Garden of Lies (65 page)

“No, no, no. It. This house.” He chuckled softly against her ear. “You care for it more than for

me, I am afraid.”

She considered this. “You know, I
do
love this house. But not the way you think. It’s what I’m

doing
that I love. It’s like being an artist in a way, isn’t it? This house is a blank canvas. Nikos,

do you know something? I always wanted to be a painter. All that time I spent as a kid wandering

around in museums. Poor Mama, she had big hopes for me, too. We couldn’t afford meat, but she

bought me sketchbooks and a watercolor set. And, oh dear, was I terrible. My horses all came out

looking like dogs.”

“One might say the same of Picasso’s.”

Sylvie swiveled to face him, tilting her chin back so that she was looking directly into his dark

eyes. “I have you to thank, Nikos. For showing me what I
am
good at. If it weren’t for you ...”

“You would have discovered it yourself in time,” he finished for her. “You are a remarkable

woman, Sylvie. You lacked only one thing ... faith in yourself.”

“Oh, Nikos ...”

He kissed her, slowly, lightly, with the gentle care of an old friend. Then his kiss deepened, a

lover’s kiss. Impatient. His strong [398] fingers catching in her hair, pulling it loose from its pins.

Sylvie felt it tumbling in a warm flood about her shoulders.

She was caught, achingly, between the desire to hold him, and the desire to run.

Nikos murmured, “Shall we christen it, my darling Sylvie, this house you love? Here? Now?”

Sylvie knew then what she wanted.

This,
she thought.

Exactly as you say. Here. Now. This particular moment, no looking back, or looking ahead.

The sun slanting just so. Your lips, your fingertips like brushstrokes against my skin. A painting.

Eternal.

Sylvie took a step back, and slowly began undressing. Blouse first. Six pearl buttons, one for

every year it had been since she’d lain with a man, felt a man’s hard flesh against hers. Now the

skirt. Oh, her fingers were shaking so! Careful not to catch the zipper in the seam. Slip next.

Panties. Thank goodness she’d always taken the trouble to buy good ones. Real silk, with lace

trim.

Last, she took off her necklace, bracelet, earrings, placing each piece on the dusty windowsill.

And, finally, her ring—an exquisite marquise diamond surrounded by sapphires, at least two

hundred years old—the ring Gerald had placed on her finger when they were married.

There. Oh lovely, the sunshine on her naked body, like a giant invisible hand cradling her in its

palm. She felt ... oh, sixteen ... a young girl on the brink of womanhood.

Fool. You’re past fifty. Wrinkled, and all skin and bones ... didn’t he say so himself? Doesn’t

he see the purple veins in your legs, the gray in your hair? How can he want you?

Sylvie stared at Nikos. He had stripped off his khaki slacks and chambray work shirt, and stood

naked in the dying sunlight. She saw that he had aged, too, the hair matting his chest, gray, the

great slabs of his muscles sliding toward their inevitable decline.
Like an old graying tiger,
she

thought. But seeing him like this only made her want him more. And, there, oh dear God, just

look
how he wanted her.

Then he was leading her toward a stack of fresh dropcloths in the corner of the room.
I’ll

remember this, always,
Sylvie thought. Each little thing. The roughness of the canvas against my

bare skin. The smell of new paint. The cooing of the pigeons outside.

[399] And this man: the light sheen of sweat on his strong brown shoulders. The good earthy

smell of him, like new-mown grass, like bread just out of the oven. And, oh, the solidness of him.

She felt him enter her, and the sweetness of the sensation was like coming home after an

interminable absence. Her eyes flooded with tears. Over Nikos’s shoulder, her blurred gaze

caught a flash of sudden brilliance. A last ray of sunlight striking the diamond of her wedding

ring on the sill, throwing off a dazzling prism, a bouquet of colors.

Please understand, my darling Gerald. It’s not that I love Nikos more than I loved you ... not

that at all
...
it’s me. I am finally beginning to know the person you loved. The woman Nikos loves

now ...

