A Thread So Thin

by Marie Bostwick

  “Thanks a lot,” Margot said with a pout.

  “Oh, come on,” Arnie continued. “Cheer up. They’re great. I mean it. I bet Liza loved them.”

  “Arnie’s right,” Mom said. “Liza must have told you how much she loved the decorations and the cupcakes a dozen times. That’s what counts. Liza’s opinion, not Abigail’s.”

  Margot sighed. “I guess you’re right, but still. Abigail was so nasty and superior. I’ve always known she has very particular tastes, but I’ve never known her to be so critical.”

  “Well, at least she didn’t lie to you, getting you in trouble with your girlfriend in the process,” Charlie grumbled, giving me a sideways glance so I’d know that the whole caviar and beef skewer thing truly had been Abigail’s plan and that he was just an innocent dupe in Abigail’s nefarious scheme.

  “I cannot believe that she lied about that, passing off her instructions as coming from Evelyn,” he railed. “Abigail is always bent on having her own way, but I’ve never known her to resort to deceit to get it. I’d never have thought she was capable of something like that. Not in a million years.”

  That comment pulled me up short. Charlie was right. Everyone was.

  Franklin said that Abigail enjoyed intellectual banter, but she’d never been outright argumentative, not before. And Ivy was right; Abigail could be pushy at times, but she wasn’t manipulative. Margot’s comment that Abigail, while exacting, had never been known to be purposely critical was equally true. And while Abigail was more than willing to use every ounce of her intellect, influence, and connections in pursuit of whatever cause she was currently working on, generally a worthy one, neither Charlie nor anyone else had ever known her to employ means that were deceitful. Or rude.

  Abigail was particular and occasionally prickly, but hers were the sort of prickles you found on a rose, so overshadowed by the beauty of the bloom that they were quickly forgiven and forgotten. Abigail knew what she wanted and knew how to get it, for herself and for those people and causes she cared about, which were legion. In spite of her faults, Abigail had a large and sincerely generous heart. She was bright, beautiful, witty, charitable, well read, well traveled, and well bred and, because of that, well liked. Arguably, she was the best-liked woman in New Bern.

  Abigail would never hurt someone else, not purposely, and we all knew it.

  It took my mother, the person who knew Abigail the least well, to sum up what all of us were thinking.

  “It sounds like Abigail isn’t herself these days.”

  “It’s true,” Franklin said quietly. “Every mother of the bride goes a little crazy, but Abigail’s behavior has been beyond the pale. Especially considering the fact that this is far from the first big event she’s planned. In any given year, Abigail organizes half the charity fund-raisers in this town, and all without so much as breaking a sweat or raising her voice. Not this year, though. She turned them all down, saying she was too busy with the wedding.”

  “He’s right,” said Ivy. “Donna Walsh told me that Abigail called last week to say she couldn’t help with the Stanton Center charity auction because of the wedding. In fact, she even said she’d have to take a leave of absence from the board until it’s over. I couldn’t believe it. I know that Abigail supports a lot of different community organizations and causes, but I’d never have thought she’d leave the Stanton Center or New Beginnings in a lurch. I thought it was her favorite charity.”

  “It is,” Franklin said. “Or was. Until this wedding came along. That’s what I’m talking about. This whole thing seems to have gone far beyond the boundaries of the usual mother-of-the-bride meddling. Abigail is almost manic about this wedding. Bent on making sure every little detail is perfect, whatever that means. I’m not even sure Abigail knows anymore. No matter how much she does or spends, none of it seems to satisfy her.”

  Thinking about Abigail and the way she’d gone around the tables, adjusting each and every napkin ring to the exact same position as its neighbor’s, made me think Franklin’s choice of words seemed accurate. Since the moment Liza and Garrett had announced their engagement, Abigail had been seized by an outsized and uncontrollable mania.

  “I keep telling her that it’s already enough and more than enough, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. I don’t like saying anything against my wife, even among friends, but I’m at my wits’ end with her. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You don’t think that this is just her trying to live out her own fantasies through Liza?” Margot asked. “Making up for the wedding she never had?”

