Knit in Comfort

by Isabel Sharpe

  “Good. I played well.” He put his hands in his pockets, tall, handsome and dependable Stanley. “It’s a beautiful day for golf. And a beautiful day to be sitting out here enjoying the evening.”

  “Sure is,” Dorene said. “I was thinking only this morning that I looked forward to getting here to knit with y’all tonight. Not only because of Megan’s incredible brownies either, though boy, that doesn’t hurt. I don’t know what you make those with, but they’re about the best ones I’ve ever had…”

  Stanley’s phone rang during her predictable prattle. He dragged it from his pocket, checked the display and stiffened, a rare display of discomfort. Over a phone number?

  Megan knew who it was.

  “Hey, great to see you all.” He waved at the group, hearty and masculine, his face strained. “I’ve got a call to make. You enjoy yourselves.”

  Megan sat with her hands curled into fists. Her face flushed. Stanley’s footsteps went upstairs.

  He was going to their bedroom to call his other wife.

  “Vera, did I make a mistake on this row? Seems like there’s something wrong here.” Elizabeth’s eyes were on Megan, her expression cautious, concerned.

  Megan scanned the other faces in the room. Dorene’s blank as usual, Vera’s suspicious, Sally’s troubled, but understandably. Ella’s…

  Dear God. Did she and Elizabeth know?

  “Excuse me.” She got up, not sure where she was going, just knowing she couldn’t sit there anymore and wonder why Ella was looking at her with something like humanity, or why Elizabeth was avoiding Stanley. Nor could she sit there and think about Stanley, up in the same bedroom they’d conceived their children in, having phone sex with the Gillian-babe that was his alternate life partner. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Inside she heard his voice, then their bedroom door closing. The kids were down the street again, Lolly at her movie.

  He was all hers.

  She pounded up the stairs, barged into the room. “Hang up.”

  He stared at her, phone pressed to his ear. “Honey—”

  “Hang up!” She’d never yelled at him like this in her life. “I forbid you to talk to her while you’re in this house.”

  His eyes narrowed in disbelief. “It’s an emergency. Tommy fell down and broke his—”

  “There are doctors for that.” Her voice shook. “I managed fine alone when Jeffrey broke his ankle, I managed fine alone when Lolly broke her finger, when Deena cracked her head open, when—”

  “This will only take—”

  “No.” She lunged forward, grabbed the phone from his hand and closed it, ending the call. “While you’re in this house you have one wife, and that’s me.”

  “Stanley?” Vera. Outside the door. Sweet Jesus.

  “Everything’s fine, Mom.” He grabbed the phone back, pushed Megan against the wall by their bed, held her there with his huge hands on her shoulders, face growing red. “Don’t you ever cut me off from a call like that.”

  She tried to free herself, couldn’t, gave a hoarse cry of rage and frustration. The door burst open. Elizabeth, Vera behind her.

  “Get off her.” Elizabeth barreled in and shoved Stanley, who staggered away probably more from surprise than her strength. “You bastard. You told me it was fine with her.”

  “Stanley, what is happening?” Vera, sounding panicked.

  Megan stayed against the wall. How had Elizabeth found out? David would never tell. Stanley, never. This was horrible. The worst. She had no right to know.

  “Nothing, Mom.” Stanley held his hands out. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Everything is not fine, you liar.” Elizabeth was furious, panting. “Megan, are you okay? Did he hit you?”

  “No, for God’s sake.” She wanted to push her away. Little Elizabeth, living in an all black-and-white world. If Stanley had done wrong, he had to be cruel, too. “Go back downstairs.”

  “I would never hit a woman.”

  Elizabeth sneered at him. “Somehow, coming from you, that’s not any comfort.”

  No, no. This was Megan’s fight; her shame was none of Elizabeth’s business. Damn her coming here and turning everything upside down.

  “Megan, if there’s anything I can do to help.” Elizabeth’s super-concerned face, and her I’m-your-friend hand reaching out sent Megan over the edge.

  “You can stop interfering in things you don’t understand and go back home where you belong.”

  Elizabeth stepped back, mouth open in surprise.