Then Sylvie cried out. “Nikos!”

His mouth pressed open against her temple, hot breath spilling through her hair, and she was

thirteen again, floating in the deep claw-footed tub that stood in her mother’s kitchen, letting the

warm water eddy deliciously along her scalp, and down, flowing into other, secret tributaries, the

tender nipples of her budding breasts, the soft tendrils of hair waving like seagrass between her

thighs.

Nikos filled them all, her secret places ... oh God, was there ever such a feeling as this?

Lovely. Sweet.

Oh Nikos ... yes ... yes ...

Then it was over, and she lay in his arms, feeling the cool air on her sweat-sticky limbs, and the

quick hot pulse of his breath gradually begin to slow.

Nikos squeezed her once, very hard, the muscles in his arms compressing, hard as bricks. And

he whispered in her ear in a husky voice, “Marry me, Sylvie.”

Sylvie felt the beautiful thing they had wrought spring apart, like pearls scattering from a

broken necklace.

Why, oh why did everything have to be so complicated?

I’m afraid,
she thought.
When there’s someone to cling to, I’ll cling. And I’ll grow weak again,

like roses unable to stand free, once trained to a trellis.

“I can’t,” she said, easing away, sitting up. The cool air rushed at her. She shivered.

He stared at her, his face puddled in shadow, black eyes pricked with stars. His mouth a

wound. “But why?”

[400] “My daughter ... ,” she began. Then let the sentence die. What had she been about to say?

That it wouldn’t be fair to Rachel?

But it wasn’t that.

Sylvie brought her hand up, stroked his cheek, sandpapery with the end of the day. And felt her

tears come, hard tears, stinging her eyes, driving a spike through her throat.

I
can’t marry him. But there is one thing I must do. I must tell him. About Rose. Too long, I’ve

kept it from him.

Thirty-two years, she’d kept this secret. And now she would have to trust him. He deserved

that much, didn’t he?

He might hate her, he probably would ... but at least he’d know ... and perhaps he could see

Rose, from a distance of course ... learn more about her ...

He would have to understand, though, how disastrous it would be to approach Rose, to risk

having her learn the truth.

But he would see that, wouldn’t he? He was intelligent, and sensitive.

“Nikos, my darling, there’s something I must tell you ... something I should have told you a

long time ago,” she began, feeling strangely out of breath. “About my daughter. Our daughter.”

Nikos sat up, his face suddenly tense, alert.

“
Our
daughter,” he breathed. “Yes, I have always known it was so. Rachel looks nothing like

me—she is fair and lovely like you, Sylvie. But in my heart, I have felt she is mine. Oh, my

dearest Sylvie, you have no idea how good it is to hear the truth.”

“Not Rachel,” she corrected him.

Nikos was staring at her as if she’d gone mad.

For one brief instant Sylvie thought she
had
gone mad. Why else would she feel this way, as if

she were shrinking, growing smaller and smaller?

“Who, then?” he asked in a ragged whisper.

“Her name is Rose.”

Then she told him. Everything. How desperate, how frightened she’d been. That grimy

hospital, the fire. The frantic decision that had turned her life into a terrible deception. The years

and years of aching and longing to hold her child, even just see her.

Finishing her tale, Sylvie felt beaten, as if she had had to live it all over again, only worse,

because now she had to face her crime mirrored in Nikos’s incredulous black eyes.

[401] Would he hate her?

Maybe better if he did. Better than more lying, deceiving.

And could he hate her any more than over the years she had hated herself?

Suddenly the room had grown cold; the rich sunlight had retreated, faded into the gray

sheetrock. She tried to stand, but her legs were trembling so badly they wouldn’t support her. Her

vision blurred, like staring through a rain-swept windshield, the room rushing at her.

And now the most incredible thing.

She felt Nikos pulling at her, pulling her against him, his great arms wrapping about her.

His chest heaving, his face wet with tears.

“Oh, Sylvie ... my poor Sylvie ...”