  “No,” Franklin said. “Sure, Abigail would have liked a big wedding. But this isn’t the sort of thing Abbie would want for herself. I mean, there’s big and then there’s big. This wedding has gone over the top, way over. In fact, it’s bordering on vulgar.”

  Suddenly remembering he was in the room, Franklin took a quick look at Garrett and cleared his throat. “Sorry about that, Garrett. No offense intended.”

  “None taken,” Garrett replied. “I agree with you. If I had my way, we’d have a nice little ceremony in the church or the park, just invite family and close friends. Afterward, we’d take everybody to dinner at the Grill….”

  Charlie nodded approvingly.

  “…And then Liza and I’d sail off on a trip around the world, or a grand tour of Europe, or a month on a deserted island. Anything. I don’t care. Whatever makes Liza happy.” He sighed heavily. “I never imagined that getting married would be so complicated.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” I said darkly.

  Charlie rubbed his chin. “Evelyn, why don’t you do what I suggested a month ago? Talk to her. Sit her down and tell her how you feel. Abigail can be difficult. We all know that. But,” he said with a little smile, “we difficult people are worth the effort. Just talk to her. You’re her closest friend. She’ll listen to you. Abigail may be difficult, but she’s not unreasonable. She’s never been that.”

  “Not until now,” Ivy muttered.

  “It’s true,” I said. “The Abigail we saw here today—argumentative, manipulative, critical, self-absorbed, and even deceitful—isn’t the Abigail we all know and love. But I’ve already tried to talk to her, Charlie, a couple of times. It didn’t do any good. She completely ignored me. It was almost like she didn’t hear me.”

  Franklin was nodding as I spoke, as if he understood completely. “I’ve tried to talk to her as well. It hasn’t helped. If anything, it’s made things worse. Something is wrong with her, really wrong. Something beyond the wedding. She won’t discuss the problem. She won’t even acknowledge its existence. And if she won’t admit that there’s a problem…” Franklin’s weary voice trailed off. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  Margot, who had been listening for some time with an intense expression without saying anything, put in her two cents.

  “I do,” she said earnestly. “The eighteenth chapter of Matthew explains exactly how to deal with something like this. It says that if your brother has sinned against you, you should go and show him his fault, just between the two of you.”

  “They already did that,” Ivy said. “And it didn’t work.”

  “But there’s more that comes after that,” Margot said. “If the first attempt doesn’t work, it says you should try again, but the next time, you should take along two or three others as witnesses. If a few of us go together and lovingly confront Abigail about this, I’m sure she’ll listen. She’ll have to!”

  “Maybe Margot is on to something,” I said. “It might work.”

  “So,” Garrett said slowly, narrowing his eyes as if trying to imagine how this would all play out, “it’s an intervention? We all go as a group, confront Abigail, and tell her she’s been acting nuts? Like on those reality TV shows?”

  “Well, probably not all of us,” I said.

  Franklin agreed with me. “I don’t think that would go over well. She might feel like she’s being ambushed. A few would be better. Two or three, like
Margot suggested. Those who know her best. Don’t worry, Garrett. You’re not on the list.”

  Garrett let out a sigh. “That’s a relief! I wasn’t too excited about the prospect of telling my future in-law she’s whacked.”

  “Well, if that’s how you were going to put it,” Mom said, “I’m sure everyone else is relieved that you won’t be going along too.”

  Franklin smiled. “Immensely. I think it would be better if we limited the ‘interveners’ to myself and, if you don’t mind, perhaps Evelyn and Margot? You’re her closest friends. If she’ll listen to anyone, she’ll listen to you.”

  “Okay.”

  Margot echoed her agreement, then said with a laugh, “Isn’t it funny? Here people are talking about interventions as if they’re the latest, newest thing in human relations, but the disciples already had it figured out about two thousand years ago.”

