Knit in Comfort

by Isabel Sharpe

  Megan flinched. “Oh, thanks, Ella.”

  “Don’t mention it. And it’s your turn now, so go. We need to get back to gossip and insignificant chatter, where we belong.”

  “I’d put my lifeline in right now. Tonight.” Megan looked up from her knitting toward the mountains, the sun’s dying light glowing on her skin and in her eyes. “Because I’m so unsure what to do going forward, that if I choose wrong I’d want to be able to come back to this night with you all here, and have you help me do it right the next time.”

  Elizabeth looked down to hide a surprise attack of tears.

  “So that’s mine. Elizabeth? Finish this off for us.”

  She cleared her throat. “I still don’t have one.”

  “You made us all play.”

  “I know, Ella.” Elizabeth hunched her shoulders. “But I’ve made so many bad choices I’ve ended up nowhere with no idea what to do next. Right now I’d say I need a lifeline back to when I was born.”

  “The problem with you girls is that you overthink everything.” Vera peered over her red glasses. “And you have too many options. In my day, you got married to the guy who asked you and you stayed married and you—”

  “Pretended everything was fine,” Megan said with some heat.

  “The worst kind of life a woman can have.” Ella echoed Megan’s passion. “That was mine in Florida. And Megan’s here. We need to be able to make ourselves happy, both because it’s good for us and because men shouldn’t have to bear that burden.”

  “The hardest part, I think,” Sally said, “is finding the balance between making yourself happy and making other people happy.”

  “Bingo.” Ella jabbed her needle toward Sally for emphasis. “And deciding how much needs changing in a bad situation and when. No one can tell you that. You have to get there on your own.”

  Elizabeth’s stomach turned sick. She didn’t even know what would make her happy. She couldn’t even figure that out.

  “You all make me tired.” Dorene shook her head. “Do men worry about this stuff?”

  “No.” Sally, Ella and Megan all spoke at once, making Dorene chortle.

  “Hey, we should write our own version of When Women Rule, where we have each woman ruling over herself, not over men.”

  “You get right on that, Ella.” Megan smiled up from her knitting. “And by the way, we’re not letting you off the hook, Elizabeth. Just ramble on about your life and see what comes to you.”

  “Yes,” Sally agreed. “God knows we’ve been through enough trouble collectively, that we should be able to help.”

  “I’ll try.” Elizabeth pushed her stitches down the needles and let them rest. She had nothing to lose. “After I left Mom’s house and moved to Boston, Alan and I had this starving-artist life we both loved. He was a painter with a hobby as a waiter. I was a waitress with a hobby as a painter. But then the whole thing gradually started feeling…I don’t know, wrong.”

  “I know what went wrong.” Vera scratched beside her nose with a knitting needle, looking disgusted. “You grew up.”

  “You’re probably right.” Elizabeth picked up her lemonade, took another swig; it tasted too sweet now. “Then I met Dominique and we did the starving-artist thing for a while, too, only his art was cooking. I had a job as secretary at a law firm, but I was trying to get other businesses off the ground. Meanwhile, Dominique’s took off, and I let it take us. For a long time it was thrilling. And then…”

  She froze in her chair. She couldn’t go back to that life in New York. She realized it like a thunderbolt had split the darkening sky and zapped her in her chair. Not after being here with all this life and warmth surrounding her. Not back to those long, lonely days in her own company, watching TV, scouring the Internet for entertainment, sending e-mail, shopping, calling friends to schedule a social life, always an effort.

  How could any of these women leave Comfort?

  “Something started feeling wrong,” Megan prompted.

  “And then I came here.” She looked around the group of concerned faces and the lightning struck again. Megan’s house. Megan’s friends. Megan’s town. Dominique had been right about this too. First Mom’s life. Then Alan’s. Then Dominique’s. Now Megan’s.

  Elizabeth’s rut was longer and deeper than she’d ever let herself see. But now that she finally understood its nature, she had a 100 percent better chance of hauling herself out.

