A Slender Thread Read Free Page B

of my brain.”
    â€œI don’t know what to think. This is unimaginable.”
    â€œBelieve me, it’s nothing I ever imagined.”
    Margot watched her, the strong sister, as she seemed to calm herself, taking slow, even, deep breaths. Lacey’s eyes remained fixed on the road ahead and her lips, though pressed together, trembled.
    Margot cracked her window. The sharp saltiness of the sea air assaulted her nostrils. The sky was heavy, a pewter tightness, but there was no wind and the temperature was disarmingly mild. This couldn’t be happening to her sister, her lovely older sister, who had turned fifty only last summer.
    Margot had come for Lacey’s birthday in August. Alex had had a small dinner party for Lacey, their twin daughters, and their best friends, Kate and Hugh Martin. That night they’d served steamed lobsters, corn on the cob, and champagne. Kate had brought fresh tomatoes from her garden. It had been a perfect evening and the love of family and friends had been palpable.
    Oliver had accompanied her on that trip. He was always charming to her nieces and asked them their opinions on art and music as if they were grown-ups. He enjoyed Lacey’s company too, although when he and Margot were alone he complained a bit about the busy schedule she imposed on them—set times for meals, ritual walks, trips to Portsmouth. Though Oliver, an artist, and Alex, a businessman, didn’t share many interests, they joked about their very different lives, making money using opposite sides of their brains.
    But on that visit Oliver had been a bit impatient. He was caught up in a new painting. Margot recognized the signs. He would appear to be listening to those around him, looking in the direction of a conversation, nodding periodically in agreement, cocking his head with interest, but she knew from the way his eyes grew darker, the pupils almost shrinking in size, that he was seeing something in the far reaches of his mind, an image or an idea that he couldn’t let go of. He rarely spoke about a painting in the early stages, like a protective parent not wanting to expose an infant child to germs. She knew that when he seemed to be staring into space he was actually looking at colors, shapes, and shadows. He remained polite and cooperative, but she could tell he was eager to return to New York.
    The road from Portsmouth to New Castle curved along the water, with clapboard houses clustered intermittently on either side. Those on the left looked out directly at the river and the ocean beyond, vast and gray. Lacey’s mouth was pulled into an angry line. Still, she was beautiful. She had that New England outdoorsy healthiness that makeup or a complicated hairdo would spoil. Today she wore corduroy trousers, a heavy sweater, and a scarf, more like a shawl, pulled around her shoulders. It was a textured fabric, thick and nubby, in colors of turquoise and teal, with flecks of gold, most likely something Lacey had woven herself.
    â€œHow’s Alex coping?” Margot asked.
    â€œHe acts like everything is normal. Like I said, he’s convinced he can fix it. Except now. You know how he loves riding his . . .” The tendons in Lacey’s neck seemed to tighten, her jaw tensed.
    â€œHis bike,” Margot said.
    â€œYes, his bike.” She seemed to blink back tears, but went on. “He goes out and disappears for hours. Sometimes I think he’s running away. I don’t know what he’ll do when . . .” She swallowed. “When the roads get icy and he can’t ride.”
    â€œBut there has to be something you can do,” Margot said. What was happening? Where was modern science, for God’s sake? Hell, they were curing cancer. Her sister was a good person, a wonderful mother, a loving wife. She was an amazing weaver, an artist really. “There’s got to be a cure,” she said. “I don’t know—medicine,