Knit in Comfort

by Isabel Sharpe

  “Ken and Barbie.” David shook his head. “Ken doesn’t even have a penis!”

  Ella and Elizabeth burst into giggles.

  “You saw in their relationship what you wanted to see. No man is ever going to live up to your fantasies. Love can’t fill the holes you’ve spent years digging yourselves.”

  “Oh now you’re the relationship expert?” Ella jabbed at his arm with her finger. “And how does it work that we’re deluded but you’re a noble victim?”

  David’s eyes narrowed; Elizabeth froze, afraid the situation was going to get ugly. She wished David would stop drinking.

  He gave a brisk nod instead. “Okay. Point made. My marriage was flawed, your marriage was flawed, Stanley and Megan’s marriage is screwed up beyond all comprehension. Elizabeth’s relationship…?”

  She shrugged. “As yet undetermined.”

  “So here we sit on the island of misfit lovers. The broken, the maimed, the malformed, who still, all sensible evidence to the contrary, believe in love, crave love.”

  Elizabeth fidgeted. Something was bothering her, something was rising in her, and she wished everyone would be quiet so she could figure out what it was.

  “We’re not at fault. Blame the poets!” He started on his third drink. “Romeo and Juliet were teenagers. They would have moved on. Madama Butterfly wasted her young life over a husband who didn’t deserve her. Even pop songs: ‘can’t live if living is without you.’ Anyone who doesn’t feel that intensity of longing thinks his or her relationship has gone stale in comparison, because look! Over the neighbor’s fence! Great Scott, what a lawn!”

  Ella snorted. Elizabeth listened with half her brain, the other still searching for the source of the urgent internal signal.

  “But let’s look closely at that perfect lawn. The German poet Heinrich Heine wrote some of the most glorious romantic verses known to man over an unrequited passion for his cousin, Amalie, whom he barely knew. After she married, he switched to her equally uninterested sister, Therese. That’s not love. That’s dysfunction, that’s self-isolation. These days he’d be put into therapy and medicated.”

  “And we’d have lost his art.” Ella very casually took the bottle over to her side of the table, out of David’s reach.

  “So now what?” Elizabeth sounded as cranky as she felt. She hated loud champions of hopelessness. “The party’s over, we go miserably on?”

  “We become like Albericht in Wagner’s Ring cycle and renounce love. In our case the sacrifice earns not power over all humanity but whole, beautiful power over ourselves and our destinies and our happiness, a life free from vulnerability and compromise.”

  “David.” Ella rolled her eyes. “You are drunk.”

  “And your point is…”

  Elizabeth put her glass down with a thud. “That is a complete load of crap.”

  “Yeah?” He turned toward her, eyes showing the pain his sneer couldn’t hide. “Then talk me out of it.”

  “If I thought it would do any good…” She stood abruptly, her chair scraping hardwood, moved to the living room and started pacing. The movement freed her from the prison of David’s words, made everything clearer. “It’s pointless to sit here moaning. We need to help Megan get out of that situation.”

  “I’ve got it.” Ella snapped her fingers. “I could shoot Stanley!”

  “Good idea.” David pantomimed cocking a rifle. “I’ll shoot at the same time, so they can’t tell which of us did it.”

  “David, you’re my hero.” Ella reached over and touched his cheek, eyes soft with affection. “Why can’t I fall in love with you?”

  “Because you’re too smart.”

  “Shh.” Elizabeth was on the right track now, the righteous path, and she wasn’t in the mood for clowning. “I’m serious about helping Megan. We have to fix this somehow. She’s desperately unhappy. I bet that’s why she told us the Gillian story.”

  “Be careful. She might not want to get out.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Elizabeth stopped pacing and scowled at David. “And neither do you.”

  “Ms. Elizabeth, I think you’ve gotten in enough trouble deciding things are a certain way before you know for sure. Leave this alone.”

  “No.” Elizabeth walked back to the table, confronted him directly. “I need to make something good come out of this visit. I haven’t been able to help myself, so there must be some other reason I’m in Comfort.”

  “Why?”

  She frowned at him. “Because otherwise, why was I sent here?”

  “You weren’t sent here. You’ve assigned meaning to a random set of circumstances and events and called it destiny. If you can not only reject love but toss out the need for meaning as well, you’ll have freed yourself forever.”

  “Oh, right. Gotcha. To be completely happy, you just have to give up being human?” Ella rolled her eyes. “Come on, David, even you aren’t that cynical.”

  “No?” He grinned his handsome Paul Newman grin and Elizabeth no longer felt envious that people like David had found their places and purposes in the world. No wonder he called his life hell. Because he’d retreated. He didn’t fight. And neither did Megan. “What do you think, Elizabeth? Am I that cynical?”

  “No.” Elizabeth shoved at his shoulder. “It’s how you protect yourself.”

  “Women! I told you both the truth and you only see what you want to.” His phone rang; he stood and headed toward the kitchen, taking his glass with him. “I give up. Don’t finish the bourbon while I’m gone.”

  “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’m…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 done…?”

  “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.”

  Chapter Eleven

  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.”