  “I know where to put it.” She turned to the woman Babcia had sent her to, both to help and to learn from. “Like Megan, I’d weave my lifeline in right now, tonight, sitting here, knitting lace with all of you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The family stays inside that day, nursing Andrew and grief. Late at night Ewan Tait again comes to their house, breathless and nearly frantic. Along with the miraculous news of Andrew Tulloch’s return, news of Calum’s death has spread. Crofters have gathered, but their sorrow and their talk have turned ugly. They believe Gillian responsible for the tragedy, or others of her kind—witches, finmen or evil spirits. She has brought bad luck on Calum and will continue to poison their village with more of the same. A group has marched to her house. They want her gone from Eshaness.

  Fiona gasps and flees into the summer twilight. She arrives at Gillian’s house, too late. A mob drives the beautiful grief-stricken woman before them. Gillian is pale, stumbling, her face tearstained. She glances at Fiona, gives a sad smile and mouths something Fiona doesn’t catch. Fiona pushes among her fellow islanders, grabs at shoulders, shoves bodies, trying to get someone, anyone, to listen to reason, to stop this wicked blaming of an innocent woman for a death that is so much part of their life. She finds Calum’s mother, pleads with her to stop, but she and the others have lost one of their favorite sons, and someone has to pay for their pain.

  At the road out of Eshaness, Gillian suddenly veers toward the cliff by the lighthouse site, where she ran from Fiona and Calum on their walk so long ago. The mob falters. Alban Tait follows and tries to pull her back, but she yanks herself free, hissing like a raging cat. He steps away, hands up in surrender, foolishly afraid of her power.

  Gillian faces them, pale and lovely, dark hair blowing. She unties her black cloak and throws it to the ground, uncovering a white dress decorated with the magical, beautiful lace she’s knitted herself. She grins, laughs her big wild laugh, turns and runs toward the cliff, spreads her arms and dives off its rocky edge.

  A few shouts, screams, most of the Shetlanders stand stunned. Several men rush to peer over the cliff, but in the dim twilight they can see nothing. Quiet settles, bringing uncertainty. Prayers are muttered. Another death, another tragedy, will this end the curse? Fiona pushes out of the group and walks home, knowing this night has changed her life. She cannot feel the same way about her neighbors or her community or Shetland again.

  Megan lay in her bedroom, eyes open, watching the ceiling, watching the window, watching the clock numbers roll on from midnight. She could hear Jeffrey’s regular snores out in the hallway, impressively loud for a skinny nine-year-old. His wife would be doomed to a marriage of nighttime earplugs.

  She turned restlessly, adjusted her pillow, fussed with the cotton blanket, then sat up with a groan and pushed the hair out of her face. This was hopeless. Her brain whirred like the Wheel of Fortune, clicking through all the worries and obsessions keeping her from sleep. Click, click, click. Where would it stop this time?

  Out of bed, to the window, she pressed her face against the cool glass, gazed out at the stars pricking the sky.

  Click, click, click. Stanley. She could settle down and accept again what she’d accepted fifteen years earlier, or insist he choose. If he chose Genevieve, she’d have to find the strength to build a new life alone. If he chose Megan she’d be left with a husband for whom she wasn’t enough.

  Click, click, click. David. He and Victoria might have gotten back together, or they might not have. She couldn’t count on him in her future, but she couldn’t mak
e herself rule him out either. They’d shared so much.

  Click click click. Fiona, Gillian, Calum. After the Purls left two nights ago, Megan had stayed out in the garden, working on Sally’s dress panel. In the near-darkness, crickets accompanying her stitches, she’d thought of her mother, of her stories, fell deeper and deeper into the past, and gradually slid into a trance, the first one in so many years.

  In the phantom warmth of a smoky peat fire, she’d sensed the ghost presence of Shetland knitters all around her—Fiona; her mother, Mary; her Aunt Charlotte; Granny Nessa and hundreds of others spread out over the islands.

  She missed the sea, had been away from it too long, its smells, its creatures, its plants, its moods and constant surprises. Could you ever evict your childhood home from your soul? Or maybe this longing ran deeper, back to her ancestry.