  “Megan!” Vera’s outrage came from her daughter-in-law’s having violated the sacred laws of Southern hospitality, cracked the polite veneer that hung over all the ugliness. Megan had never felt so foreign as she did then. “You’ll speak to our guest with more respect than that.”

  “Mom, lay off her.” Manly Stanley sticking up for his wife except when it mattered. “Megan’s upset.”

  Ya think?

  “Nothing is bad enough to make rudeness acceptable.”

  “Really? Nothing?” Megan thrust herself away from the wall, consumed by fury, not regretting her lost control. “How about your son being married to someone else at the same time as he’s—”

  “Megan. Don’t.” Stanley, begging to keep his little secret from Mommy, so she could continue to worship him in the manner to which he was accustomed.

  Megan laughed, fists clenched, reveling in the sick surge of power. “It’s true, though. Even Elizabeth knows now. Did you tell her when you were in bed with her? Is two women not enough anymore?”

  “Megan.” Elizabeth looked aghast. “I would never.”

  “What is she talking about, Stanley?” Vera’s voice was high and shaking. “Megan, have you lost your mind?”

  “No Vera. She hasn’t.” Elizabeth put an arm around Vera’s soft shoulders. “Your son has another wife and family in…somewhere else.”

  “Roxboro,” Megan said. “In the lovely Piedmont region of North Carolina.”

  “Stanley! Are you going to stand there and let them accuse you of such garbage?” Vera drew herself up to her full height, which, given her short stature and dumpling body, wasn’t too impressive. “Tell them. You would never stoop that low.”

  “Mama…” Stanley sank on the bed, looking like a death-row inmate seconds before his execution.

  His phone rang.

  “That’ll be her again,” said Elizabeth.

  “Why don’t you answer it?” Megan taunted. “I’m sure it’s for you.”

  He eyed them miserably. The phone rang again. Again. Twice more and was still.

  “God have mercy.” Vera put a hand to her heaving chest. “It’s true.”

  “Mama…”

  “You’re no better than your rotten no-good father.” Vera pointed accusingly, fingers trembling, blue eyes wide with shock. “If you know what’s good for you, Stanley Morgan, you’ll get out of this house and won’t come back until we decide to let you live.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The days after the announcement of Calum and Gillian’s engagement pass in a blur for Fiona. She can’t walk the cliffs with the same joy, can’t look down at the bright water and the churning white spray without wanting to hurl herself into it. Can’t see the birds soaring, diving like missiles for food, calling to one another, without thinking of Gillian and her wheeling flock of skuas laughing at Fiona for thinking she had a chance with Calum. Perversely, with all the thunder and doom in her heart, the weather has been warm, dry and sunny—not a cloud, not a drop of rain, as if the heavens themselves are mocking her misery by celebrating the happy couple.

  Yet Calum’s troubles continue. Four of his sheep take ill, stop eating and die. He nearly breaks an ankle in a rabbit hole on ground he’s walked his whole life. A wild dog leaps his crofthouse wall and makes off with fish the family was drying for winter. Crows peck out the eyes of his favorite old horse, Brodie, killing him.

  People murmur about the strange happenings. A premonition of some g
reater misfortune has seized the islanders. They haven’t forgotten the enchantment Gillian wove with her violin, only now, safely away from her spell, the power she wielded seems ominous.

  Finally, the winds that so often bedevil the islands catch up with Fiona’s mood and roar in, restless and fierce. That same night, Calum’s younger brother takes ill again, with high fever and rattling lungs. His mum and Calum take turns with him, sponging his brow, helping him sit up to cough, wondering if it’s worth the long journey to fetch a doctor, or if he’ll get better on his own. He’s too sick to be moved this time.

  Also that night, while the unsettling winds lash the village, Fiona has a vivid dream of Calum underwater with fins instead of feet, a merman groom following his mermaid bride, vanishing into unseen depths. She wakens with a bad feeling that persists through the blustery gray day, making her more and more uneasy until she can no longer ignore her instinct.

