A Thread So Thin

by Marie Bostwick

  With his brows still drawn together, he slowly nodded, agreeing with me, wanting it to be true as much as I did. We were quiet for a moment, each thinking our private thoughts. What Garrett’s were I didn’t know, but mine, as they had been for much of the week, were all about Professor Williams’s job offer in Chicago.

  Should I accept? I didn’t know. It was the chance of a lifetime. Professor Williams said it was, and in my heart I knew she was right—but did that mean it was right for me? I’d never been to Chicago, not even to change planes. Truth was, I’d never been much of anywhere outside of New England. Mom and I went to Florida once and Philadelphia another time, but that was pretty much the extent of our travels. Of course, I’d been away to school in Rhode Island. That had been a complete disaster.

  I didn’t have any friends at school there. Not surprising. My mother’s death had been so recent that the pain of it nearly paralyzed me. I held myself together, but only just. Without realizing it, I kept crying out in my sleep, apparently pretty loudly. By Halloween my roommate asked to be moved. I roomed alone for the rest of the year.

  Once, I heard a girl in the library who was on her cell phone, loudly arguing with her mom about something stupid. I don’t remember exactly what it was about now, but she was just going off on her mom. I walked up, grabbed the phone out of her hand, hit the End button, and told her to shut up because people were trying to study. The girl yelled at me and I yelled back and we both got tossed out of the library. I was so mad!

  At the time, I really believed I was angry because she was being loud, but now I realize it was all about my mom. I was mad at everyone whose mother was still living, which amounted to basically everyone.

  By the middle of the third semester I was on the verge of flunking out, so I decided to drop out of school and beat the administration to the punch. I was miserable, anyway. After that experience, the idea of going off to some strange place made me very nervous. And, especially after this weekend, after getting to go to New Bern and spend a little time (thanks to Abigail, only a very little) with family and friends in the only place I think of as home, the thought of accepting a job halfway across the country is scary.

  Of course, I’ll only go if Garrett wants to go too. But what if he doesn’t? What if I talk to him about it and he says he won’t go? Will I resent him forever? Or what if I talk to him about it and he says he will go and we do, but then it turns out like Kerry’s sister and her husband, and Garrett ends up resenting me forever? What then?

  This job offer in Chicago is the chance of a lifetime. At least, I think it is. That’s what everybody says. But Garrett’s the chance of a lifetime, too, isn’t he? You don’t get two chances of a lifetime in one lifetime, so what do I do? How do I choose? And what if I choose wrong?

  I can’t decide—about anything.

  Last night, Abigail handed me the room service menu, the kind you hang on the doorknob of your hotel room at night so they know what you want for breakfast the next morning, and I just couldn’t make up my mind. Should I have pancakes? Or oatmeal? Or the fruit plate? I don’t like poached eggs but, finally, I just put another checkmark next to what Abigail had ordered.

  It’s never been easy for me to talk about my feelings. I know I should talk to Garrett about Chicago. I have to. This is the first moment we’ve had alone in weeks. Maybe now would be a good time. The way things have been going, maybe it will be our only time. Maybe. But maybe not. Professor Williams said she didn’t have to have an answer for a while yet. Would it be better to wait until we’re somewhere more private than a noisy coffee bar? Some time when we’d have more time? I’m not sure. And I want to be sure. I want to get this right. I want to get everything right.

  Four months ago I was just a student. I went to class. I painted. I went out with my friends. On weekends I either went home to New Bern or I didn’t. That was it. There was plenty of room in my life for screwups. Now, practically overnight, everything is for keeps. Every choice I make matters, every door I walk through means there are ten other doors I walk past, doors that may stay closed to me for life. How can I know which is the right one?

  I should talk to Garrett about all this; I know I should. But I can’t. Not today.

  After taking a long drink from his coffee cup, Garrett said, “So where do you want to go for our honeymoon?”

  “Abigail says we should go to Bermuda. She’s booking a suite for us at a hotel on Elbow Beach. She says it’s the perfect honeymoon spot.”

