Garden of Lies (49 page)

her to take charge of her life, her money. Gerald would not have approved, but Gerald was no

longer here to protect her, either. And so she had waded in, feeling like an explorer entering

uncharted and possibly dangerous territory. And what a wilderness! A majority holding in the

bank, other stocks, mutual fund shares, municipal bonds, Treasury notes, real estate syndications,

not to mention the big houses in New York, Deal, and Palm Beach. Their lawyer, Packard

Haimes, advised strongly that he be empowered to look after it all; and it would have been a big

relief just to let him. But something—yes, [295] probably Nikos—had made that seemingly easy

way out chafe at her.

So she’d gone up to Packard’s antique library-like office at 55 Water Street.

Dear old Packy. She could still see him, his pink face and twinkly eyes leaning over her, his

big dry hand patting her shoulder as he seated her in the leather chair across from his desk. He

reminded her of Raymond Massey, tall, florid, shaggy-browed, exuding fatherly concern.

“You really haven’t a thing to worry about, my dear Sylvie. Gerald’s holdings were all solid as

the Rock of Gibraltar, and we and the bank can look after them and keep you in comfort for the

rest of your days. So you just take care of yourself, eat a bit more, take one of those cruises ... the

South Seas or some nice spot in the Caribbean would do you a world of good, you know,” he had

advised, beaming his most avuncular smile, which in the past she had always found reassuring.

At that moment, however, she found it irritating.

And she remembered Nikos once saying, money is usually managed best by those who risk

losing their own shirt if it’s not well done. And suddenly she was saying, “I’ve decided to handle

my own finances from now on.”

“You can’t be serious,” Packy had argued. “What do you know about—”

“Absolutely nothing,” she cut him off. “But I’m not stupid. I can learn, can’t I?”

And so she had learned, with Nikos’s help. And when the long columns of figures, the balance

sheets, profit and loss statements, accounts of gains and losses began to swim before her eyes, she

would dredge up Nikos’s encouraging words.

“It’s not so complicated,” he had told her, “it just looks that way at first. Remember two things,

always. First, never be afraid to ask questions. And second, never allow yourself to believe you

cannot understand the answers.”

And the notion began to grow, like a tiny seed planted in her head, that she
could
perhaps do

more than Keep Busy, as she’d always done, with gardening, shopping, lunching with Evelyn

Gold, raising money for the opera and, occasionally, dinner with Rachel and Brian.

[296] There was, after all, the bank. At first, merely the idea of showing up at the monthly

board meetings—the only woman among all those men!—had sent her reeling to her bed with a

sick headache.

But then, two years after Gerald died, Pelham Securities went into Chapter Eleven, owing

nearly twenty million to the bank. She’d visualized all Gerald’s hard work over the years

withering away like the buds on these blighted roses.

And that had given her courage to act. She dug out that the bad loan had been Hutchinson

Pyne’s doing. A pompous old fool, she’d always detested him, and now it might be disastrous to

let him continue as chairman. She could forgive him for being pompous, but not for being a fool.

For the next board meeting, she’d risen at six in the morning, starting with a long scalding bath

to relax her nerves. Then breakfast, which she normally avoided, forcing down two eggs and

several slivers of toast. She might be tongue-tied, but at least she would not faint in front of all

those men.

Sylvie remembered, too, how carefully she had dressed that morning. Real silk stockings from

Paris, and that Chanel suit Gerald had loved her in—double-knit, with the white piping around

the hem and jacket. Then pearls, her grandmother’s, the one beautiful thing she’d had from

Mama. And a hat, of course, one of those smart Halston pillboxes.

She had looked long and hard in the mirror at the final result. A bit too thin—she’d lost so

much weight after Gerald died. Stringy, the way women her age seemed to get if they didn’t go

the other way, plump and baggy. But on the whole, nonetheless, quite elegant.

Gerald, she had thought, would have been proud ... if a little uneasy, at what she was about to

do.

Even now, as Sylvie leaned forward and pinched a mottled brown bud from the bush, careful to

avoid the thorns, her stomach churned at the memory of that day, walking into the boardroom and

seeing all those frowns and raised eyebrows. Remembering how she’d felt (the same as when she

was twelve and had accidentally blundered into the men’s room at Alexander’s, seeing a row of

urinals, and men holding their penises as casually as a butcher weighing out frankfurters), scared

and excited both, as if she had trespassed into some secret, all-male territory.

[297] That first time, she had simply sat through the meeting, too intimidated to speak. It was

enough just that she had come. The second time too. By her third, she still didn’t feel wholly

comfortable, but her fear was gone. And she now could almost hear their minds dictating little

labels for her:
Bored just sitting around the house, lonely, wants to feel part of something. Gives

her a chance to dress up in those expensive clothes, if nothing else. She’s a silly distraction, but

there’s really no harm in it.

How wrong!
Sylvie thought, chuckling to herself, remembering their stunned and outraged

looks. Who would have thought Gerald’s timid widow would stand up and propose, bold as brass,

that they elect a new chairman, one she already had in mind, a young vice-president named Adam

Cutler. He was the son of a shoe salesman in North Carolina, and had come up the hard way. On

the board, Cutler plainly was not part of the “in group,” but to Sylvie he was the only one with

any real sense or brains.

The moment following her proposal was engraved in her memory. The long walnut table—so

highly polished she could see their reflections, faint ghosts on the veneer. Then Pyne, his face

stiff and slightly purple with concealed outrage, rising to his feet, impaling her with a steely

smile.

“We ... and I think I speak for all of us here ... welcome the interest you have recently begun

showing in our bank, Mrs. Rosenthal,” he said in a voice that seemed to lower the room

temperature a good twenty degrees. “But I feel it’s in
all
of our best interests to remind you that

what we’re dealing with here isn’t organizing a cocktail party or settling an overdue charge

account at Saks.”

