Garden of Lies (27 page)

And then she knew it was too late.

They had gone beyond the point of turning back.

At the first cold bite of the speculum, Rachel jammed her fist in her mouth to keep from

screaming.

Chapter 6

Manon was taking forever to die.

Sylvie shifted in her seat, vaguely annoyed at the lamenting duet, the conductor waving his

baton like a madman. She wished the curtain would fall. Strange. Normally she loved being here,

at the Metropolitan. Seated beside Gerald in their parterre center box, a stone’s throw above the

elegant crowd in the orchestra seats, and directly facing the stage, the best view in the house. Like

a king and queen presiding over their court, which in a way they were. Heavens, how many

functions and meetings had they attended, dinners, parties she herself had given, starting way

back when it was still on Broadway and Thirty-eighth. And every one of those years Gerald’s

bank a Grand Leadership contributor.

But tonight she felt restless. Des Grieux, sung by an Italian tenor she’d never heard of, looked

like a trussed turkey in his nineteenth-century finery, and worse, sounded as if he had a cold. And

the diva, who was supposed to be a ravishing fifteen-year-old beauty, had to be at least fifty and

was big as a horse. Really, it was quite a feat he could even support her expiring body in his arms.

Sylvie placed her hand on Gerald’s arm. For some reason there was no one in the dimly lit box

tonight except for the two of them. But Gerald probably hadn’t even noticed. He should have

been restless too, in his starched collar and too-tight tuxedo he insisted still fit him perfectly, but

in the amber backlit glow of the stage lights, she caught the rapt expression on his face. His head

tilted back, eyes half-closed, lips silently mouthing the libretto. He was not seeing Manon’s

straining seams, or hearing the tenor’s raspiness. For Gerald, there was only Puccini’s tender

soaring music.

Darling Gerald. Wasn’t that one of the reasons she loved him so? His talent for seeing only the

good, not what was really there. [154] The way he saw in her only beauty and loyalty. Over all

these years he had remained as blind to her sins as Des Grieux to Manon’s.

Sylvie groped for his hand now, and felt it fold about hers, warm and reassuring. Did he look

more tired than usual? She felt a bit anxious. Or was she just imagining? It pained her to compare

the picture of Gerald she carried in her mind—the elegant and energetic bank president she had

married—with the stooped, white-haired man she had watched tonight inching down the stairs

one by one, gripping the banister tightly for support.

He’s seventy-six,
she thought, irritable with herself.
Of course he’s slowed down a bit. But he’s

as healthy as ever.

Still, Sylvie couldn’t ward off the shiver that slid down her spine, watching Manon die.

Without him,
she thought,
I couldn’t survive. My protector, my dearest friend.

Not her lover anymore; they had not been together as man and wife in years. Since Gerald’s

last operation, he had somehow been unable to ...

But that didn’t matter. She felt closer to him now than ever. Safe and beloved. When they

strolled in Riverside Park, her arm tucked in his, or just sat like this, hand in hand, she felt a

closeness deeper than she had in all their years of lovemaking.

Since he had retired as chairman at Mercantile, they had been together constantly. The cold

months in Palm Beach, reading novels side by side, playing two-handed bridge on the pool deck

while Callas serenaded them on the stereo. And that trip to Venice last spring—how overflowing

with marvelous memories!—staying in the same suite at the Gritti where they’d honeymooned

nearly thirty years before.

Sylvie thought of the trip they’d planned for next month, cruising around Bora Bora and Tahiti.

She relaxed a little.
Yes, just what he needs. The sea air will do him good, and that whole

Gauguin paradise put some color back into him, make his eyes sparkle.

Now the curtain was falling, accompanied by a wave of applause, cresting in some scattered

cheers of “BRAVO. BRAVISSIMO.” Seconds later the principals were trooping out, looking a

bit outlandish in their costumes, cut off from their scenic world, spotlighted now against the

crimson velvet, bowing low, the fat diva lowest of all, hobbling a little as she pulled herself up.