It’s like a miracle,
she thought, astonished and grateful.

His words seemed to lift her, and she felt the huge weight of her misery rising, a chunk of it

tearing free. He understood. He forgave her. And if he could do that, why then, perhaps she too

could begin to forgive herself a little.

Then Nikos, in a voice that seemed to rise from the bottom of the deepest well, said, “Thank

God, thank God. My child. My own daughter. We’ll find her, Sylvie. We’ll tell her together. It’s

not too late. ...”

No,
no,
he had misunderstood.

What he was saying ... it was impossible.

She had to tell him ... but she couldn’t speak. She felt unbearably fragile, as if, with the

slightest movement, she might fly apart in a thousand pieces. She wanted to shout, beat at him

with her fists. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She could only stare at Nikos in helpless,

anguished appeal.

But no, not Nikos’s fault,
hers.

God help her,
she
had given him the power to destroy her, to destroy both her daughters.

Chapter 27

The boy in the leather bomber jacket glared across the desk at Rachel.

“Aay, just who d’you think you are? You’re telling me about
my
old lady? That’s
my
kid she’s

havin’. So you can just knock off with the Marcus Welby roo-tine. I can take care of Tina just

fine.”

“Like hell you can,” Rachel snapped, then sat back in her swivel chair, startled and unnerved.

She told herself,
Stop it, you’re supposed to be in control.
Firm but helpful, and focused only

on her patient.

But for weeks now Rachel had felt as if she were on a tightrope. Tense, anxious. Jumping at

every little thing.

Well, I
am
on a tightrope,
she reminded herself.
David out to get me, blaming me for Alma,

turning everyone at St. Bart’s against me.

Yes, that was it. This kid reminded her of David, though they looked nothing alike. Something

in his callousness, his utter disregard for his girlfriend’s well-being.

Now he was straightening from his slouched position, rising in a gunslinger’s wary stance. His

black hair falling over his acne-pitted forehead in thick, greasy strands.

Rachel shot to her feet, facing him, nerves humming.

“Look,” she said, “this is no time to play macho man. Your girlfriend came to see me because

she’s in trouble. Big trouble. She could lose the baby. So I want you to be straight with me. Are

you two doing drugs?”

“No way ...” His eyes slid away from hers, and he licked his lips.

“I saw the marks on her arms. She said they were old. But they didn’t look old to me. What do

you say, Angel?”

“I
tol’
you, lady. Tina and me, we don’t do drugs.”

Rachel sidled around her desk in its cramped space between [403] the wall and filing cabinet.

She came to a stop directly in front of Angel, close enough to smell the rancid odor of cigarettes

and stale sweat that clung to him.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, staring him down, trying to force him to meet her eyes.

“Well,
fuck
you, then!” A mist of warm spittle struck her face. Angel’s features contorted in

fury. “It ain’t none of your fuckin’ business anyhow!” He advanced on her, eyes narrowing. “This

is
my
turf, lady. You come down here thinkin’ you gonna show us spies how it’s done. Well, we

don’t
need
your help.” He grinned as if something as close to profound as he would ever get had

suddenly occurred to him. A grin like a broken bottle, the teeth in front crooked and discolored.

He took another step until she could feel his breath on her, then reached up, drew one dirty

fingernail down her cheek with menacing tenderness. “Know what I think? I think you’re jealous

of all those ladies with the big bellies. Yeah. I bet you don’t have no man, or no kids neither. You

want me to knock you up the way I knocked up Tina?”

Something snapped in Rachel. She was aware only of a high, swift humming in her ears. A

film of red washing across her field of vision.

She grabbed a wire basket full of yesterday’s mail and flung it in Angel’s acne-ravaged face.

Then stepped backwards, horrified at what she’d done.

Angel froze. A letter written on thick blue stationery that had been folded in half had come to

roost on one of his shoulders. A snowfall of white carbon flimsies floated gently downward,

settling in drifts about the scuffed toes of his motorcycle boots. He wore a look of stupid surprise,