Thorns of Truth (10 page)

When their sandwiches came, Rose found she was as content eating with Eric in silence as she had been talking to him. There was none of the discomfort she usually felt with other people. Even old friends. No need to explain herself, or apologize.

Too soon, their plates were being cleared away, and Eric was picking up the check. Yet the spell, if that’s what this was, stubbornly refused to be broken. Staring at the sunstruck hairs on the back of his wrist, oddly muscular for someone who made his living behind a desk. Rose felt something hard and guarded inside her dissolve, sifting downward like loose, hot sand.

Sweet Jesus. This warm heaviness between her legs; this empty socket where her full stomach had been. Familiar feelings,
good
feelings … but from another time, another place. The intimacy she’d known with Max—intimacy that had deepened with each passing year—how could she ever share that with another man? What could Eric Sandstrom know of the secret places on her body where she liked to be touched? Or the words of love she needed to hear?

She prayed that he was right, that God would catch her if she fell. Otherwise, it would be a long hard journey just to get back to where she was now—halfway up the precarious slope of her shattered life.

A guilty relief washed through her when Eric glanced at his watch and said, “I’d better hustle; I’m taping a show in half an hour. Come, I’ll walk you to the corner.” He stood up, and placed a hand lightly against the small of her back to guide her through the maze of tables.

In the sunlight, with the hot blue sky stretched like a freshly ironed sheet between the tall buildings overhead, Rose shivered.

It wasn’t until she was in a cab hurtling across town that she was struck by a horrible realization: feeling attracted to Eric hadn’t made her miss Max any less. In fact, she missed him more than ever.

Damn this Benedict Arnold body of hers, carrying on like a teenager’s; all that adrenaline-shot, moist-between-the-legs nonsense she’d have to take care of, on her own, later on, in the privacy of her bedroom, if she was going to get any sleep at all tonight.

What she needed more than getting laid, Rose thought angrily, was to get a grip. Until she got her own life together, how the hell was she supposed to help her sons, and her stepdaughter, fix theirs?

She recalled Sylvie’s words from Brian’s party.
People generally figure it out for themselves … even when they take the long way around.

Rose wondered if maybe she was right. But with Drew, could she just sit back and watch him destroy any chance for a normal life? Her son needed to know that marriage wasn’t one person carrying everything on his or her shoulders; it was equal partners, each pulling his or her own weight. The way it had been with her and Max.

Sylvie. What if her mother were to talk to Iris? The girl adored her grandmother. Sylvie could explain that marrying Drew wouldn’t solve anything, not in the long run.

On impulse, Rose leaned forward, releasing her grip on the strap to which she’d been clinging for dear life as the cab bounced and slalomed its way through the traffic along Houston.

“I’ve changed my mind, driver. Take me to Riverside and West Seventy-ninth instead,” she directed crisply. “And, please … try not to kill us on the way.”

Chapter 3

S
YLVIE STOOD ON THE
path that wound like a ribbon through her rose beds, their bushes heavy with blooms. Her garden, by city standards, was quite large—roughly die size of the one-bedroom apartment on Tremont Avenue where she’d grown up. Though not nearly spacious enough, she observed, for the wealth of vines, flowers, and boughs that crowded and spilled their way down brick walls, up bamboo stakes, and over trellises.

Under the shade of a spreading ginkgo, the maidenhair ferns, in their bronze planters tarnished the green of living things, trailed like drowned Ophelia over the scrolled back of her cherished wrought-iron loveseat—bought years ago at an antique auction in Rhinebeck. What had caught her eye was an unusual detail: a pair of sweet-faced cherubs, their open wings forming the loveseat’s arms. She’d instantly fallen in love … never dreaming, of course, that those angels might one day feel a bit too close to home for comfort.

Home. Oddly, it was
here
, more than in the house itself, that she felt most at ease—with her roses and peonies and daylilies. As if somehow she could
think
better among all the trees and plants and flowers that had become woven together through the seasons to form a single, glorious tapestry.

The middle of July, and nearly everything was in need of pruning, she noted with a sigh. English ivy cascaded down brick walls beginning to crumble under its weight, the tangled green splashed with bright spots of color—purple clematis and morning glory, along with several varieties of climbing roses. Marigolds, violets, pansies, and sweet William bordered the raised stone patio—and the steps leading down to the path where she stood—like a bright, ruffled hem. Honeybees stitched invisible patterns around shrubs and climbers and trellised arches—the “Prosperity” and “Perpetual,” the golden “Buff Beauty,” the “Madame Pierre Oger” ablaze with roses the delicate pink hue of porcelain.

Oh, the fragrance! As she drew in the mingled scents, Sylvie felt a heightened awareness of life’s riches rinse through her, cleansing her somehow. She remembered an incident from her childhood, the time a neighbor had remarked insensitively about the number of times Sylvie’s best dress had been let down—just loudly enough for Sylvie’s mother to overhear.

“Why, yes,” Mama had said, smiling as if no offense had been meant or taken. “Isn’t it lovely, how my Sylvie is growing? What a blessing, to have such a tall, healthy daughter.”

Sylvie smiled at the memory, and how it had made her feel: special and important. Not poor, with hardly enough to eat, but wealthy beyond measure. Because she and her mama had known what their friends and neighbors—sour-faced women wearing expressions of perpetual dissatisfaction—couldn’t begin to fathom: that richness wasn’t just something to be bought or sold; it was there for anyone with the courage and imagination to reach out and pluck it. The gold in a sunset, the wildflowers that poked their heads up amid the weeds of vacant lots like scattered gems, the priceless masterpieces on display in museums—like the one Mama worked in—that were freely available to everyone.

