Garden of Lies (82 page)

“I have something for you,” Sylvie said. “Wait.”

Rose wanted to run ... but something held her fast, the sight of Sylvie, so pale and silvery she

seemed to shimmer, the look of absolute torment in her face.

Now it was Sylvie who was running ... dashing across the room, then suddenly, shockingly,

flinging open the French doors behind the heavy drapes. Rose felt a gust of icy air, and saw

snow-flakes swirling, catching in the velvet folds of the drapes.

Rose, shivering, stared into the swirling whiteness beyond the open windows. A garden, she

saw. A garden under all that whiteness. Skeletal bushes. Trees, with snow pillowing in the crooks

of their limbs. A tangle of vines on the far brick wall.

Sylvie was plunging into that whiteness now, mindless of the cold, not bothering to grab a coat,

or even an extra sweater. Rose watched Sylvie struggling, half-slipping on the steps leading

down, her high heels gouging deep holes in the snow that covered the patio.

Holy Mother of God ... what is she doing?

“Sylvie!” Rose called.

But the wind seemed to snatch up her voice, and toss it away.

Throwing her coat around her, she started after Sylvie, the cold [510] closing around her,

biting, snowflakes pelting her cheeks, her lips, like cold grains of sand.

“Sylvie!” she screamed, forging across the slippery patio. “What are you doing? You’ll

freeze!”

But Sylvie didn’t seem to hear her ... or didn’t care. Squinting against the swirl of snow, she

was feeling her way along the brick wall. And now, with her bare hands, clawing at one of the

bricks.

Rose, drawing near, saw that Sylvie’s hands were blue with cold, her fingernails broken,

clotted with snow and crumbled mortar. Her thin back heaved as she frantically scraped and

tugged. Scarlet patches stood out against the blue-white of her face.

“Sylvie, for God’s sake!” Rose dropped to her knees in the snow beside her mother, half-

sobbing, desperate to make her stop. She could not bear another moment of this ... seeing Sylvie

like this ... blue with cold, broken and weeping ... clawing at the wall.

Rose pulled her coat more tightly about her, the cold like sharp pins pricking her legs, her

hands. What was Sylvie searching for here?

The brick Sylvie was tugging gave suddenly in a small burst of red chips and dirt. Then Sylvie

was reaching into the gaping hole, pulling out something folded inside a dirty piece of plastic.

“See! It’s here!” she sobbed in triumph.

She tore off the plastic, and there, nested inside a scrap of rotting velvet, lay the earring. The

ruby earring that matched the one in Rose’s ear. Sparkling, unblemished, as if Sylvie had

unfastened it from her own ear just moments before.

“Here.” Sylvie held it out to her, just as she had so many years before. But now her hand was

thin and dirty, and it wore no elegant glove.

Rose felt her heart tumble, over and over, as if down a sleep slope.

Mother ...

She could feel herself reaching out ... reaching to take the earring.

No guardian angel now, this woman kneeling before her was someone real ... and someone

who wanted something from her as well. ...

Did she have something to offer? And could she let herself forgive?

[511] Before she knew the answer, Rose was taking Sylvie’s hand. She felt Sylvie’s stiff

fingers curling about hers, tightening, the ruby earring like a sharp thorn gouging into her palm.

I don’t know you,
Rose thought,
but I want to. I want to try.

“Let’s go inside,” she said softly.

Chapter 41

Rose sat at her window, staring out. She realized she must have been that way for some time,

and now noticed that it was dark and still snowing hard; under each yellow cone of street-lamp

light a small blizzard offtakes. Below, the sidewalk was carpeted with white, and furrowed down

the center with footsteps. This new snow, covering up the dirt and rubbish, seemed to transform

the city into a fresh white canvas, a new surface on which a wonderful painting might appear.

And me? Will my life be different now? Better maybe?

How stiff she felt. How long had she been sitting here? Hours maybe. Since leaving Sylvie’s,

she seemed to have lost all track of time.

