Garden of Lies (15 page)

way, little Rose would have something, a nest egg for later on, for college perhaps, or, God

forbid, if she should ever be sick, or hurt.

And yet even the knowledge that Rose would be taken care of could not erase the longing from

Sylvie’s heart. The terrible need to see her, touch her. And so, years later, she had done

something truly reckless; she had gone to Rose’s school.

“Rose,” Sylvie whispered. It felt good just to say it, aloud for once, a small stone lifted from

her heart.

Sylvie glanced up, her eyes falling on the portrait that hung over the fireplace. A younger

version of herself, looking serene, and yes, even regal, in a pale blue chiffon gown, her shoulders

white as Easter lilies. Her gold hair was drawn up in a French twist, her head turned to one side,

revealing the ruby in her ear. She remembered when Gerald had given her those earrings, just

after Rachel was born—exquisite old rubies in the shape of teardrops, set in antique gold, with

tiny rose diamond studs. Rubies were Rachel’s birthstone, he’d explained. And how baffled he

had been by her outburst of weeping then!

Now, her gaze fixed on that earring, Sylvie thought how skillfully the artist had captured its

deep wine glow, the way the light sparkled off it just so. And suddenly she was back on the

sidewalk outside Rose’s school. That freezing winter day, waiting for school to let out, for Rose

to appear.

The moment she’d laid eyes on her daughter, Sylvie had seen how wrong it was, the name

they’d chosen for her. Rose, after the fairest of flowers. And here she was, dark as a Gypsy, all

legs and eyes, with the cheekbones of a woman, not a little girl of nine. Looking trapped in that

lumpy coat she’d obviously outgrown, her wild dark hair squashed into braids.

But the moment those great dark eyes tilted up at her, Sylvie forgot her daughter’s dark

strangeness, and felt her heart shatter in a million pieces.

Then, against all reason, she’d wrenched the ruby from her right ear. Standing outside that

frozen schoolyard, pressing that earring into Rose’s small cupped palm, she’d felt it somehow

joined them, yet wished it could be more, dear God, a lifetime of a mother’s love.

Sylvie brought a hand to her ear, remembering. Diamonds now, [80] she never wore rubies

anymore. And the one remaining earring she had put in a place, deep and hidden, where no one

would ever find it, and where she would not have to be reminded.

She had not seen Rose, either, since that day. A few months ago, however, she had gotten up

the nerve to phone Rose’s apartment. She had pretended to be with the phone company,

conducting a survey. The woman who answered said she didn’t know anything, she was just a

neighbor checking up on Mrs. Santini, who had had a stroke recently. Then she had given Sylvie

Rose’s work number, a 212 area code. Sylvie dialed it, staying on the line only long enough to

learn it was a law firm. Rose probably worked there as a secretary. She was obviously surviving.

But was she happy?

I’ll never know. Never share her thoughts, or know what’s in her heart. I’ll never take her

hand, or feel her head against my breast. Even Rachel, love her as I do, can’t fill that hole in me.

Sylvie, overcome, sagged into the deep leather chair at her husband’s desk, and wept.

Rachel stood at the entrance to the Ballroom of the Pierre, taking in the spectacle of Mason

Gold’s twenty-first birthday party.

She watched the glitter ball rotating slowly in the middle of the ceiling, spinning and scattering

light like bright confetti over the enormous room. God, Mason’s parents must have spent a

fortune! Bouquets of yellow chrysanthemums and white freesias on each of the tables, vast tables

heaped with food, and up on a platform, a band in gold-sequined jackets, playing “Only You” for

the couples swaying together on the dance floor.

Well, thank God it’s Mason’s party, not mine,
Rachel thought.
All this ... this
flaunting
of

money ... I’d die of embarrassment.

She searched for a familiar face, but saw no one she recognized. The girls all looked pretty

much alike, wearing those short-sleeved pastel sheaths made fashionable by Jackie Kennedy,

their hair teased into seamless helmet-shaped bouffants. The boys, too, like Ken dolls with their

identical tuxedos, winter tans, and even, white smiles. She caught one of them, a broad-

shouldered boy with a blond crew cut, eyeing her speculatively, and her stomach felt as if it had

been dropkicked in a high punt.

