Thorns of Truth (15 page)

Maybe it would all seem more worthwhile if she could somehow manage to hold her family together. She looked over at her daughter, standing by the piano with a group of her friends from Bryn Mawr, every last one dressed in what clearly was the latest fashion statement—gothic black dresses and clunky black shoes. Among them, Iris appeared to float, butterflylike, in a perfectly fitted turquoise
chong sam
with braided silk frog clasps. Watching her proudly show off the simple sapphire ring she and Drew had picked out, Rachel felt a surge of pride. Whatever her problems, Iris had a good heart.

Rachel watched her flit off to join Drew, who stepped away from his own friends to slip an arm around her waist. In his pressed black slacks and a white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, he brought to mind a fifties teen idol—dark-eyed and heavy-lidded, with his curly hair falling over his forehead, and killer smile. The two exchanged a look that shot an arrow of pure, sweet nostalgia though Rachel’s heart—it was exactly the way Brian used to look at her.

“Don’t look now, but I think we’ve been infiltrated by the enemy.”

Rachel turned to find Kay squinting up at her, dressed in what appeared to be striped silk pajamas, and holding aloft a glass of white wine. Kay jerked her frizzy gray head in the direction of the younger of Rose’s two sisters, standing alone now, and looking a bit stranded. But even in her nun’s habit, Clare hardly seemed a threat.

“Drew’s aunt,” Rachel identified. “And don’t worry, she doesn’t bite.”

Truthfully, she’d never much liked Clare, who was scared of her own shadow, and whose every conversation was sprinkled with “Mother Superior says …” and “Father Donahue thinks …” She wasn’t anything like Rose, or her scrappy older sister, Marie, who, when life knocked her down, not only got up but hit back.

Kay peered at Clare, who was nervously toying with the silver cross around her neck, her round blue eyes blinking too rapidly in her scrunchy little pillow of a face. “Have I met her before? She looks sort of familiar.”

“I doubt it,” Rachel said. “Rose and her sister aren’t very close. Clare’s at some convent up near Albany.” She nudged Kay. “Why don’t you introduce yourself? She looks as if she could use the company.”

“Good idea. If nothing else, I might learn some insider tips we can use with Sister Alice.…” Kay, nose in the air like a bloodhound on a scent, went plowing through the crowd toward Clare.

Speaking of Rose, where
was
she?

Scanning the room, she spotted Rose over by the fireplace, chatting with Brian. Her younger son, Jason, stood a few feet away, looking awkward and out of place, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his slacks. If it hadn’t been for Mandy, his redheaded half-sister, leaning over to whisper in his ear just then—something that brought a grudging smile to his lips—Jason would have been the picture of sullen dejection.

Poor Jay. Rachel knew how tough it was, losing a dad and having a mother so distracted by her own sadness that she could barely focus on her son’s.

But now Rachel took a second look at the glamorous woman across the room, her head thrown back in laughter, her dark eyes aglow. In her bright yellow dress, gold hoop earrings swaying, Rose didn’t appear the least bit mournful. Suddenly Rachel found herself regretting her own ivory linen shift; she felt plain and colorless next to Rose.

What the hell were she and Brian laughing about anyway? Some story about the old days, no doubt. They never got tired of reminiscing about when they were kids, growing up in the same building on Avenue K. Whatever, Brian hadn’t looked this relaxed or happy in months. And, God, the way he was looking at her… Rachel felt the bite of old envy newly sharpened by her husband’s recent coolness toward her.

She was distracted by the sight of Mandy reaching out, quick as a cardsharp, to snag a flute of champagne from a passing tray. Rachel winced inwardly. How much champagne had she downed already? How long before she drifted to sleep in some corner? Well, at least she wouldn’t make a scene, Rachel reassured herself—that wasn’t Mandy’s style—though it might be better if she
did.
Maybe then her family would notice what appeared to be a growing problem.

Watching Rose go off to talk to Eric Sandstrom, who’d just arrived, Rachel felt certain she’d only imagined the spark between her and Brian. At the same time, she couldn’t help feeling hurt that Rose was so clearly ignoring
her.
As if they were still the rivals for Brian’s heart they’d once been. As if, all those years ago, Rose hadn’t accepted Rachel’s offer of friendship—a friendship that had grown through the years, until now Rose was practically one of the family.