She thought of that whole long afternoon she had spent in the big house on Riverside Drive,

thawing out under a soft mohair blanket, curled on the sofa in front of a flickering fire. Sipping

smooth port wine, and talking ... talking, telling Sylvie everything she could remember about her

whole life. Remembering aloud how Nonnie, year after year, had taunted and belittled her, Rose

had felt more anger burst forth than she had thought she harbored. But what also came out

strongly was her love for Marie, and yes, even for Clare. And she’d told Sylvie all about Brian,

how for so long she had both loved and hated him, and hated Rachel too.

Sylvie had been relentless, no, almost hungry, with her questions; and Rose had gradually felt

herself let go of the last vestiges of her resentment as she talked and talked, feeling lighter, freer,

until her voice began to give out. And then she had sagged back into the sofa cushions, too tired

to say more.

For a long time, they’d both remained silent. Rose heard only the crackling of the fire, the

sound of snow hissing against the windows. For a wonderful moment, she let herself fantasize

about what it would have been like to grow up in this house. In her mind, [513] she made herself

small, small enough to crawl into Sylvie’s warm lap, and lean against her soft bosom.

Then Sylvie leaned across to her, and took her hand. “There is something I must say, my dear.”

The solemnity of Sylvie’s tone caused Rose to stiffen—whatever it was, she didn’t want to hear.

“I don’t expect you to understand, but I hope you’ll at least try.” Sylvie paused, but now the

silence was somehow threatening.
What is it? What do you want from me?

“It’s about Rachel,” Sylvie continued, averting her eyes, staring into the fire.

Rose felt her resentment once again flare. Dammit, this was
her
day! Rachel had had her

mother all her life, plus every other luxury imaginable. Why was Sylvie ruining her one day of

the life Rachel had enjoyed forever?

“What about Rachel?” she asked, hearing the anger that had crept into her voice.

“Oh, Rose, don’t you see! How all this could only hurt her, if she were to find out that I wasn’t

her real mother?” Sylvie sighed deeply, closing her eyes for an moment, as if she were in pain.

“Yet how can I ask you to lie for me? I have no right to, I know. I’ve already forced you to make

such terrible sacrifices. But please, I beg you, before you do or say anything, you must think

carefully, weigh the consequences. So you ... don’t end up punishing Rachel for my crime against

you, for what I’ve done.”

“So then we never tell Rachel. She goes on living her myth, and where do
I
fit in?” Rose had

demanded, feeling cheated, like a child who had just been handed a gift, exquisitely wrapped,

then had it snatched away before she even could open it.

Sylvie squeezed her hand. “Oh, Rose. Not God, not anyone can give back what I’ve taken from

you. Certainly Rachel can’t. So you and I ... we have to try and start from here. From now, this

minute, this day. As friends. And what we feel, what we know, will not change if we refrain from

saying everything out loud.”

Lies, lies, and more lies,
she felt tempted to snap at her. But something—she wasn’t sure what

—held Rose back. She hadn’t said no, or yes, just that she’d think about it. Wearily, she had

embraced Sylvie, memorizing the feel of Sylvie’s delicate bones under the soft cashmere sweater,

the faint, sweet scent of her perfume. Then Rose [514] had left, a part of her wondering if she

would see Sylvie again, if all this had really happened.

But now ... sitting here, going over and over it in her mind, Rose could see the Tightness in

Sylvie’s plea. What crime had Rachel committed? And hadn’t she already suffered enough, with

the trial? No, it wouldn’t be right.

Still, part of her—the hurt child crouching deep in her heart—wanted to hurt Rachel too,

punish her somehow for all the good things she’d had, for the love that should have belonged to

her. And that same part of her, Rose knew, would go on resenting Rachel for the rest of her life.

But Rose wanted Sylvie too, what she was offering—her friendship, perhaps one day real

closeness, even love. And she could not drag all this into the open, wound Rachel terribly, and

then expect Sylvie’s unqualified love. They could not begin that way.