[81]
Oh God, does it show? I couldn’t be that obvious, could I?

Her heart hammering, she clutched her velvet handbag hard against her hip, and felt the flat

saucer shape of the diaphragm inside.

She felt now as if all the guys here were looking at her. But just because she was wearing this

dress that clung to her ass and showed half her breasts didn’t mean they could tell what she was

up to. Or could they?

Rachel straightened her spine, stuck her chin out. Hell, okay, so what? Let them know that

tonight Rachel Rosenthal is ready and willing.

And out of all these monkey suits there had to be at least one nice horny one who wouldn’t

mind breaking his champagne bottle, so to speak, over her prow in honor of her maiden voyage.

Last week, she’d been so upset about Kennedy she’d realized something profound. She could

die tomorrow, and then she’d never know what sex was like. Maybe the whole thing was just fear

—of taking that one, irrevocable last step. But once that was over and she had done It, she could

loosen up and enjoy herself.

And that had propelled her through the ordeal of the gynecologist, pretending to Dr. Saperstein

that she was getting engaged so he would fit her for a diaphragm. Then squatting in the bathroom

at home, getting that disgusting jelly all over everything, practicing insertion until she felt raw.

All of it about as romantic as tightening a lug nut on her bicycle, and so unpleasant. She felt

such a failure. And she hadn’t even begun!

And now, standing here, in this clingy blue velvet Oleg Cassini sheath, her long hair gleaming,

wearing makeup for the first time in ages, Rachel felt more unsure of herself than ever. And the

whole idea all of a sudden seemed pointless. Getting laid almost surely would confirm what she

already knew herself. That she really
was
frigid.

A deep voice startled her.

“ ‘Of all the gin joints in all the world, you had to walk into mine.’ ”

She whirled about, instinctively clapping her hands to her mouth, laughing through her fingers

as she’d done years ago.

“Mason! God, I wouldn’t have recognized you. You still do a lousy Bogie, though.” She stared

up at a tall stranger with dark, [82] curly hair, looking in his tuxedo like so many of the preppies

here except for one quirky touch—a gold lamé bow tie.

He shrugged. “Some things never change. Hey, you look pretty unrecognizable yourself.

What’s it been ... five, six years?”

“Yeah, something like that. How’ve you been?”

“Okay.” He cut his eyes away, looking suddenly awkward, making her wish more than ever

that she hadn’t come. Then his grin was dazzling her again. “Well, what do you think? Great

party, huh? The old man still hasn’t lost his touch.”

But all Rachel could see now was the press of bodies. “You must know a lot of people.”

He shrugged. “I get around on campus. Lacrosse.
The Yale Daily News.
Anyway, New Haven’s

not such a small town, and you know how frat rats multiply when they hear the word ‘party.’ ”

“I’m surprised you remembered to invite me,” she said. “We kind of went our separate ways.”

“Tell you the truth, if you won’t get offended, it was Mom’s idea. I kind of doubted you’d

know anybody. Plus, I guess I still had this picture in my mind of this skinny kid with a mouthful

of braces whose idea of a good time was arm wrestling.”

“Mosquito Bites, you used to call me,” she said and laughed.

At that, Mason’s gaze dropped to her exposed cleavage. A red flush crept up the sides of his

neck, and he quickly looked up again.

Rachel felt embarrassed for both of them. She had not meant that as a come-on. Mason, after

all, was ... well, almost a cousin.

A cute cousin, she had to admit. He
had
changed. From a pimply teenager with legs like

bicycle spokes to this sophisticated 1963 model standing before her. Assured, but not
too
assured.

Good-looking, if you liked the tall, dark, and Jewish type, which she did.

“And I’m not offended you didn’t want to invite me,” Rachel quickly said, laughing. “It was

my
mother who talked me into coming.”