[155] Then the lights. Chandeliers lowered majestically, magically, at the end of brass rods

from the vast dome of the ceiling, starbursts of twinkling crystal.

Below, people were starting to stand, some still applauding. Men in velvet jackets and tuxedos,

and women in long gowns, silks and satins and stiff brocades, their glossy furs draped casually

over the backs of their seats. Sylvie heard her mama’s voice in her head as if she were in the next

chair.
A real lady wears a doth coat as if it were her best mink, and tosses her mink about as if it

were cloth.
If only she could be here now, see Sylvie’s own Russian sable hanging in the

anteroom. Mama, with her one good black coat, relined again and again over the years.

Mama would have loved the jewels, too, Sylvie thought. Marvelous pieces winking off throats

and wrists and fingers and ear-lobes—Bulgari, Cartier, Van Cleef & Arpels. Dazzling.

Sylvie fingered the necklace about her own throat. Beautiful old cabachon emeralds set in

filigreed eighteen-carat gold, designed forty years ago by the legendary Jeanne Toussaint of

Carder’s in Paris. Gerald’s gift on her last birthday. They matched her eyes, he’d said, never

mentioning the fortune they must have cost. And how perfectly they went with the Schiaparelli

gown she was wearing now, a simple black panne velvet sheath, elegant and timeless as the

emeralds for which it served as backdrop.

Sylvie rose, and moved toward the back of the box. It was a moment before she realized Gerald

wasn’t beside her, holding the door open for her as he invariably did. She turned back, saw him

still seated. Dear God, how tired he looked! Her heart bumped up into her throat.

Then Sylvie quickly caught herself. It was late, and such a long evening, four interminable

acts, two intermissions, naturally he was tired. Who wouldn’t be? Still ...

“Gerald,” she inquired gently, “are you feeling all right?”

He straightened his shoulders a little, and managed a weak smile. Had he looked this pale

earlier in the evening?

“Nothing to worry about, my dear. Just a touch of indigestion, I think. Ate a bit too much as

usual.” He winced. “You know, I’ve really been thinking it’s time to take off a few pounds. If my

waistband gets any tighter, I won’t be able to sit down.”

She knew he was trying to put her at ease by making a joke, [156] but the nagging worry she

felt was hanging on. She found herself remembering his second heart attack, so much worse than

the time before, Gerald in New York Hospital, tubes running into his arm, his nose, a catheter

down his leg, wires taped to his chest. A monitor beeping over his bed, recording each heartbeat.

As if that spiky green electronic line were the only thing to show he was still alive.

And all those medical students, interns, residents, lab technicians, cardiologists trotting in and

out, never giving him a moment’s rest. Scaring her to death with their long, grave looks and their

hard-to-understand explanations. In the end, she and Gerald had agreed to the pacemaker.

But he’s fine now. Before we came up from Florida, the specialist tested everything. One

hundred percent, he said. I’m overreacting as usual.

“Why don’t you rest here a bit?” she said, laying her hand lightly on him, shocked by his

frailty, the padded shoulder of his jacket forming a little tent over the knob of bone where flesh

had been. “No sense rushing out until the crowd thins a bit. I’ll get you something to drink, some

soda from the bar?”

He sighed. “Yes, that’s it. Something to settle my stomach, then I’ll be good as new. You don’t

mind, do you? I’d get it myself, but ...” His voice trailed off.

“Of course I don’t mind,” she said with forced cheer.

Then he startled her by saying out of the blue, “I was just thinking about Rachel. When she was

eight, that first summer she went to camp. Do you remember? We drove her up there, and all the

other little girls were clinging to their parents and carrying on like it was the end of the world.

And our Rachel said, ‘They’re crying because their mommies and daddies are sad. You’re sad,

too. But I’m not going to cry. I’m too big for that.’ ”

“I remember,” Sylvie said softly. In her mind she saw Rachel reflected in the rearview mirror

of Gerald’s Bentley, a little girl in a red-checked blouse and blue pedal pushers solemnly waving

goodbye. Sylvie felt her heart wrench.