  Taking bread off the fire too soon, she rushes to the waterfront as the men ready their boats to go fishing during the late-night light. Calum is helping her father, his cheeks made rosy by the persistent wind, his eyes dark with worry for his brother and his family. She greets him with clumsy congratulations on his engagement, foolishly still hoping it was all a mistake.

  Calum loads bait and another net into the boat, nods to Fiona’s father, who is ready to push off, then puts a strong, calloused seaman’s hand on Fiona’s shoulder and thanks her, says he hopes he hasn’t caused her pain, that he loves her like a sister and always will.

  Fiona gives way to despair and anger. She blurts out that there is talk of Gillian’s wickedness, that Calum’s recent troubles, even his brother’s illness are caused by her, that she will bring nothing but pain to the town and to him. Fiona begs him not to get into the Atlantic Lady with her father tonight. Disaster awaits him; all signs have pointed to it.

  Calum’s face grows grim. He will not listen to silly superstitions attributed to his bride-to-be. Fiona should know better than to believe such gossip. He and Gillian plan to move to the Scottish mainland as soon as possible to escape the small, ignorant minds here in Eshaness. He turns away and strides to the Atlantic Lady, holds the boat steady while Fiona’s father steps in.

  Fiona forces herself back up to the house, leaving her heart with Calum. That night she picks at her dinner of oats, cabbage and fish, dutifully helps wash up, cares for the animals, and sits again in front of the fire, knitting lace that will never be as lovely as what Gillian can make.

  Soon enough wind slams rain down, thunder crashes with rage, and the dread starts. What will happen and when? The power of the gale buffeting the island nearly equals the storm inside Fiona. The Tulloch women knit on, praying for good fortune and safe shelter for their sailors as all women on the island knit and pray through every storm while men are at sea.

  Fiona can’t help thinking of Gillian, alone with her terror, and feels ashamed of the gossip she repeated to Calum. She prays that he comes back to receive her apology and genuine blessing on his marriage.

  The night is long, black and wakeful; the storm abates but worry doesn’t. The women are up early, going about their daily chores, making every excuse to go outside, where they scan the horizon for boats.

  Breakfast is eaten and cleared, animals fed, garden tended, bread prepared for noon and evening meals. A noise outside stops all movement. The door opens. Ewan Tait stands there, supporting Fiona’s father, who has injured his knee, but is alive and well. The women throw themselves on him, crying happy tears. They help Andrew out of his damp clothes and into warm ones, wrap his injured knee, tuck him into a chair by the fire with thick blankets. Fiona sits by his side in an agony of suspense while Mum goes to fetch him broth and some bread.

  Dad takes her hand, squeezes it, his face weary and chapped, fingers still cold and wrinkled from the sea. He tells the story of the boat driven off course by the relentless wind, picked up by a wave like the hand of a giant and dumped back down, flinging him and Calum overboard. He was hauled from the waves by Ewan, who saw the Atlantic Lady go down. They stayed as long as they dared, looking for Calum.

  Her father closes his eyes, then speaks so quietly she almost can’t hear him, and once the words are out of his mouth, she wishes she hadn’t. When they reached Eshaness shore this morning after spending the night in the voe of a neighboring island, they found Calum had returned home first. His body, brought by the waves, had been wedged between two great rocks at the bottom of the lighthouse cliff.

  “Megan, this is Mrs. Temple, I just heard about the…situation with your husband, and I want to say that I am absolutely horrified. You poor dear. If there’s anything I can do for Jeffrey in school next fall, or anything you need me to—”

  “Mrs. Temple. I…can’t really talk now.”

  “Of course, I understand. You let me know if there’s any way I can help you.”

  “I will. Thank you.” Megan hung up the kitchen phone and leaned over the counter, head pounding, eyes screwed shut. It had been like this for two days. If she ever got her hands around Ella’s neck, she’d apply pressure with great enthusiasm.

