Free A Thread So Thin by Marie Bostwick Page A

of plans, and book two tickets? I can call my travel agent.”
    “That’s very generous of you, Abigail. Maybe another time. Now, what were we talking about?”
    “Liza is planning a new painting, a mural, about how attitudes toward marriage have changed in the last century. Terribly interesting theme. An issue of profound societal importance,” she said, clearly proud that Liza’s artistic expression has evolved from self-portraits in rusty bottle caps to actual paintings utilizing actual paint on subjects of profound societal importance.
    Abigail’s eyes were gleaming. I could practically see the wheels turning in her brain as she made a mental list of everyone she knew who sat on the board of major modern art museums and tried to calculate which of them owed her the most favors and might be open to the idea of hanging Liza’s mural in their gallery. Abigail has more connections than LaGuardia Airport, and she loves using them on behalf of people she cares about, especially Liza.
    “Liza’s taking a poll,” Abigail continued. “She wants to know what you think about marriage. Is it necessary or relevant to women today?”
    Liza rolled her eyes a little, pushed aside the pile of dangling shell paillettes she was sorting through—flat, buttonlike discs that she was going to use as pearly scales on the tail of a mermaid quilt she was getting ready to embellish—and got up to refill her wineglass.
    “You don’t need to make it quite so clinical sounding, Abigail. I’m not gathering data so much as impressions. I just want to know what everybody thinks about marriage. Abigail is all for it”—she smiled—“but what would you expect from a newlywed? So, I’m not sure her opinion is exactly reliable. And she completely glossed over her failed first marriage to Woolley Wynne. Now she’s twittering about the joys of matrimony.”
    “I was not twittering,” Abigail declared. “I’ve never twittered in my life. And I wasn’t glossing over my marriage to Woolley because, quite honestly, I don’t consider it a marriage, not really. Woolley and I were friends, but what we had was more like a business arrangement than a marriage. And, as a business arrangement, it was more or less successful. I never loved Woolley and he knew that. But I do love Franklin. We’re very happy. My only regret is that I didn’t marry him sooner.”
    “Like I was saying”—Liza smirked—“Abigail’s viewpoint is tainted by those rose-colored glasses she’s wearing. Ivy, on the other hand, thinks all men are untrustworthy and has vowed never to marry again.”
    “Hold on, hold on,” Ivy protested. “I didn’t exactly say that. Probably some men are trustworthy. Franklin and Charlie are good guys. Garrett and Arnie too. But my track record speaks for itself. I seem to be lacking the kind of internal radar that helps separate the good guys from the bums. Given my history, I think it’s best to leave them all alone.”
    “All right, I stand corrected. Ivy concedes the point that there may be one or two decent men in the world….”
    “Which, for me, is a big concession,” she said with a laugh.
    “And Margot,” Liza said, “agrees with Abigail that marriage is a wonderful institution.”
    “One which I will probably never experience personally.” Margot sighed.
    “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Things aren’t going well between you and Arnie?”
    Arnie is one of the associates at Franklin’s law firm. He and Margot have been dating for quite a while now.
    “Oh, no,” Margot answered. “We’re fine. Arnie takes me out to dinner every Saturday night. We’ve gotten to be such regulars at the Grill that we don’t even need a reservation. Charlie just holds a table for us. On Sundays we go to church together and then he comes over to the house. I fix breakfast. It’s all very nice. But it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Last weekend, while we were watching TV, Four Weddings and a Funeral came on.