  “Well,” I said, laying my hand on Margot’s arm, “let’s just pray it works.”

  “Oh, I will,” Margot said. “Count on it.”

  24

  Evelyn Dixon

  Since Abigail was going to be in New York for at least a week, we couldn’t put our “intervention” plan into action until her return, but at least we had a plan. That was a start.

  In the meantime, the shop was an enormous mess. Everyone pitched in to clean up. Ivy and Mom threw the paper plates into a big garbage bag, then Ivy carted the heavy trays filled with dirty cups into the break room, where Mom began washing them. After the men finished breaking down the chairs and tables, they loaded them into Charlie’s catering van. Charlie volunteered to return them to the rental company for me. Margot and I shifted the fabric shelving back into the middle of the room and then started taking down the decorations.

  Margot stood with her hands on her hips, examining one of the balloon daisies. “Seems a shame to have to take them down after all that work.”

  “Well then, let’s not. The helium should be good for a couple of days. Let’s just leave them up for a while. The customers will get a charge out of it. The ones in the courtyard are fine, but we’ll need to move these out of this corner. They’re blocking the fabric.”

  “What if we put a few up by the register?”

  I nodded. “And the others on one end of the cutting table? That’d be adorable. Let’s do it!”

  Margot grinned, pleased that our daisies would live to bloom another day or two. Just as we were about to begin transplanting the flowers to new locations, Garrett came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Mom? Can I talk to you?”

  “Sure, sweetheart. What is it?”

  Garrett glanced quickly at Margot. “I meant, can I talk to you alone? Just for a couple of minutes. Sorry to steal her away from you, Margot.”

  Margot waved her hand. “No problem. I’ve got this under control anyway.”

  Mom and Ivy were still in the break room, so we went upstairs to Garrett’s apartment and met Gibb coming down the stairs, carrying a stack of reassembled cardboard boxes.

  “Thanks, Gibb! That should be plenty. Could you take those in to Mom? She’s in the break room.”

  “Will do!” he said with a grin as he bounded down the stairs.

  “Looks like Grandma has an admirer,” Garret said.

  “You might be right.”

  Garrett lives above the shop, in the apartment I occupied when I first came to New Bern, before I rented my little house on Marsh Lane.

  “After Liza moves in, I’m thinking that Grateful Dead poster might have to go,” I said with a smile as I settled myself onto Garrett’s lumpy brown sofa, pushing a pile of computer and gaming magazines aside. “Probably the Seahawks poster too.”

  After college, Garrett had taken a job with one of those big computer companies in Seattle, Claremont Solutions. He wasn’t a huge football fan, but he’d gone to a few games while in Seattle and had picked up the poster as a souvenir.

  “That’s all right,” Garrett said, moving his laptop off a chair and sitting down. “I just put them up there so the walls wouldn’t be bare. Liza’s paintings will look much better.”

  Garrett turned his head left and right, taking a good look at the apartment.

  “It does kind of look like the proverbial post-college bachelor pad, though, doesn’t it? Guess once we’re married I’ll have to do a little decorating. Get some lampshades, towels that match, that kind of thing.”

  I smiled. “By the time the wedding is over and the presents are opened, I’ve got a feeling you’ll have enough matching towels to open a linen store.”

  “Yeah,” Garrett chuckled, but his eyes were flat. “Once we’re married. Feels funny to say that.”

  “I bet. You nervous?”

  Garrett took in a deep breath and let it out. “Mom, today, when Liza started to cry? I…I just…I didn’t know what to do. Or say. She was so upset, and I couldn’t think of one thing to say that would make her feel better. I felt like an idiot.”

  He rested his elbows on his legs, clutched his hands together, intertwining his fingers, and dropped his head down, looking at the floor—the exact same position that his father always sat in when something was bothering him and he was having trouble putting it into words.

  “And then, all of you were there, hugging her and patting her, and I felt even more like an idiot. I mean, why didn’t I do that? Why didn’t I go over and hug her and tell her it was going to be all right?”