“I’m glad she did. And I’m glad you listened.” Mason sounded sincere.

The awkwardness dissolved. Mason slipped his arm easily about her shoulders. “Come on, I’ll

get you something to drink, and you can say hello to my folks. Then I want you to meet some of

my friends.”

“I saw your father near the coat room when I came in. He told [83] me Birds Eye had a recall

on some frozen spinach that got sprayed with the wrong chemical. Gold Star stock went up two

points in one day. He looked like he’d just won the heavyweight championship against Cassius

Clay.”

“Good old Dad,” Mason said and laughed, “King of frozen vegetables since the Flood. Wants

me to come into the business the minute I graduate.”

“You could do worse.”

“Have you ever contemplated suicide by diving into a vat of creamed peas and onions? I did,

every summer I worked for my old man. He put me on the assembly line. Wanted to give me a

taste of what it was like to work your way up from the bottom. Can you imagine what it’s like

coming home every day smelling like the Jolly Green Giant?”

Rachel laughed. Being with Mason made her feel seven again, riding tandem on Mason’s

Flexi-Flyer, screeching down one of his Scarsdale hills.

Mason steered her over to a group sitting at one of the tables. Several of the boys looked her up

and down, and she felt herself stiffening, flooding with panic as she remembered what she was

supposed to be doing.

“Hi,” she said, nodding as she was introduced, not succeeding in remembering any of their

names. Aware only of the sweat beginning to prickle under her arms despite two heavy coats of

Secret roll-on. In her mind, Howard Cosell was at his microphone again.

We’re getting ready for the kickoff, folks. The team is in a huddle now. This is the Big One.

We’re gonna have to see some great plays out on the old green tonight before they carry home

that trophy. ...

Rachel felt a wild giggle rising in her throat. Aghast, she struggled to swallow it. Dear God, not

now.

They were talking about the assassination, the grisly game the whole country was playing:

Where Were You When You Heard?

“I was in the middle of an exam,” a red-haired boy said. “The prof steps out into the hall,

comes back in and announces it. A real Mount Rushmore type, never comes unglued about

anything. Next thing you know, he’s got his head down on the lectern and is bawling like a baby.

It was unreal, I couldn’t believe it was happening.” Tears shone in his eyes as he spoke.

A dark-haired girl in a low-cut white dress bowed her head as [84] if in prayer, then said in a

hushed voice, “I was in a cab. I heard it on the radio. At first I thought, no, it’s got to be some

kind of put-on, like that phony invasion from Mars my mom told me about. But I could see the

cabbie’s face in the rearview mirror. He turned green, like he was going to throw up. Then he

started moaning, and I told him to let me out. I was afraid we’d get into an accident. ...”

“I was in the shower, and I heard one my of roommates scream. ...”

Rachel stopped listening. She should not have come. This whole party was wrong. And her

own plan seemed petty, selfish, at a sad time like this. Tears filled her eyes, she mumbled some

excuse, and rose.

She was almost to the door when she felt a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. Mason.

“Hey, wait a minute, where are you going?”

“I ... I don’t feel very well. I think I’d better go home.”

“Before we have even one dance? Hey, you might ruin my wish before I’ve even had a chance

to blow out the candles on my cake.”

They were playing that old Presley hit, “Love Me Tender.”

Mason dropped his eyelids and curled his upper lip like Elvis, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

Then suddenly there she was, moving onto the dance floor with him, submerged in rippling

golden light.

He held her lightly, not clutching her as most boys did. She relaxed, enjoying the spangled

light playing over his face, and felt herself moving effortlessly to the music.

Suddenly she found herself visualizing the diaphragm in her purse.

She’d seen Mason’s penis once, when she was seven and he was eight. They’d been changing

into their swimsuits out in the Golds’ poolside cabana, and she’d asked him if she could touch it,

just to see what it felt like. And he’d hesitatingly let her. Just a jab with her finger, a quick

sensation of rubbery softness, and then both of them staring down fascinated as it grew, that tiny