  The bedroom seemed suddenly stuffy. She slid open the screen, stuck out her head, breathing in the placid night air, identifying scents of flowers and forest. No salt here, no peat, no angry storms and boiling blue oceans. Just peaceful gardens, quiet woods and sedate mountains.

  Megan turned abruptly to dig her phone out of her purse. She was going to call Stanley, and if he didn’t answer, she’d keep calling. If he was with Genevieve he could bloody well answer her call the way he’d answered Genevieve’s here. It was ridiculous, this silence between them. They weren’t children, and they weren’t enemies.

  She powered on her cell, was in the midst of dialing when the notifier chimed, announcing voice mail from an unknown number. Probably a wrong one. She dialed into the service and listened to the mechanical operator instruct her about things she already knew. The message started. She inhaled sharply at the sound of David’s familiar deep voice, clear and alert.

  “Megan. Hope you don’t mind me calling. I figured I’d be sure to get you if I called your cell; you must have given me the number at some point. Ella told me what happened—no, not like it was gossip, so stop getting all pissed off. She knew I’d want to know. Dorene is a bigmouth, but Cara and Jocelyn are toxic cows. I hope you’re all right. I’ll come home if you need me. Call me, I’m worried about you.”

  The mechanical operator told her the message had come in three days previous. Megan quickly deleted it to avoid the temptation of listening again and again, then immediately felt the loss. Call me, I’m worried about you.

  She peered at the clock. 12:30 A.M. Maybe he’d still be up? Or asleep with his phone turned off, so she could leave a quick message, tell him not to come, to worry about himself, that she was fine.

  Bad idea, to risk him answering. Not now, when the night was summery and soft and Megan was the only body awake in the house, lost and vulnerable in her isolation. She’d probably make a fool out of herself, put out some hint of how she still felt about him, and then he’d tell her he and Victoria had just finished having make-up sex all over her house.

  She’d call Stanley.

  The phone rang only once before he answered, shocking her, so that she was at a loss what to say.

  “Megan?” He sounded worried, wide awake. “Are you there? What is it? One of the kids?”

  “Everyone’s fine.” She drifted back to the window, leaned against the sill, looking out into the dim shapes of her garden. “Where are you?”

  “At a motel in Reidsville, up by the Virginia border. I have a meeting with clients in the morning, thought I’d allow myself extra sleep by getting here tonight instead of having to drive from headquarters at the crack of dawn.”

  “Oh.” He sounded as if everything were normal between them. It gave her an eerie, disoriented feeling, as if she’d imagined all the uproar. “How are you doing?”

  “Miserable without you, Megan.” His voice dropped, became husky. “I miss you.”

  She ignored the tug on her heartstrings and forced herself to pay attention. He missed her. He was miserable. David was worried about Megan, hoped she was all right. Ditto the Purls. Ditto everyone in Comfort.

  “Things are pretty bad here, Stanley. Your news spread all over town.” She waited hopefully for his reaction. I’m worried about you, Megan. I’ll come home if you need me.

  “Oh Lord. I’m toast there. I can never go back. I’ll be crucified.”

  Megan closed her eyes. He wouldn’t change. Vera had never taught him and Megan had never demanded. She’d toiled making life comfortable for everyone else, never saying, Enough. My turn. Her mother had done the same. So had Vera. How many other women? Was that the driving force behind Victoria’s leaving David and writing the book? Too many years of isolated martyrdom and then the explosion, you bastard, what about me? Victoria regretted that explosion now.

  “Megan, let’s move away from Comfort. You and me and the kids. Start over somewhere.”

  She took two quick steps toward the middle of the room, said the first thing that came into her head. “What about your mother?”

  “I don’t think she’d leave. Comfort has been her home her whole life.”

  “Yours too.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not tied to it the way she is. I’ve been thinking.” She heard him moving. Turning over in bed? He slept in boxers and she pictured his familiar strong body, white hotel sheets emphasizing the deep gold of his skin more than their beige ones at home. “I have a bunch of clients close by here. The town is really nice, larger than Comfort and a lot going on. Real estate isn’t too bad either, we could get a good down payment by selling our house. What do you say?”