  By the time Megan had gone back downstairs after the horrible scene in her and Stanley’s bedroom, Dorene and Sally were still there, but Ella had left. She must have wasted no time crowing her triumph around Comfort. Megan and Stanley’s marriage was a joke. Megan had failed as a wife and Stanley had to seek satisfaction elsewhere. Doubtless Ella added that if Stanley had married her, he’d be lacking nothing. That obviously he’d made a terrible mistake. Now look what he was forced to do? And on and on, passed from one neighbor to another, distorted like phrases in the operator game until Megan was either a doormat or a dominatrix, depending whose version you heard.

  Since then at the Morgan house it had been one call or visit after another—she’d even heard from Cara and Jocelyn in Vegas—sympathy, shock, offers of support. Some were sincere. Others just wanted the delicious thrill of making contact with someone scandal had touched. They wanted to see if there was anything in Megan’s voice or face they’d missed all these years, anything that should have tipped them off to the kind of person she turned out to be.

  Megan had gotten rid of people as quickly as possible. Little ears all over the house. She knew she’d have to tell the children before—God forbid—someone else did, but she didn’t have that courage today. Stanley should tell them, but who knew when he’d dare show his face again?

  Vera hadn’t left her room for the last two days. Megan had to leave meals outside her door on a tray, explaining to the kids that Grandma wasn’t well. She felt like a balloon filling with more and more air, approaching the moment when the pressure inside became greater than outside and she’d explode. Bits of her all over the kitchen, shriveled colorful scraps of skin and innards.

  The phone rang again. She considered not answering, then lunged for the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Meg, it’s your father.”

  “Daddy.” The childish use of his name came automatically. Dear God, things were bad if she was even considering turning to him.

  “How’s things?”

  “Fine. They’re fine.” She couldn’t tell him. He’d show up and try to take over, threaten Stanley, cause an even bigger fuss around town than there was already. “Kids are getting restless.”

  “You should teach those girls to knit. That’s what you and your mother did all summer long. All year long. I remember it that way anyway.”

  “Yes.” She moved to the window. Back to the room. She’d buried dreams of teaching her daughters when she’d given up lace. But yes, she could do that now, she should. “That’s how it was.”

  “I was calling because I found a box in our attic with your name on it in your mother’s writing. Rectangular, like a shirt box, you know what it is?”

  Megan frowned. She and her father had gone through everything. “No.”

  “I’m sending it to you, just wanted to let you know it’s on its way.”

&n
bsp; “Okay, thanks, Dad. I’ll look for it.”

  He cleared his throat, henh-henh-henh. “You sure everything is okay?”

  The question hung in her ears. She wanted to break down, run to his knee, show him her hurt spots and have him fix them. But all her life he’d diverted her pain to Mom, so she’d learned not to run. And yet, now he was asking.

  “Stanley and I are having a…rough time.”

  “How rough?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Okay.” He blew out a long breath. “If you need to, you can come up here to stay for a bit. Bring the kids. I know Tricia will want to meet them. And I’d like to see you.”

  Her throat cramped. He called to check on her often, but this was a first. “Okay, Daddy.”

  “I hope everything works out so you’re happy.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Welcome.” He sniffed, was probably scratching his balding head, which he did when he felt uncomfortable. She tried to picture him, still lean in his older years, still handsome, with the green-brown eyes he gave Megan. “Well, I’ll let you go.”

  Megan grinned, shaking her head wearily. “Yes. Okay. Bye, Dad.”

  She moved back to the mixer, scraped batter for a Mexican chocolate cake into prepared pans. Maybe she would go visit. Take the kids up to New Jersey, take them to the shore there. Jersey beaches were much prettier than they sounded.

  “When are you going to tell us, Mom?”

  Megan whirled to face her eldest daughter. “Lolly, don’t sneak up like that. You scared me.”

  Lolly stood hugging herself, face pale, hair disheveled, wearing a Jonas Brothers T-shirt and faded cotton shorts, every inch the child she was instead of the woman she was becoming. “Well?”

  Megan wasn’t prepared, had no idea how to handle this. The only person she could go to for help was the problem in the first place, and he conveniently wasn’t here to face the fallout. “When am I going to tell you what?”

  “Whatever it is you’re not telling us.”

  Behind her Deena and Jeffrey peeked anxious faces around the doorway.