And who could forget that it had been Rose who’d brought Iris into their lives? Back then, had Rose not acted so quickly, pulling strings, forging through the wilderness of forms and procedures, where would they be now?
I owe her, damnit. And she knows it.

Suddenly eager to put an end to such thoughts, Rachel sailed over to greet Mrs. Isley—her daughter’s fourth-grade teacher from Brearley, with whom Iris had stayed in touch ever since. The poor woman had been widowed last year, too, but, unlike Rose, she, with her bony figure, wasn’t drawing looks from almost every man in the room.

Rachel was nodding in agreement to something Mrs. Isley was rambling on about—not hearing a single word—when Henri signaled that supper was ready to be served. Glancing around her, at her friends and family laughing and chatting animatedly with one another—and now helping themselves to the sumptuous buffet laid out on the dining-room table—Rachel felt oddly relieved. Maybe others besides Rose disapproved of the reason for this party, but if so they were keeping it to themselves.

Everyone feasted on the cold lobster-and-dill fettuccine, poached salmon, red pepper confit, and wild rice salad. Wine was poured. Second helpings were scooped up. Every available seat was filled, the younger guests sitting cross-legged on the floor. When they were finally finished eating, and the platters had been cleared away, Sean, the youngest of Brian’s five brothers, rose to make a toast.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day my big brother would give his only daughter away in marriage,” he began effusively, a little tipsy himself. A big, ruddy-cheeked, auburn-bearded man who resembled Brian only around the eyes, Sean added with a wink, “But may the happy couple be as blessed as Rachel and Brian—who can now take that second honeymoon they’ve been talking about since Carter was in office.”

Rachel felt her face grow warm as she glanced over at Brian. Their eyes met, and she sensed, or perhaps only imagined, a distinct distance; it sent a chill through her.

Then Sylvie was lifting her glass and, in an oddly formal voice, saying, “My darling granddaughter, and you, dear Drew … I couldn’t possibly wish you more than the happiness I’ve witnessed tonight. May you continue to be so blessed.”

Rose, across the room, seemed to grow flushed, her eyes glittering with some suppressed emotion, but it wasn’t until Rachel was heading into the kitchen to see about dessert that Rose finally approached her.

“Do you have a minute?” she asked. “We need to talk.”

Rachel shrugged, and led the way down the hall to the privacy of Brian’s study. Her chest felt tight. She was remembering another party—a long-ago summer night in London, when she and Brian were first married. By some freakish coincidence—or could it have been fate?—they had run into Rose, whom Brian hadn’t seen since before Nam. It had been awkward and embarrassing for all of them, for there was no hiding how devastated Rose had been by the news of their marriage. But not even Rachel had been prepared for the intensity of Rose’s reaction.…

In her mind’s eye, she could see it as clearly as if it had only just happened: the bloody gash on Rose’s palm where she’d squeezed her champagne glass hard enough to shatter it. And the fathomless black of her eyes, making Rachel almost glad for the task of cleaning and dressing her wound— anything to avoid looking into that heated, anguished face.

Yes, Rose had mellowed some with the years, but she was essentially unchanged—a woman capable of passion so great it could draw blood.

Shutting the study door behind them, Rachel didn’t miss the pinched whiteness around Rose’s mouth, or the color now stamped on her broad, high cheekbones. Even her springy black hair seemed to radiate indignation.

“I wasn’t going to come tonight,” Rose informed her in a low, controlled voice. “I almost backed out … but Drew insisted. It was a mistake.”

Rachel felt her chest grow even tighter. Wasn’t that just like Rose, choosing to confront her
now,
with a roomful of guests just down the hall?

“Maybe you
should
have stayed home then,” she suggested coolly.

“No doubt.” Rose’s gaze was flat and remote. But the outburst, when it came, was clearly overdue, as far as
she
was concerned. “Rachel, for God’s sake, this is crazy! Iris needs
help,
not a party with everyone standing around pretending they don’t remember what almost happened at the last one. You know this is wrong. Deep down, you
must
know.”