A gust of wind rattled the window. Rose looked down, and saw a lone figure hurrying along

the snowy sidewalk, hunched over, clutching his overcoat at the neck. The man looked so forlorn,

cut off from the world, snow dusting his shoulders; and then she thought of herself, so alone here.

Suddenly she longed for Max, for his arms about her, holding her, squeezing her to him, for his

smell, warm and tweedy and vaguely musky. She felt a pang. Tonight he was leaving for Los

Angeles. Probably gone already.

Stupid,
a voice inside her sneered,
Max isn’t leaving you. It’s you who gave him his walking

papers.

That day I found him cleaning out his office, why didn’t I tell him then that I loved him? I could

have. Was it my damn stupid pride?

Or was it something else altogether? Had she been afraid to get close to Max? What if Max

hurt her the way Brian had?

But I don’t want to be alone anymore.
The thought came to her, clear and bright as a chime.

For so long she had felt lonely, set apart somehow, but now she didn’t want that. She wanted

Max. She wanted him more than Sylvie, more than anything.

Maybe ... maybe she could still catch him.

Rose felt her heart leap. She jumped up, and dashed into the kitchen. Eight o’clock, she saw.

He was taking the redeye, so there might still be time.

[515] Rose grabbed the phone, dialed.
Please ... please be there, Max.

Damn, he wasn’t picking up. She waited, letting it ring and ring and ring. She wanted to kick

something, punch the wall. It wasn’t fair. Tears rose, her throat swelled, choking her almost.

His plane, she remembered, wasn’t leaving until ten. He had sent a memo around the office

with his complete itinerary, in case anyone needed to reach him. United, JFK, ten P.M., each one

of those words was engraved in her mind. In this weather, he’d probably be delayed, so if she

hurried, she just might make it.

Now she was at her closet, tugging on her snow boots, throwing on her heavy coat, fumbling

with the buttons.
Look at me! I’m shivering already, and I haven’t even gotten out the door!

Somehow, she was able to grab a cab almost immediately. But on the Long Island Expressway,

traffic was slowed almost to a standstill. She cursed the snow, and the trucks bullying their way

ahead of everyone, and the commuters clogging up the road who should have known better than

to go out in this weather. Christ almighty, at this rate she would
never
get there. She peered at her

watch. Nine now. He might be boarding soon. God, she had to tell him. Please. She could not let

him go without that ... she
couldn’t. ...

Please, Max ... please be there.

After a dozen bumper-to-bumper traffic jams, they reached the United terminal. On the

approach ramp cars were double and triple parked. Inside, mobs of people, engulfing the ticket

counters, packing every seat in the waiting area and camping on the floor, thronging the walkway

toward the gates, ramming her with their luggage. Dozens of flights had been cancelled.

God, please ... let Max’s be one of them.

She scanned the departure board, quickly spotting it, Flight 351, Los Angeles, 10:05, Gate 12.

According to her watch, that still gave her six minutes.

Rose, her heart pounding in her throat, blood beating at her temples, ran, dodging her way

through the crowds, nearly crashing into a huge black man lugging an enormous suitcase, almost

knocking over a child. The gate numbers gradually grew higher, four, now six, seven, nine. ...

Twelve. Gate twelve. Her lungs bursting, she dashed past the counter, into the lounge. The

door leading to the airplane was closed. But maybe she could still get through ... maybe ...

[516] Then Rose saw. Through the huge plate-glass window, red lights blinking, a dark gliding

hulk.

Max’s plane. Taxiing away from the gate.

Her whole body grew heavy, her legs seeming to sink into the floor, her heart an iron weight.

Max ... oh Max ...

Chapter 42

Max jammed his gloved hand against the door buzzer for the second time. Christ, what did he

expect? Six in the morning. She had to be dead asleep. It was hardly light.

He should just go, get moving. It was stupid coming here. No point in it. He had a plane to

catch.

Max could feel the cold of the snow-crusted stoop creeping up through his soles. His hands

were numb. During the night it had stopped snowing; too cold for snow. It had to be well below

freezing. His breath, pluming out, made white clouds in the still, gray air.