Thorns of Truth (41 page)

On an impulse, he stopped at a phone kiosk. From memory, he quickly punched in the number for Rose’s office … only to be informed by her secretary that Rose had taken the day off. But he’d already pegged Mallory as a die-hard romantic—the kind who religiously watched
Melrose Place,
and devoured paperback romances. It didn’t take much coaxing to get her to tell him that Rose was at Sylvie’s, helping Rachel sort through their mother’s papers.

Eric punched in the number Mallory had given him for Sylvie’s house, but an automated voice informed him it was no longer in service. Damn.

He glanced at his watch. Four forty-five. Mallory had said that Rose would be at Sylvie’s until around five. It was a long shot, but if he took the subway he might still catch her. Besides, he was curious. He had yet to lay eyes on this mausoleum Rose had inherited.

Like everyone else, including Rose’s own family, it appeared, Eric had been stunned to learn of the connection between Rose and Sylvie. Yet now he saw that it made sense in a way. Not that he could ever imagine a set of circumstances in which he would abandon his own child … then force her to live in some shadowy realm of lies and half-truths. But he
did
understand the nature of concealing a powerful secret—hadn’t he managed to keep his drinking under wraps for years?—and he knew how such secrets can ultimately reveal much about their guardians. Though his initial knee-jerk reaction was one born of hurt pride—why hadn’t Rose felt she could confide in
him
?—Eric had come to see a deeper message in Rose’s silence: her commitment to a promise made had truly known no bounds.

And maybe that was the message, too, in her refusing to marry him. The same capacity for love and loyalty evidenced in her relationship with her mother had been the guiding force in Rose’s marriage … and in the tenacity with which she clung to her husband’s memory.

If only there were a way for
him
to harness that surfeit of love, Eric thought, full of anguished longing.

He had to see her, speak to her. Now.

But if she
was
at Sylvie’s house, what would he say?

He’d already said everything there was to say. The only thing left was for her to have faith—Rose had to
believe
what her heart was telling her.

And if in the end she refused him?

He’d survive. Somehow.

But surviving, he knew, better than most, was a far cry from truly living.

At the Broadway and Lafayette subway station, fueled by a surge of adrenaline more intoxicating than any high since he’d quit drinking, Eric raced down the grimy steps in hopes of catching the train he could hear rumbling in its depths.

Rose was getting ready to leave when she heard the door buzz downstairs.

Rachel? Back for something she’d forgotten? But Rachel had her own key, Rose remembered.

Wearily, she thought.
Whoever you are … please just go away.
Probably one of Sylvie’s friends or neighbors, someone well meaning who would offer to help, but now Rose would have to spend time chatting with the person—precious time when she could be home.

Rose made her way down the curving staircase, gripping the polished walnut banister for support. On the ground floor, against one wall of the tiled vestibule, stood a Biedermeier hall table, over which was hung a gilt-framed oval mirror. She caught a glimpse of her reflection, and in that instant was struck by a resemblance to Sylvie that she’d never noticed before. Something in the way she carried herself, with the determined air of a woman bearing up under a heavy load.

At the front door, she reached distractedly for the knob, not thinking to bother with the intercom. But the visitor, as it turned out, wasn’t a neighbor, or family friend, she could quickly and politely dismiss. A tall, fair-haired man stood on the stoop, his shoulders bunched in nervous anticipation, his blue eyes squinting slightly, as if the sun’s dying light was too bright.

Her heart flew up into her throat.

“Eric! What are
you
doing here?”

The stone portico under which he stood was twined on either side with clematis, now past its peak, its leaves as limp and forlorn as crepe streamers long after the party has ended. But what struck her most was the naked longing in Eric’s eyes—the longing of a man for whom the
real
party had yet to begin.

Damn,
she thought.
Damn, damn, damn.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he greeted, his voice light and teasing—disconcertingly so, in contrast to the intense emotion playing across his face. “Feel like some company?”

“Sure,” she said, deciding to play along. It was easier than any of the thousand and one things she longed to say to him. “Only I can’t even offer you a cup of coffee. The kitchen cupboards are pretty bare. Milagros comes just once a week now, to dust and vacuum.”

