Garden of Lies (71 page)

differently?

Tears slid down her cheeks and splashed on her clenched knuckles. “There was never a time,”

she said, “when ... when it seemed ... possible to tell you. First, there was Gerald to think of. I

would not have hurt him for the world. And you ... well, you were part of the past then. I didn’t

know where you were, what had happened to you. And then when we met again ...” She took a

deep shuddery breath. “I only told you because it didn’t seem fair ... your not knowing ... even if

it
was
too late.”

“Too late?” His eyes were fixed on her, only she couldn’t see his eyes at all, just the pinpoints

of light reflected in them like distant stars. “No. I do not believe it is too late.”

Sylvie’s heart thundered in her ears. Dear God, what did he mean? What could he be
thinking?

Then Nikos said, “I have watched her. Followed her like a spy. I know where she works, where

she lives. I even pretended to run into her so I could speak to her. She is like you in some ways, I

think. Clever and proud. And such fire! But she seldom smiles. I wonder if she is happy.”

“And you think it’s me who’s caused her unhappiness? Us? Oh, Nikos, don’t you see? It would

be so much worse for her if she knew! She would hate me. I abandoned her, gave her away to

strangers. Took another child in her place.”

“But you didn’t forget her. You made sure she was taken care of. That she had money.”

“
Money
,” she spat. “How easy for me, and how cowardly, a phony bank account. As if any

amount of money could have compensated for what I did!”

A cloud slipped over the moon, and the garden full of roses suddenly was eclipsed in shadow.

How many times can a heart break? she wondered.

“I saw her once,” she told him. “When she was a little girl. I waited for her outside her school.

I wanted ... as you did ... merely to see her, know that she was well. At least that was what I told

myself. And then when I finally saw her ... well, it was that precise [438] moment when I realized

what a terrible mistake I had made. I was overwhelmed. I had to touch her, to be near her. My

own baby. The child I had carried inside me. Oh, don’t mistake me. I could never regret Rachel,

loving her, raising her as my own. And if I hadn’t made that terrible choice in the beginning I

would never have known Rachel. I wouldn’t have loved her.”

Nikos gripped her shoulders. She could feel his calloused fingertips digging into her, bruising

her through the silk of her dressing gown.

“It’s not too late, Sylvie. Rose has a right to the truth. Then to decide for herself how she

feels.”

Sylvie felt as if the room were coming apart in great jagged pieces, falling on her, cutting her.

“NO!”

She pushed him away, struggled to her feet.

“I can’t!” she cried. “Don’t you see? However wrong the choice was, I cannot turn back now. I

have Rachel to think of now, and she’s so much more mine after all these years than Rose. I love

her just as if she were my own flesh and blood. Think what it would be like for her. To learn I

had stolen her from her real family, pretended to be her mother. Oh, Nikos,
think
.”

He rose, and stood beside her. The black stars of his eyes were hot on her face, but she couldn’t

seem to pull away from his gaze.
Rose’s eyes,
she observed with a little shock. Those same eyes

—huge and sad and somehow hungry—had looked up at her that day in the schoolyard when she

had placed her earring in her startled child’s small hand.

“I meant what I said,” Nikos replied, sounding sad and far away. “I do not blame you. I think

you have punished yourself enough. We each have our choices, and who but God can truly say

what is right and what is wrong? Perhaps it is selfish of me, wanting a grown woman, a stranger,

to be the little girl I never had. But the wish is so strong. It is stronger than I am. You say you

have made this choice. I don’t know. Often we just find ourselves walking in a certain direction.

We don’t know why. And then we look up one day, and we are there.” He was silent a moment,

as if struggling for control, then his voice broke free. “I
need
her, Sylvie.” Each word rang out

like a gunshot. “You have a daughter. I have nothing. Give me Rose.
Give me back my daughter
.”

[439] She felt half-dead, some part of her surely killed, but she knew she had to answer. “And

if I refuse?” she asked in a ragged whisper.

Nikos stared at her, not moving, naked in the moonlight, his muscular arms hanging limply at

his sides. Then he said, “Then I will do what I must.”