  Garrett put down his drink with a soft thump and pushed back from the table. His smile was gone.

  “Then Abigail should go there—on her honeymoon. I’m only interested in our honeymoon, yours and mine, which I will be booking, by the way. The groom pays for the honeymoon, Liza, and I’m paying for ours. So where do you want to go? Not Abigail. You.”

  “I…I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

  Garrett’s shoulders drooped. He tucked his chin closer to his chest and just looked at me, not saying a word.

  “What?” I said. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Why don’t you decide?”

  “Because this is my gift to you and I want this to be special,” he said, trying to keep the exasperated edge from his voice. “Look, I want the first days of our married life to be exactly what you want them to be. I don’t care if we go to the Caribbean, or on a cruise, or camping. Anywhere you are is fine with me. That’s where I’m happy.”

  “Well, I feel the same way, so why do I have to be the one to decide? Why not you? If you’ll be happy anyplace, then why not Bermuda? Why not let Abigail decide? If she says Bermuda will be perfect, then I’m sure it will be.”

  “Because it seems to me that Abigail has been pushing you around plenty these days,” he grumbled, shifting in his chair. “I guess, since she’s paying for the wedding, there isn’t a whole lot we can do about it. But the second we leave the reception, we’re in the driver’s seat—you and me. After all this time, I’d think you’d be happy to get out from under her thumb, have things your own way.”

  “I am,” I lied.

  Initially, Abigail’s bulldozer approach to wedding planning had gotten on my nerves. Now I was happy that she was in charge and that all I had to do for this wedding was show up. It was too much for me to deal with.

  “Let me think about it, okay?”

  “Okay. Anywhere you want.” Garrett’s mouth bowed into his customary smile. “Anywhere but Bermuda.”

  I smiled back at him. He was so sweet. There wasn’t much in my life that I was sure of right now, except that I loved Garrett. No matter how bad things were, I felt better when Garrett was around.

  I pushed away the plastic cup with my barely touched drink and wiped my lips with my napkin. “I’ve got to go.”

  Garrett’s smile disappeared. “Already?”

  “Yeah,” I said, taking my purse off the back of my chair and putting it on my shoulder. “I’ve got a fitting. Well, not a fitting, really. They finished the alterations to the dress a month ago. This is for accessories. Abigail and Byron want to see what shoes, veil, and jewelry look best with the dress.”

  “What about that necklace? The one you made, the one you wore on New Year’s Eve? You looked beautiful that night.”

  He was talking about the night I’d refused him, or rather, the night I’d pushed him off, telling him I needed time to think. It hadn’t been a good night for him, but he didn’t remember that now. He only remembered the good things. Maybe, someday, I’d be more like him.

  “I think Abigail is talking diamonds.”

  “Who cares what Abigail is talking? She’s not going to be waiting for you at the end of the aisle, I will. And I like the necklace you made. It’s beautiful, just like you, and there’s only one in the whole world, also just like you.”

  I laughed. “You just want me to wear it because Abigail doesn’t.”

  His eyes became serious. “No, I don’t. I want you to wear it because, in this whole insane circus perf
ormance that has become our wedding day, I’d like there to be one thing, just one, that is about you and me. Something that reflects our history, our love, and the things that matter to us. At least think about it, okay?”

  “Okay.” I got up and kissed him on the top of his head. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Don’t.”

  I smiled. “I have to. But I’ll see you tonight. It’ll just be a little while.”

  He sighed and got up from the table. “Come here.” He put his arms around me, pulled me close, bent his head down, and kissed me like there was no time, no appointments, nowhere else we had to be, no people in a crowded coffee bar watching, wishing they were us.

  When he finally lifted his lips from mine it was all I could do not to pull him to me again.

  “Do you have any idea how much I want to get you alone?” he breathed.

  I dropped my head forward, resting it against his chest, blushing, not with embarrassment but from the heat of my own desire.

  “Me too.”

  “Honeymoon,” he reminded me. “Think about where you want to go. Don’t forget.”