And Sylvie had been grateful to him, yes,
grateful,
for stirring up the anger to galvanize her.

Her hands, which moments ago had begun trembling, now lay still, and the men seated about the

table seemed no more threatening than the handymen, chauffeurs, salesmen, and clerks she’d

always dealt with at home and in stores.

“You’re trying to embarrass me,” she stated bluntly. “And it’s true, what you say, that I’ve

only recently become involved.” She had looked at those men’s gray faces, one by one, forcing

herself to meet their eyes. “But the only thing I have to be embarrassed about is my not getting

involved sooner. Now, let me remind you I own sixty percent of Mercantile Trust. If you
don’t

wish to take me [298] seriously, I think it only fair to inform you that I have a buyer who has

offered me a good price for my shares. ...”

“Don’t see how we could be much worse off than we are now,” sniped perspiring Sol Katzman,

and Sylvie watched him viciously tug at his tie, yanking it from the collar of his hand-tailored

shirt as if he meant to hang her with it.

“I believe several of you already know the buyer I speak about,” she continued sweetly,

waiting a beat before she dropped the bomb, “Mr. Nikos Alexandras.”

There was silence; and she wanted to clap her hands with glee. She had played her cards just

right. It was plain that they would rather deal with a woman than a foreigner, an outsider. And a

Greek, at that, whom they no doubt feared would connive to get the best of them all.

Even before they took the vote, Sylvie knew that she had won. Then the only question was,

Could she make it out of there without collapsing in the elevator?

Well, I didn’t, did I?
Sylvie interrupted her reverie to struggle to her feet, clutching a stake for

support. She felt a moment’s dizziness. Orange-red sunspots danced before eyes. Her heart was

beating too quickly.

Time to go in, she thought, surveying the noon shadows beneath the rosebushes and the

alabaster tubs of flowering quince and mock orange bordering the brick patio. If she hurried,

she’d still have time to call Manuel about spraying this garden before getting ready for her lunch

date with Nikos.

He had some exciting news he’d said he wanted to share with her. What could it be? Perhaps,

she thought with a sudden dart of envy, he’d met someone—a woman he wanted to marry. And

why not? He was still so vital, attractive. And best of all, he was kind.

Of
course
there was no reason he shouldn’t marry. It was just, well, she hadn’t thought of it

before. And ... oh dear, would that mean that they’d have to stop getting together for these

lunches she so looked forward to? And the opera? And the charity affairs where Nikos saved her

from being seated next to some pathetic old man who had just lost his wife?

Dear Nikos. She owed him so much. Rachel, most of all. In spite of Sylvie’s denials, Nikos still

seemed to believe Rachel was [299] his, yet he did not press the issue. Never. Always courteous

and friendly toward Rachel, and that was all. Sylvie felt so grateful she would have given him

anything in return. Anything, that is, except the truth ... about Rose.

All those years I lied to Gerald, and now I’m lying to Nikos.
The thought stabbed her like a

sharp rose thorn.

If he were to know about Rose, he’d move heaven and earth to find her. And didn’t he deserve

to have the child he longed for?

God knows, she had tried to tell him, and yet each time the words just wouldn’t come. For

there was Rachel to think of. And Rose too ... and herself, yes.

Sylvie lifted the straw basket laden with roses—blooms in every shade of yellow and pink and

red—and she was so struck by their delicacy and exquisite beauty, her eyes filled with tears.

My poor Rose,
she thought.
You don’t know me, but I think of you every day. With less anguish

than I used to, it’s true. The years have been kind to me in that way. But ... oh, my dear child ...

how I wish ...

Sylvie pulled one deep-crimson blossom from the basket, and touched it to her cheek for one

long heart-rending moment.

Then, quite suddenly, she straightened her spine, dropping the rose back into the basket.

Perhaps she
had
been out in the sun too long, getting herself all worked up like this.

And she had to hurry, or she’d be late. Then she felt a flush of panic. She was afraid of Nikos’s

news. She didn’t need any more surprises in her life right now.

“So ... what do you think?” Nikos asked, grinning down at her from the second-floor landing of

the house to which he had brought her after lunch. “Am I a fool or a genius? A hundred thousand

dollars tells me I am most probably a fool.”

Sylvie caught up with Nikos at the head of the gracefully winding flight of stairs. She had

come with him here, to this derelict building near Gramercy Park, up these sagging stairs,

wondering what he possibly could want to show her. Now she understood. Her gaze swept over a

badly damaged and rubble-strewn room, which once had been a magnificent Edwardian parlor.

Enormous pocket doors that slid out from a great curved arch were hideously caked [300] with

old paint, half the lovely etched panes cracked or missing. The tall and fanciful ceiling with its

chipped plaster rosettes and cracked bracket moldings was like the top of a wedding cake that had

been gnawed away by rats.

A house. That’s what he wanted to tell me. Thank goodness, it wasn’t any bad news.

Sylvie felt weak, almost light-headed with relief. Then she began thinking of what it would

take—both in money and aggravation—to make this old wreck of a place habitable, and she grew

concerned for Nikos. He wasn’t such a young man, after all, past sixty now.

Sylvie looked back at him, standing now under an archway amid chunks of fallen plaster and a

pile of broken vinyl floor tiles. But he appeared as sturdy as he’d been thirty years ago. A bit

heavier around the middle, but certainly not soft. Hair thick as ever, too, only gray now, crisp as

iron filings.

He’d taken off his jacket, and had it slung over one shoulder, a rolled-up blueprint tucked

under his other arm. Head reared back as he took in the room, the glow of some future vision on

his face.

It had been a while since she’d seen such a glittering in his black eyes. All through lunch, like a