A Thread of Truth. Marie Bostwick
a cup filled with 2003 Pinot Gris. Abigail took the cup but didn’t lift it to her lips. She was still upset.
“I don’t understand. Before Liza came into my life, I was capable, erudite, respected. Even occasionally brilliant. Everyone liked me and I liked myself. But as far as Liza’s concerned, no matter how good my intentions are, I’m completely inept. How did that happen?”
“You had a baby,” I said matter-of-factly. “Not literally, I know, but for all intents and purposes, you’re Liza’s mother now. Liza still has one foot in adolescence and, trust me, no matter what you do or don’t do, an adolescent will find some way of making you feel stupid. It’s a stage. She’ll outgrow it, but it can take a while.”
Abigail finally took a sip of her wine. Actually, it was more like a gulp, as if she’d just realized that she really wanted a drink.
“Well, she makes me feel just awful. Why is that?”
“That,” I said as I handed Abigail a plate of cheese and grapes to go with her wine, “is maternal guilt. Unfortunately, it’s a stage you’ll never outgrow.”
Abigail groaned.
“Sorry. But I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t tell you the truth.
“Abigail, tell me something. It really is incredibly generous of you to donate your home to the Stanton Center, but Liza does have a point. Do you think all your wealthy neighbors on Proctor Street, all those bank presidents and real estate moguls and movie producers, are really going to be excited about the idea of having a bunch of formerly homeless families living on their street?”
“Well, why not?” she said, sitting up straighter in her chair. “I’ll be living there, too.”
Margot pulled her chair closer in and pulled a grape off the vine. “But I thought you said you were moving out of the house.”
“I am,” Abigail confirmed, “but that doesn’t mean I’m moving away from Proctor Street. It’s been my home for forty years.”
“How are you going to manage that? There aren’t any other houses on Proctor for sale. There never are. People always pass those houses down through their families.”
Abigail nodded and swallowed her wine before answering. “That’s right, just like the Wynnes did. My late husband, Woolley, was born there, as were his father and his father before him all the way back to the 1830s. Since Woolley and I never had children, I always planned on having the house sold and the proceeds donated to charity after my death. Nothing has changed. I’m just donating the house a little sooner than I’d planned on, that’s all. I’m going to simplify my life.”
“But that still doesn’t explain where you’re planning on living,” Margot said.
“Right where I always have. Well, nearly. That’s why I’m going before the zoning board. The first step is to subdivide the property. I’ll donate the main house and the larger parcel of land to the Stanton Center, keep the smaller parcel, and move into the carriage house next door. It’s smaller, but there are three good-sized bedrooms, a nice kitchen and dining room, a large living room, and lovely gardens. There’s no office, but that’s all right. I was considering adding on a solarium. And a walk-in closet. I won’t have a pool anymore, but I suppose I could always have one put in,” she mused. “The ground is fairly flat. It wouldn’t be that hard to do.”
I bit my lower lip, trying to keep from laughing at the manner in which Abigail Burgess Wynne, the sixth wealthiest woman in the state, went about ‘simplifying’ her life.
“Abigail, isn’t a carriage house a fancy word for a garage?”
Abigail pursed her lips and shifted in her chair. She knew where I was going with this. “In the old days, it was where people parked their carriages, so, yes, technically you could call it a garage, but ours was converted to a guesthouse years ago.”
I grinned. “So you’re moving into the garage?”
Abigail took another sip of wine, peered at me over the rim of her cup and said stonily, “I suppose you could say that.”
“And your garage is what? Two thousand square feet?” I guessed.
“Actually,” she said imperiously, “it’s closer to three.”
For some reason, this struck me as hilarious.
“You could fit three of my little cottages in there, Abigail! Can you imagine? My house could fit in your garage three times over. In your garage!”
Abigail frowned, not at all pleased to be the butt of the joke, which only made me laugh harder. Margot joined in, her musical giggle rippling through the air.
“Abigail,” she asked sweetly, “would you like to adopt me?”
“Absolutely not!” she growled. “I’m having enough trouble with the adopted child I already have, thank you very much!”
For some reason, fatigue and relief at the end of a long day, or the effects of the wine, or both, this comment sent us into fresh waves of hilarity. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and Margot laughed so hard she laid her head down on the table.
“Oh! You two are ridiculous! Fine. Go ahead and enjoy yourselves. Liza mocks me constantly. Why shouldn’t everyone else?”
I gasped, trying to catch my breath and wiping the tears from my eyes. “I’m sorry, Abbie, but it just cracks me up that your garage is bigger than my whole house. And it’s got a solarium!”
“Not yet.” Margot giggled. “But it will. And a pool. And walk-in closets. Wait! What about a garage?” She feigned a serious expression before collapsing with laughter. “Abigail, don’t you need to add a garage to your garage?”
“But that’s exactly my point! Why shouldn’t I give the main house to those who really need it? The carriage house has everything I need.”
“Hey, everybody.” Garrett was standing in the doorway. “Where’s Liza?”
“Hi, sweetheart. Did you have fun babysitting?”
He shrugged. “While it lasted. We were about ten minutes into a game of Candy Land when Ivy came home. So, Franklin and I went to the movies. I figured you’d all be done by the time it was over and then I could pick up Liza and take her out for a late dinner.”
He looked around the room. “Where is she, anyway?”
“She went out to look for you.”
“Well, why did you let her do that?” he asked. “How was she supposed to know I’d gone to the movies?” Garrett was the best of sons, but clearly he’d been looking forward to seeing Liza and was irritated to find her missing in action. He looked at the three of us, sitting around an open bottle of wine, drinking and laughing while one of our number was out wandering the dark streets of New Bern, with an expression of disgust. He dug his cell phone from his back pocket, put it to his ear, and headed toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To find my girlfriend,” he answered in a tone that made it clear he felt that indeed there were such things as stupid questions and then left without saying good-bye.
Yep, I thought. Maternal guilt. It’s yours for life.
9
Ivy Peterman
Monday dawned bright and clear. The weatherman said the high temperature would be in the mid-seventies, with low humidity. The kids ate their breakfast without any complaints. And when we got into the car for the drive to the day care center, the Toyota started up without any fuss. It should have been a great start to a great day.
But I knew it wouldn’t be, not after the way things had ended on Friday night.
I was just putting on my coat and getting ready to leave for the day