  I nodded. I wouldn’t forget. I couldn’t.

  He bent down toward me, ready to kiss me again, but I turned my head and offered him a cheek, knowing that if I let him kiss me again I wouldn’t be able to leave.

  “I have to go.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you more.”

  His eyes followed me to the door. I turned to get one more look at him before I walked out onto the busy Manhattan sidewalk and disappeared into the throng of people hurrying on their way to work and appointments and a million mundane meetings, the tyrannically urgent nothings that drive us through our days but pale in the light of love.

  27

  Liza Burgess

  Abigail’s arms were crossed over her chest. She scowled as I walked into the thickly carpeted waiting area of Best Laid Planners.

  “You’re late. You’ve kept everyone waiting.”

  Nice to see you, too.

  “Sorry,” I said, which wasn’t true. I was late because I preferred Garrett’s company and kisses to Abigail’s orders and harangues. But I didn’t say that. Easier to go with the flow than start an argument.

  A few months ago, starting arguments with Abigail, striking a match against the grit of her easily ignited temper, had been one of my favorite pastimes. It was entertaining and oh so easy to do. One quick jab, one sharp, well-placed bit of sarcasm touched to the fuse of Abigail’s ire, was all it took to set off a satisfyingly showy but ultimately harmless shower of sparks. But now, those formerly inert sparks had the power to sting, and I avoided them whenever possible.

  Abigail started to say something just as Byron entered the waiting room carrying my dress. He chirped a cheery good morning before giving each of us a quick air kiss and asking us to follow him back to the dressing area. Abigail scurried after him and I followed, not having time to take off my coat.

  “Sorry I’m late, Byron.”

  “No worries, Liza. It gave us a little time to steam the dress again.”

  We turned a corner and entered a large, brightly lit room furnished with a series of white upholstered slipper chairs sitting around a beveled glass coffee table set with an ornate sterling silver coffee service. At one end of the room and half circled by mirrors stood a small platform, the spot where the bride-to-be stood clad in her elaborate white gown, turning slowly like a plastic ballerina on a little girl’s music box, while the audience sat apart, drinking tea and deciding if she would do.

  “Abigail, why don’t you have a seat? Or help yourself to some coffee. It’s a new Ethiopian organic that you’re going to love. Liza, darling, follow me.

  “Here we go,” Byron said as he hung the dress up on a hook in a curtained changing area. “I’ve got to go and check on your accessories, see if everything came in. Shall I send back one of the girls to help zip you up?”

  “That’s okay. I can do it myself.”

  Eight minutes later, after much stalling in the changing room, I nervously pushed aside the curtain and emerged.

  Abigail looked up and stared at me as I came into the room, her coffee cup frozen midway between the saucer and her lips.

  Hearing the rustling of my skirts, Byron, who was standing at a side table arranging a collection of white slippers, pumps, and sandals, turned.

  “Liza? What?” His jaw dropped onto his chest and for a moment, he just stood there, speechless and disbelieving.

  “What…what happened? The seamstress just altered that dress. Last month it fit perfectly and now…It’s just hanging on you!”

  Byron rolled his head back dramatically and let out a loud, frustrated, must-I-do-everything-myself sort of sigh, stomped toward a half-open door and called out, “Someone get Olga on the phone. Now! She must have sent over another customer’s gown by mistake. This one can’t belong to Liza. The poor girl is drowning in it!”

  Leslie came scurrying in, looked at me in the dress, and gasped. “Oh my! I’ll call Olga and see what happened.”

  “I don’t care what happened,” Byron said with an uncharacteristically impatient edge to his voice. “Just tell her to get the right dress over here. Now.”

  “Right away.” Leslie left the room and went back to her office to make the call.

  Byron turned back to me. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how this happened. What are the chances of the seamstress having two clients with the exact same dress? Especially a gown from such an exclusive designer? Velma Wong only made six of those dresses.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so,” Abigail said impatiently, finding her voice again. “I don’t want to open my copy of Society Bride the week after the wedding only to see a picture of Liza and another girl, both in the same dress!”