Sylvie felt as if a crack had opened in the pit of her stomach, and a great coldness were welling

up from it, seeping through her, numbing her.

She saw everything in her mind as if looking into a shattered mirror. Her life, her daughters’

lives coming apart, crumbling into tiny sharp splinters.

Oh dear God, what had she done?

Sylvie threw her arm up over her face, as if to ward off a blow. She’d thought nothing could be

more terrible than the lie she had carried inside her all these years. But there
was
something

worse, far worse.

The truth.

Chapter 32

Rachel watched her mother set the cake down on the table. Three layers high, glazed with

black chocolate, it perched on a froth of white doilies atop Grandmother Rosenthal’s Wedgwood

cake plate with the sterling rim.

“Surprise!” Sylvie cried, beaming. “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

Rachel stared, bewildered, then felt stricken with guilt.
My God, my anniversary, and I forgot.

We
forgot. So that’s why Mama invited us to dinner tonight.

She stared at the cake, wishing it would disappear, hating Mama for reminding her how her

marriage had gone wrong, and hating Mama for her graciousness, which all Rachel’s life had

seemed to point out the gulf between the two of them.

The memory came rushing back, those awful piano lessons after school, tinkling out “Mary

Had a Little Lamb” and “Farmer in the Dell” over and over until Rachel thought she would die.

But Mama never got tired of listening, even singing along or tapping a foot. Rachel first used to

think she was just being nice and motherly, but after a while, Rachel realized Mama actually

liked
hearing her thump out those mind-numbing tunes. Her little girl was supposed to be like

herself, gentle, sweet-tempered, a lover of the finer things in life, music, art, flowers. But Rachel,

as she grew, saw herself very differently.

“Mama, you shouldn’t have. It’s ...” Rachel trailed off, defeated by her mother’s good

intentions. “You just shouldn’t have, that’s all.”

Sylvie smiled at Rachel, and lowered the porcelain-handled cake knife in her hand. “I know,

dear. I
wanted
to.” She smiled, looking more ethereal than ever, her skin pale as soap against a

scoop-necked cranberry silk blouse, her carefully arranged hair brushed with wings [441] of

silver. Graciously, she added, “You’ve been under so much pressure with this dreadful lawsuit, I

didn’t think you’d have the time or energy to make a fuss over your anniversary. But that’s what

mothers are for, isn’t it?”

Rachel felt a pang. Would she ever be a mother? Not bloody likely.

She looked over at Brian, seated in the Chippendale chair beside hers, wearing a faded shirt

and worn cords. His informality felt like a breath of fresh air in this dining room with its

symmetrically arranged sconces, dark paneling, and stiffly draped curtains. He was wearing his

hair longer these days, fanning just over the back of his collar. She noted the gray in it, but it

looked good on him, comfortable. He had grown into himself, she realized, rounded at the corners

like the covers of a well-read book, his lanky frame filled out, the angles of his face softened.

His eyes met hers, then cut away too quickly. A pain ripped through her chest.

I love you,
she wanted to say to him.
I love you so much. Can’t you see that? We don’t need

hearts and flowers and cakes. From the very beginning we weren’t ordinary.

Then Rachel suddenly felt flat, defeated.

“Just a sliver for me,” she told Sylvie. “I ate so much dinner, I don’t know if I can manage

another bite.”

Sylvie cut a generous slice, and passed it to Rachel. “You’re too thin. You
should
eat.”

Rachel smiled. “Look who’s talking. If I’m too thin, Mama, it’s only because I take after you.”

She watched Sylvie flush, her eyes take on an added sparkle. Sylvie gave a tinkly laugh.

“Well ... maybe. It’s funny, but I had lunch with Evelyn Gold the other day, and she’s put on so

much weight. She’s big as a horse! And, well, I know it wasn’t very nice of me, she’s my dearest

friend after all ... but I couldn’t help feeling just the tiniest bit smug.”

“I thought the Golds were living in Florida,” Rachel remarked.