She stepped back to usher him inside, suddenly aware of how she must look, in her oldest Levis and an old shirt of Max’s knotted at the waist. After hours of lifting boxes and pawing through files, she was a wreck.

“You look wonderful.” he said.

Rose felt pleased, in spite of herself. “You lie like a rug,” she told him, laughing, “but thanks anyway.”

He kissed her cheek. With the brush of his lips, she felt all her hidden parts that Eric had explored so lovingly inch into the red zone. Catching the familiar scent of his hair, she tried not to breathe in too deeply, for fear of remembering too much.

“I’d settle for a quick tour, if you have the time.” Eric looked around, his lips pursing in a silent whistle of appreciation. “This is quite a place. I feel like I should be leaving my calling card on a silver tray. No offense, but it’s hard to imagine someone actually
living
here.”

“Sylvie once told me she had the same reaction the first time she walked in,” Rose confided. “But it had been in her husband’s family for years, so there was no question of their moving. Then I think it just grew on her. Amazing, what a person can get used to, isn’t it? Come on, I’ll show you around.”

She gave him the standard dollar-fifty tour of the ground floor. The rose-hued sitting room, with its plump chintz loveseats and needlepoint firescreen, where Sylvie used to serve tea on a silver tray with her best Limoges china. The walnut-paneled library that had been Gerald Rosenthal’s study. The formal dining room furnished in Chippendale, and the old-fashioned kitchen with its walk-in pantry. And, last but not least, the sunny little morning room in back, overlooking the garden, where Rose could almost see Sylvie in her favorite wicker rocker, tucked under the pale-pink mohair afghan with her cozy English novels and gardening magazines.

Reciting the provenance of various antiques and paintings, Rose was amazed, not only by how much she’d retained from Sylvie’s stories over the years, but how calm she sounded. No one would have guessed her heart was pounding, and her throat thick and dry, forcing her to stop several times in mid-sentence to take a breath.

Eric, on the other hand, said next to nothing until they’d come to a stop by the French doors that opened onto the patio. Unlike most first-time visitors, who oohed and aahed until Rose wanted to throw up, he didn’t seem overly impressed by the lavish decor. But maybe that was because, the whole time she’d been showing him around, he’d hardly taken his eyes off her.
Oh, Eric, you’re not making this easy on me,
she thought, a lump forming just south of her collarbone.

“Not bad … if you like living in the past,” he commented dryly. “Somehow, I can’t see you here.”

“Who said I was moving in?”

“You
didn’t
say. We haven’t talked much lately, if you’ll recall.” A note of regret in his voice—or was it accusation?—caused her to look away in discomfort.

He moved closer to the window to get a better look at the garden, shrouded in shadows cast by the setting sun, but in his easy movements she sensed a current that was anything but mild.

Rose tightened her grip on her emotions, which threatened to spill out like the endless papers from Sylvie’s neatly organized files. “To answer your question,” she began, “the answer is, no, I don’t plan on moving in. I don’t belong here. This house would only remind me of things I’d rather forget.” Her legs felt suddenly wobbly, and she sank down onto the ottoman on which Sylvie’s pink afghan lay folded.

Eric cocked his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “Where
do
you see yourself from now on?”

Rose didn’t need to get hit over the head to know he wasn’t referring to her address.

She was abruptly swept by a longing so fierce and primal that, before she could wrestle it to the ground, it had her by the throat. Eric, standing there, looking so
right
in this house that was somehow all wrong—what if she were to grab hold of his hand, and, like in chase movies where the hero and heroine escape their pursuers with seconds to spare, simply run off into the night? If she were to leave in the dust all her perfectly valid rationalizations and understandable caution? Oh, how magical! Rose could almost
feel
it—the real, physical thrill of hitting the open road with the top down, and the wind in her hair.

But this wasn’t a movie, she told herself. In real life, good people didn’t just run away. And Rose’s first responsibility—before her practice, or even her family—was to
herself.
She needed to keep a steady hand on the wheel, and her eye on the white line … or she would veer off the road. Because the next time, Rose felt sure, she wouldn’t survive the crash.