Her thoughts flew back to yesterday afternoon, the shock of Rachel confessing she was

pregnant. Oh, how she had longed to soothe Rachel’s pain! To help her somehow.

Should I have advised her?
Sylvie wondered.
My own grandchild, a baby after all these years,

how wonderful it could be!

[157] Yet she had concealed her own desire from Rachel.
Who am I to say? If she only knew

how when I was pregnant I prayed for a miscarriage. How I dreaded giving birth to Nikos’s

child.

Yes,
Sylvie thought sorrowfully,
I
know what it’s like to carry a baby you don’t want. I

wouldn’t wish that on Rachel, no matter how much
I
might want it.

No, she must think only of what was best for Rachel. She prayed that Rachel would do what

was right ... for herself. And she thanked God that Rachel had confided in her. She knew her

daughter didn’t feel as close to her as she did to Gerald, but now they would share this bond.

Sylvie felt a small burst of triumph:
You see, she does need me, after all.

Tomorrow morning, first thing, she would call Rachel, find out what she had decided, offer

comfort if she could. But she must be careful not to let Gerald find out. He would be so stricken.

Gerald’s voice now broke into Sylvie’s thoughts: “I asked her to come with us tonight—you

know how she’s always loved
Manon.
But she said she had to be at the hospital.” He chuckled

softly. “I wanted so much for Rachel, the moon and more, but now that she’s out there getting it,

too busy for anything else, I only want to see more of her!”

Sylvie thought of another reason Rachel might have decided not to come tonight. But she said

nothing, only tightened her hand on the doorknob of the anteroom.

She looked at Gerald slumped in the chair before her, the man she had lived with and loved all

these years. She felt a rush of emotion that tightened her throat.

“Gerald?” She watched him turn to look up at her with a questioning smile, his shoulders

straightening a bit. “I love you.”

She was aware that she was blushing, and felt a little foolish for it—she, a middle-aged woman

carrying on like a young girl in love for the first time! It was so seldom either of them spoke

those words aloud, and never in public.

Gerald’s gaze fixed on her, his eyes glistening. Then he chuckled. “Mr. Puccini,” he said. “No

matter how often I see
Manon,
it affects me every time. You too, I see.”

Her heart lifted. Perhaps she
had
made the right choice all those years ago. Oh yes, maybe so.

[158] “Your soda,” she reminded him. “I’ll be right back.”

The corridor, with its cranberry velvet walls, was jammed with people winding their way

toward the wedding-cake stairs that led down to the main lobby. Outside, she knew, beyond the

fountain, a long line of limousines two deep was idling, while just outside the glass doors of the

main lobby, chauffeurs were in position, outfitted with oversized umbrellas to shelter their

masters and mistresses from the hard rain that had been pelting the city since afternoon.

Sylvie edged past a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in a black velvet miniskirt and gold-

sequined top who was chattering in French to her escort. Everywhere she turned, bright voices,

laughter. They all seemed to be speaking a foreign language, their words gibberish to her ears.

Sylvie found herself smiling, nodding in the direction of Adeline Vanderhoff, a woman she

knew slightly from the Harmonie Club. She hoped Adeline wouldn’t try to talk to her. Sylvie felt

a little ill herself, suffocated by the crush of furs, the mingled scents of expensive perfume.

Emerging into the parterre lobby, where the crowd was spilling down the staircase, Sylvie saw

with relief that the bar had not yet closed. No one waiting in line either; they all wanted to get

home.

And that’s where she and Gerald too would be in a few minutes, with Emilio waiting out there

to drive them home. Then she’d see Gerald safely to bed, maybe with a glass of warm milk.

Maybe they’d watch a little TV; they might still catch the late news. Gerald had mentioned that

Nixon was holding a press conference today, and was hoping that this new president was going to

do something momentous to kick up the economy. Sylvie pretended to share Gerald’s enthusiasm

for Nixon, but secretly she didn’t trust him. He reminded her of one of those shifty-eyed men