“Why, yes. They’re just up for a week or so, visiting Mason.”

Rachel perked up. Mason! God, she hadn’t seen him in ages. Let’s see ... it had to be a couple

of years. She should call him; would do her good to see Mason again.

[442] Breaking the brief silence, Sylvie asked, “By the way, have they set a date yet?”

“Date?” Rachel felt confused, then realized Mama was talking about the trial. The last thing in

the world she wanted to think about now. But she supposed Mama had a right to know. “Not yet,”

she answered. “My lawyer says it may take a while. Snowing, she calls it. That’s what attorneys

do these days, snow each other with so much paperwork that maybe one of them gets buried in

the avalanche.”

“She? Your attorney is a woman?” Nikos leaned toward her. Rachel turned her attention

toward Nikos. He looked more somber than usual. Dressed in a dark three-piece suit, Nikos

seemed older, too. And he’d been much quieter than usual all throughout dinner, his speech

careful and measured. Could he and Mama be having problems?

Rachel hoped not. Nikos was so good for Sylvie. These past few years, Mama seemed to have

bloomed, like one of her own roses. Color in her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes. Rachel was sure

they were sleeping together. And wasn’t it wonderful that Mama had Nikos to take care of her?

Yet how silly to think of Mama that way, as some kind of virgin, someone in need of looking

after. Mama, after all, had proved she was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

“Yes, a woman,” Rachel told Nikos, adding with a laugh, “we do rise above being nurses and

secretaries now and then.”

Nikos smiled. “Yes, of course, I didn’t mean ... it’s just that your mother has told me so little

about this unfortunate situation.”

“My fault,” Rachel said. “I’ve been keeping her in the dark as much as possible.” She turned to

Sylvie. “I didn’t want to upset you any more than necessary, Mama.”

Something flashed in Sylvie’s misty green eyes, turning them hard and brilliant. Rachel drew

back, a bit startled, uncertain.

“There’s no need to keep anything from me,” Sylvie said. Her voice was soft, gracious as

always, but with a vein of steel. “I won’t fall apart. I’ve dealt with a lot worse.”

Rachel again felt ashamed. Of course. When Daddy died. Mama had been strong then, stronger

than Rachel ever thought she could be.

[443] Then Brian reached for her hand under the table and squeezed it, and Rachel felt moved

to tears. How long since he had touched her this way, spontaneously, without awkwardness?

“I’m sorry, Mama. I just ... I haven’t felt much like talking about it. To anyone, as a matter of

fact.”

“There isn’t much to tell at this point,” Brian volunteered. “The usual pretrial stuff, what they

call discovery. Rose has been taking depositions. She—”

“Rose? Her name is Rose?” Sylvie interrupted, her shoulders stiffening, her voice sharp. She

sat immobile, knife poised, flame points of reflected candlelight leaping on the silver blade.

Brian shot her an odd look. “Rose Santini,” he said.

The name seemed to echo in the now unnatural stillness of the room.

Sylvie just sat there, eyes wide, face drained of color. Why should her name mean anything to

Mama? Rachel wondered. Why on earth was she
staring
like that?

The knife slipped from Sylvie’s hand with a muffled chink, scattering black crumbs across the

snowy damask. Sylvie sat clutching her chest, swaying slightly, her face blanching.

Rachel rushed to her side, alarmed.

“Mama! What’s wrong?”

Sylvie shook her head. Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut, then opened again, as if she

were struggling for breath. Her hands tightened on the edge of the table, knuckles white.

Now Nikos was at her side.

Sylvie waved him away, her hand fluttering in midair like a wounded bird. “Nothing ...

nothing,” she whispered. “I’ll be all right. Something I ate. Just a bit light-headed at the moment.

I ... I think I’d better lie down. Will you please excuse me? No, Nikos, you stay. Rachel will help

me upstairs.”

Rachel slipped an arm about her mother, surprised, shocked even, at her thinness. Could she

truly be ill?
I’ve been so caught up in my own problems,
Rachel thought,
chances are I wouldn’t

even have noticed.