  “No, no.” Byron rushed to assure her. “That’s not going to happen. I promise you. We’ll get this straightened out and have Liza’s gown sent over immediately. Don’t worry. In the meantime, we can start trying on shoes and jewelry. We’ll have it narrowed down by the time your dress arrives. All right? Or we can put off choosing accessories until this afternoon and start working on the trousseau now. The racks are all ready to go. If you’d like, I can have them brought in. I’m so sorry about all this.”

  I swallowed hard, reluctant to speak. “Byron, wait a minute. I…I don’t think there was a mistake. I’m pretty sure this is my dress.”

  He yelped out a half-laugh. “No, it’s not. It couldn’t be, darling. It’s enormous on you!”

  “I know. I…but I’ve lost weight.”

  Abigail put her coffee cup down on the glass table and stood up. “No, Liza. Byron’s right. This can’t be your dress. There’s been some kind of mix-up.

  “She has lost weight,” Abigail confirmed to Byron, “but it can’t have been that much, surely no more than a couple of pounds. Otherwise, I’d have noticed, wouldn’t I?”

  She was right to sound incredulous. Frankly, spending almost a week together in the same suite, I’d been amazed that she hadn’t said anything about my weight, or about the sound of my retching in the bathroom. But it was a big suite and Abigail’s bathroom was far from mine. Plus, she’d been pretty wrapped up in the wedding. Too wrapped up to actually notice me, inconsequential as I was, among the distracting collage of floral arrangements, to-do lists, and white tulle.

  Byron had a sharper eye. If I hadn’t been wearing my thick winter coat to ward off the cold of an unseasonably chilly April morning, I bet he’d have noticed right off.

  “I’m actually down quite a bit. Seventeen pounds,” I said, but then quickly added, “but that’s total. It’s only another twelve since the last fitting.”

  This didn’t sound as bad in my mind, but when I looked in the mirror I could see that the numbers didn’t make any difference. Twelve pounds or twenty, the bottom line was that my beautiful dress didn’t fit anymore.

  Byron put his hand on my arm. “Liza, what’s going on? You don�
��t need to diet, darling. You’re a beautiful girl, and the gown looked lovely on you as it was. You were already a size six to begin with. What made you think you needed to be thinner?”

  “I don’t. I didn’t. I…I wasn’t dieting. I just can’t eat, that’s all. Nerves, I guess. Nothing to worry about. All brides get pre-wedding jitters. You said so yourself.”

  “Seventeen pounds is more than a case of jitters, Liza. Just look at yourself.”

  He took me by the hand and led me to the mirror-encircled platform. He was right. The dress was drowning me. It was as if my nightmare, the one where I kept shrinking to the point where the gown swallowed me completely, was coming true.

  Abigail came up and stood behind me, peering over my right shoulder into the mirror, flattening her mouth into an appraising line. “Can it be altered? Or would we be better off to order a whole new dress in a smaller size?”

  Byron raised his eyebrows curiously, as if he didn’t quite grasp her meaning. “Well, yes, we can alter it, but don’t you think we ought to take Liza to a doctor? Just to see if there is a physical or”—the word “psychological” hung in the air, but Byron didn’t say it aloud—“some other sort of problem. A seventeen-pound weight loss on a girl as slender as Liza is worrisome.”

  Abigail nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Liza, I’ll call the doctor and make an appointment for you next time you’re in New Bern. You need to see a gynecologist before the wedding, anyway.”

  I blushed, wishing she wouldn’t feel quite so free to talk about the intimate details of my personal life in front of Byron, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “That way we’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone.” Abigail smiled, the matter now settled in her mind.

  “But,” Byron said cautiously, “don’t you think she ought to see someone right away?”

  Abigail waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m sure everything is all right. Liza’s schedule this spring was just insane. She barely had time to eat, that’s all. I’ll keep a better eye on her from here on out, make sure she eats properly. I’m sure she’ll be able to gain back at least a few extra pounds before the wedding.