What guarantee did Eric have to offer that some act of God wouldn’t cast them apart? None. Oh, she’d believed him when he’d promised never to leave her. But who knew better than she the various twists and turns in life that weren’t on any map? The sudden storms that can strike without warning?

Her mother’s death had affected her deeply, on more than one level. Night after night, she awoke with a start—drenched in sweat, her heart pounding—from some vivid nightmare in which she was chasing after an ambulance, or trying to find her way through a maze of hospital corridors … needing to get to Max before it was too late. But, of course, it was already too late. Max was gone. The only thing left for her to do, the only thing she had the slightest bit of control over, was the power to remove herself from the threat of its happening again.…

Still … her heart wouldn’t let her turn away quite so easily. The urge to seize what was good and fulfilling
now
—an urge as instinctive as that of a baby’s reaching in wonderment for some bright shining thing—was so strong, Rose nearly gave in to it.

“Eric …” She swallowed hard. “It must seem as if I’ve been avoiding you, I know. Honestly? It’s not just because I’ve been so busy. The truth is … I’m a little afraid of you.”

Eric started, clearly taken aback. “Me?”

“Yes,
you
.” She forged ahead. “When I told you I couldn’t marry you, I left out the most important part: I love you. I know it must not seem that way to you. But I
do …
and that’s what scares me.” Rose looked down at the carpet, at its garland of leaves twining out from under the ottoman on which she sat.

“Rose, look at me.
Look
at me.” Eric spoke sternly, waiting until she’d dragged her gaze up to meet his. “Nothing’s changed for me. I want you. In my bed. In my life. For all the days to come. But I’m no fool. I knew what I was getting into. I’m prepared to wait, as long as you need me to. Until you’re good and ready. The one thing I
won’t
do is pretend we’re heading somewhere if there’s no chance we’ll ever get off the ground. Say you love me enough to take a shot at this. Give me that much.”

Rose could feel the lump in her throat expanding. Tears stung her eyes. “You want the truth?” she asked in a low, choked voice. “I can’t sleep nights, thinking of you. I go around wanting you all the time. Reliving over and over in my mind the things we’ve said to one another. The things we’ve done.” Using the flat of her palms, she propelled herself to her feet. “But I’m not ready to commit myself … to anyone. Not even you. And I can’t promise I ever
will
be.”

Eric strode over to grab her by the shoulders, his fingers biting into her, hurting her in a way she perversely welcomed. “Rose, I understand—it’s a huge risk, coming at a time when you must feel like another loss would wipe you out. But when did you ever let being afraid of something stop you?”

A bitter, teary laugh bubbled to the surface. “Never. But it looks like you can teach an old dog new tricks after all.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“I know. That’s the whole point. My whole life, I’ve depended on other people to make me happy. And mostly, except for Max, I’ve been let down. Now, for the very first time, it’s entirely up to
me.
Don’t you see? I
have
to find out if I can stand on my own two feet.”

He studied her hard, as if trying to understand. “I can’t imagine why that would ever be a question. It certainly isn’t how
I
see you.”

Rose shook her head, and her eye fell on an eight-by-ten photo in a sterling frame propped on the low table by the sofa. A black-and-white image of a much younger Sylvie posing with a little girl who had to be Rachel. A stray thought popped into her head:
It should have been ME on her lap in that photo.

But she couldn’t rewrite her history, any more than she could alter the fact that Eric had come along too soon after Max’s death.

“What I need right now is … time,” she told him gently. “Time to sort things out for myself.
By
myself.” She took his face in her hands, savoring for the last time the smoothness of his fine-pored jaw beneath its nearly invisible beard.

With a sudden, convulsive gesture, Eric tugged her into his arms. He held her to him, an arm about her waist, the other against her back with his hand cupping the nape of her neck—tenderly, but firmly, the way Rose had cradled each of her babies. She felt him tremble with the effort it took not to demand more of her than what she’d already given; not to show her with his body what she’d be missing if she walked away from him now. Rose, no longer caring if she cried, or what weakness it might display, tipped her head back to look up at him.