up, failed and let herself flop back down. The brass Cupid next to her bed offered his flowerpot goblet. Honeyed mead? Nectar?
Dust and a dead fly.
Absence of human noise blew through her windows with the breeze undulating the lace curtains. She caught herself wishing even for traffic sounds, a car horn or a shouting cabdriver. Cicadas would have to do, their quintessential summertime buzz a cross between a metal saw and a dentist’s drill.
She rolled over, suddenly missing Dominique so badly she could barely stand it, reached into her purse and dug out her cell, dialed his number and lay back, hand covering her eyes.
“Dom,
it’s me.”
“Elizabeth!” He sounded so pleased and surprised, she felt the warm swell in her heart that had been absent too long. “How are things going?”
“Fine. They’re fine.” She struggled up onto her elbows, brushed the hair out of her face. “I’m actually not in New York.”
“Ah, no?” He mumbled something away from the phone. “Where are you, ma petite?”
“In North Carolina. Who are you with?”
“Samuel Luxe. You remember him from our Easter party last year?”
“Of course.”
“We’re having a glass of mediocre wine in a pub after a truly despicable dinner. My God, what these English think passes for food. Bangers and mash? Somebody shoot me.”
“Good hunting today?”
“Yeah, okay. Not great, but okay. These are not French quality, you understand, but convincing and less than half the price. I am getting good ideas here, Elizabeth. Big ideas. This will be very exciting for the restaurant. Truffles have such a mystique, you know. Making the dishes more affordable will draw press and crowds. I will combine these cheap English imitations with humble ingredients, risottos, eggs, pasta, simple-simple, but of course exquisite.”
Truffles for the Common Man, yes, she knew all about it. “I miss you.”
“I miss you of course, ma chérie. But only a couple more weeks, yes?”
“Yes.” She grinned, desperately relieved to hear him sounding so glad to hear from her after the awful tension before she left New York. “I’m staying with a family here.”
“Here where?”
“I told you, in North Carolina. A town called Comfort.”
“Yes?” He said something else away from the mouthpiece. “Are you keeping busy?”
Knit in Comfort Page 15