  Hands still clutched together, Garrett lifted his head and looked me in the eye. “Do you think I’m going to be a good husband?”

  My heart melted inside me. Garret was a man, and a good man, but at that moment, he was my little boy again.

  “You will. The fact that you’re even willing to ask that question tells me you will. Maybe not from the very first moment and probably not during every single day of your marriage, but you’ll get the hang of it. You know what I mean?”

  He nodded, but his questioning expression made me realize that he really didn’t know, but he wanted to.

  “The thing is, Garrett, love is more than a feeling. It’s something you do. Every day. Love, love that lasts, is…” I rolled my eyes heavenward as if the explanation that I was searching for, an outline of the concept that had taken me almost fifty years to understand and, even then, incompletely, might be plastered up on the ceiling, a clear, simple definition of love, complete with appropriate diagrams and pronunciations. No such luck.

  “Oh, Garrett.” I sighed. “Love is just really weird.”

  Garrett raised his eyebrows skeptically. “That’s it? That’s the great insight about love you want to pass on to your only child as he prepares to marry? Gotta tell you, Mom, I was hoping for a little more.”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t too helpful, was it? Let me see if I can’t do better. What I’m trying to say, honey, is that love is just completely contrary to our natural human inclinations.”

  He tipped his head to one side and frowned, skepticism lining his brow. “What do you mean? Falling in love with Liza was the most natural inclination I’ve ever had in my life. The second I met her, in your hospital room after your mastectomy”—he chuckled softly at the memory—“not exactly the most romantic place in the world.”

  “No, I’d say not.”

  “But the second I met her,” he said earnestly, “that was it! I was signed, sealed, delivered, and cooked to a golden brown—done! From that moment on, there was no other girl in the world for me. Nothing could have been more natural than that, Mom. I couldn’t have stopped myself from falling in love with Liza if I’d tried.”

  It was true. I’d seen it. Even through my own emotional turmoil and the haze of postoperative drugs that made my brain function at around fifty percent, I’d seen the spark that passed between Garrett and Liza.

  “Yes, but that’s falling in love, Gar. Staying in love, creating a love that lasts, is the tough part—the part that runs counter to our humanity.”

  Garrett still looked co
nfused. I tried another tack.

  “Why do you love Liza? I know she’s beautiful and talented and bright and funny, but so are a lot of girls. Why Liza in particular?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, formulating his answer, “I guess it’s the way I feel when I’m around her. She makes me happy, makes me laugh. I feel like she understands me, you know? And accepts me. She doesn’t think it’s weird that I go to a Magic tournament every year with my old college buddies and a bunch of other computer geeks, or that a guy my age has a ratty Grateful Dead poster on his wall and a collection of original cartoon cells from the Roger Rabbit movie hung in his bedroom. Including a particularly sexy one of Jessica Rabbit, the only woman who has ever rivaled Liza in my affection.”

  Garrett grinned at this and I couldn’t help but do the same. My son. He really was a nerd. A handsome one, but a nerd just the same.

  When he was a little boy, I’d taken him to see Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and he had loved that movie, absolutely loved it. Made me take him to see it over and over again, collected all the movie merchandise, that kind of thing. I thought it would wear off in time, the way childhood fads do, but it never did.

  When he was out of college, he started working for Claremont Solutions and making money. What was his first major purchase? A new car? A plasma screen TV? A cool new computer game system? No. He bought a production cell from the Roger Rabbit movie. Later he bought another and another, a whole collection of them, now hanging in his bedroom. Besides his posters, these were the only pieces of art he owned.

  “And not only does she not mind,” he went on, “she’s all for leaving them up after she moves in. I said that maybe we should move them to someplace less prominent, the bathroom or something. But she said no because she knows how much I like them. So that’s another thing I love about her. She cares about me, wants the things that I want, wants me to be happy.

  “And I want her to put her artwork up in the living room, not just because it’s beautiful but because I know how important that is to her. Because I want her to be happy too.”