  “What about…her?”

  “Mom?”

  She grimaced. “No, her.”

  “Megan.” He used his gentle teacher voice. “I made a vow to Genevieve, too.”

  Right. How selfish of her.

  “The kids will like it here. I found a house that needs some work, but it has a pool. They’d love that. The schools are good…” He was pleading in that sexy, charming way he used to persuade her to do what he wanted. The way he’d pleaded with her not to leave with her family after high school, to stay in Comfort. He’d marry her, they’d have a boatload of kids and live well. He’d get a good job and spoil her like crazy. “Just you and me and the kids. We could start over, Megan.”

  She moved away from the window, sank down on the bed. What were her other options?

  “Megan? You still there, sweetheart?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you. You know I love you.” He sounded close to tears. “That has never ever changed.”

  “I know.” She let herself fall back, stared at the ceiling. Moving with Stanley to another town, where nobody knew the Big Secret. She and Stanley would still be together for the kids, who’d be protected from rumors and slander, the inevitable fallout here. Megan wouldn’t have to worry about earning enough money to make it on her own. The children wouldn’t suffer from her breaking up the family. A new life.

  Except it would be the old one in a new place.

  “Let me think about it.” She knew what her answer would probably be; she just couldn’t say it yet. She wanted to pretend for a little while that she was like her father, believing the world held boundless possibilities. Like Fiona, forced into a new life, making hard choices with the world at her feet.

  A childhood memory resurfaced, of a storm forecast to hit their town—which one, where? Mississippi? Florida? She didn’t remember. Just that the sun was still shining but her mother had been hard at work preparing the house and yard for the strong winds expected with the rain. Megan had been huddling inside, small and scared, while Mom was out closing the shutters. Bang. Bang. Bang. One by one they swung shut, cutting back the light in the house until it was safe and protected from the gale to come, but dark and airless and still.

  God protect her from having closed all her shutters.

  “Tell you what, Megan, have Mom watch the kids and you come here for a couple of days. It’ll be just the two of us at this motel. We’ll have a second honeymoon, you and me, and I can show you around Reidsville, you can see the town for yo
urself. Would you like that?”

  A tear rolled from the corner of her eye, across her temple and landed in her ear, cold and annoying, like the wet willies Lolly loved to torture her siblings with. A second honeymoon, for the rebirth of a dying marriage. “I’ll see if I can manage it.”

  “I miss you, sweetheart.” He spoke with passion. “I want us to be together again. Without you…I’m only half here.”

  She said good night, shut off the phone, tried to sit up but couldn’t find the energy. Without her he was only half there. Which half? Did Genevieve get the part with the manly bits or could Megan have that one?

  The giggles started. She put a hand over her mouth to stop the noise, snorted and teared until she realized there was nothing funny about the situation. Two wives, one husband who claimed to need them both. Even Calum had chosen, Gillian over Fiona. If Megan pushed Stanley to choose, would he do the same? Genevieve’s Gillian over Megan’s Fiona? She couldn’t risk the ultimatum until she was sure she could live with the outcome.

  Propped on her elbows she tossed the phone onto the pillow in disgust. So, what now? She should go spend the days with Stanley. Her first responsibility was to patch up the marriage, for the kids’ sakes if nothing else. She could arrange to have Vera babysit or cash in on sympathetic friends’ offers to take the children for sleepovers when things got too much. She could see Reidsville. Maybe a new beginning would work.

  She sighed, thinking of Fiona and Gillian’s story, how their mutual pain helped draw them together emotionally after Calum’s death. Two women who loved the same man.

  Megan sat the rest of the way up, feeling that strange combination of excitement and dread from considering a difficult decision.

  Elizabeth had offered to come with her if she went. Megan could ask to be dropped at Stanley’s hotel afterward. It would only be an hour or so out of the way back to Comfort from Roxboro. Maybe Elizabeth wouldn’t mind the detour. Genevieve might not want to see Megan, nothing might come of their meeting, the idea could be completely crazy, but it was something Megan could do.