Rachel, taken aback, sank into the Morris chair next to Brian’s desk. Numbly, she looked about her, at the books crowding every wall, the stacks of rubber-band-bound manuscripts—various drafts of Brian’s novels—his old electric typewriter under its shroud, which he’d stopped using years ago but kept as a sort of shrine. Rose stood in front of the window, staring pensively out at the darkness. On the wall behind her hung the framed header from the cardboard display for
Stolen Thunder,
showing a silhouetted figure emerging from the heart of a raging inferno.

“What would you have suggested I do instead—have her committed?” Rachel challenged.

Rose shook her head. “I’m not saying Iris is crazy. Or even that there’s anything we can
do
.” She paused, pushing a hand through her hair. “Look, I haven’t had a chance to sit down with Brian and really hash this out. I wanted to speak with you first. Don’t you see? By throwing this party you’re giving your stamp of approval to something that is just plain wrong.” Then, backing off a bit, perhaps realizing she’d come on too strong, “Drew needs to see things more clearly … without all the fanfare,” she reasoned. “He doesn’t know what he’s getting into here.”

“And you do.” Rachel felt suddenly certain that Rose had set out purposely to wreck her evening, along with any chance Rachel might have had to shine for her husband and daughter. A slow anger seeped through her, like something hot spilled down her dress. “You have it all figured out, soup to nuts. Did it ever occur to you, Rose, that you might not have all the answers?”

Rose took a deep breath. “I’m not saying I always know what’s right. But I
do
know a disaster in the making when I see one. And you’re not helping any by hiding your head in the sand. A month ago. Iris nearly killed herself. What makes you think she won’t try it again?”

Rachel flinched as if she’d been slapped. Then she realized: this wasn’t just about Iris. Something deeper, more insidious, was at work here. In Rose’s eyes, Rachel thought she saw the sparks of an old resentment, smoldering like one of those underground fires that can burn for years, decades even. Did it have something to do with Brian? Now that she’d lost Max, had some of Rose’s feelings for her old flame returned? Certainly, she and Brian seemed chummy enough tonight.

“Are you doing this just to hurt me? Is
that
it?” Rachel confronted her. “Because, honestly, I can’t think of any other reason for reminding me how close I came to losing my daughter.”

Rose frowned. “Why would I want to hurt you?”

“I don’t know. I’m asking you.” She paused, then forced herself to say, “A little while ago, I saw you talking to Brian. Did you sound off at
him
? Or did you two just have a cozy little chat?”

“Rachel,” Rose sighed. “I’m not trying to paint you as the bad guy. And, whatever you might think, there’s nothing going on behind your back.” She made the fatal error of dropping her gaze … and that’s when Rachel knew. For Rose had the thin skin of the truly passionate: she couldn’t hide it when she was lying.

Something
is
going on behind my back. I don’t know what it is, but, damnit, I’m going to find out.

“Oh no?” she pressed. “Is that why my husband apparently spent more time tonight with
you
than with me, his own wife?” Rachel, in some deep part of her, knew she was overreacting, taking out her frustration at Brian on Rose. She and Brian had talked about their daughter’s engagement, sure, but had they
really
shared with each other everything they felt?

“Look, if you and Brian are having problems …” Rose put a hand out, letting the suggestion trail off dismissively.

Rachel felt something snap apart inside her; some thin wire that had been keeping intact her crumbling hope that her marriage would somehow sort itself out on its own.
Oh, God, does she
know?
Did Brian tell her about
us,
too?

“How dare you,” she breathed. “You waltz in here making all sorts of assumptions. Not just about my daughter … but my marriage, too.
What gives you the right?
”

Rose met her gaze without apology. And were it was again, that look—like a flash of heat lightning in the black depths of her eyes. Ancient and dark and fierce. “You don’t know the half of it,” she said in a low, tight voice, almost under her breath. Then, as if to stop herself from elaborating, she rolled her full lips back against her teeth in a thin, hard line.

Brian. She must mean Brian.
Being widowed had clearly raked up old memories for Rose. And maybe Brian was partly responsible, too, encouraging her in some way. Rachel felt the fear that had been swelling in her rise and crest like a wave. But to have spoken it aloud would only have made it more real, more scary somehow.

“This isn’t about Iris,” she said. “Or even your son. It’s about
you.
Some sick need you have to hang on to him. You lost Max … and now you feel as if you’re losing Drew. Get over it. Rose. Your husband is dead, and nothing is going to bring him back.”