Now, her own hands stiff with arthritis, and her floppy straw hat pulled low against the sun that made her age freckles stand out, Sylvie realized with a start that she was a good fifteen years older than her own mother had been when she died.
If Mama could see me now, she wouldn’t recognize her own daughter.
She marveled at the strangeness of it. More and more, it seemed to her that life was nothing but a series of small oddities and ironies, all strung together by some yet-to-be-revealed celestial scheme. Like the irony of her two daughters’ becoming such good friends. And now, dear heaven, here was Rose’s son engaged to Rachel’s daughter.…

Rachel had phoned last week with the news, sounding more relieved than happy. Drew was so good with Iris, she’d pointed out; he would look after her, make sure nothing bad happened. As if that were any reason to marry! At the same time, Sylvie had heard the anxiety in Rachel’s voice, like a stitch pulled tight. She knew how easy it was to fool yourself into thinking that any port in a storm, even a marriage rooted in guilt and fear, was better than none.

Sylvie had wanted to argue how wrongheaded it would be. But she didn’t dare. Hadn’t she done enough already? All those years ago, turning two innocent lives—Rose’s and Rachel’s—irreversibly inside out. If it hadn’t been for her own arrogance in believing that fate could be twisted, physically
wrenched
like a broken bone being set, none of this would be happening. Rachel might not be losing sleep over a daughter as troubled as she was charmed. And Rose worrying over a son who felt responsible for everyone but himself.

Rose.
Sylvie hadn’t spoken to her since the party, but guessed that Rose, as fond as she was of Iris, had to be beside herself. Under the circumstances, what mother wouldn’t be?

It was all Sylvie could do not to put in her two cents. And this morning, after tossing and turning all night, hadn’t she nearly done so? She’d been dialing Rachel’s number, in fact, when reason finally got the upper hand. What, after all, could Rachel do? Or Rose? Drew and Iris were old enough to know their own minds, if not their hearts. Either God would guide them onto the right path, or they would stumble onto it themselves. Interfering might, in the end, only make matters worse.

Seeing how nice a day it was turning out to be—sunny, but not too humid—Sylvie had decided to prune her roses instead.

Yet here it was nearly three in the afternoon, and she had only just now set foot outdoors. Where had the time gone? She’d lingered over breakfast, true—eating was such a chore when you had no appetite—then had indulged in a short nap that had somehow stretched into a long one. Before she knew it, Milagros was standing over her bed with a lunch tray, looking as if there would be the devil to pay if Sylvie didn’t take at least a spoonful or two of the nice soup she’d fixed.

Poor Milagros, who used to come in three days a week—Nikos had prevailed on her to move in so as to keep an eye on Sylvie while he was at work. Sylvie hated it, of course. Having her housekeeper fuss over her was an affront to her independence and her privacy … but most of all, she hated it because it was
necessary.

The least she could do, Sylvie resolved, was to continue filling the house with the scent of fresh-cut roses.

Stooping with her secateurs to snip a pinkish-gold bloom from the “Peace” rose that had overtaken the trellis where she stood, Sylvie thought how much easier it was to make a resolution than to keep it. Like her decision—one she’d insisted that both Nikos and Dr. Choudry honor—to shield her family from how
truly
ill she was. It was easy to argue that Rose and Rachel had more than enough of their own worries to handle right now. But at 2:00
A.M.
, with her chest on fire and her heart racing like the engine of a car stuck in mud, sometimes not even Nikos’ loving arms and whispered reassurances were enough. What Sylvie desperately yearned for in those hours was to grab hold of what she could feel slipping away, to hang on tight to her precious loved ones—Nikos, Rose and Rachel, her grandchildren.

Faintly, from deep in the house, Sylvie heard the front door buzz.

Milagros would get it, she thought. Mostly likely it was for Nikos—a set of blueprints being delivered by hand, or some official document from the buildings department too important to risk being lost in the shuffle at his office.

She kept on with her gardening—tying back a runner, picking a Japanese beetle off a leaf riddled like fine lace. The sun settled over her shoulders and the backs of her bare arms like a lovely warm shawl, thawing the ice that had taken up more or less permanent residence in her fingers and toes.

It occurred to Sylvie that, as active as Nikos still was in his business, it had been some time since she’d missed her own. All that delicious excitement and challenge—poring over luscious fabric and wall-covering samples at the D and D building on Third, bidding at auctions, hearing the cries of delight over a room transformed from a raw space into something wonderful and inviting. But maybe she didn’t mourn it so much because she’d discovered the greater joy of simply
being.
Of taking the time to marvel at the curve of a rose petal … or rejoice that she was still breathing.

Nikos, she smiled to herself, wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he were to retire; for him, working
was
being. But if there was a silver lining to this blighted existence of hers, she was seeing it now—in the primroses, snapdragons, and hollyhocks reaching up to touch the afternoon sun that slanted across a brick wall, and in the ladybug trundling across a hosta leaf outlined in red like a valentine.…

“Sylvie?”

Startled, she straightened and looked around. At first, all she could see was the sun’s reflected light backfiring off the French doors that stood open onto the patio. Then her vision cleared, and she recognized the figure walking toward her. Rose.

Sylvie felt a flicker of anticipation that was followed, as always with Rose, by a tiny throb of regret—the knowledge that, try as she might to compensate in other ways, she would never be the mother Rose wanted, or deserved.

Rose looked as if she’d walked all the way here—her face flushed, and her dark hair sprung loose in wild tendrils, its distinctive white stripe standing out like a feathered plume. But today was Tuesday, Sylvie remembered, and Rose was clearly dressed for the office, in a stylish suit and sensible heels. What was her daughter doing here in the middle of a weekday afternoon?

“Goodness, you startled me!” Sylvie instinctively brought a hand to her heart. “I heard the door, but I had no idea …” She wagged an affectionately scolding finger. “You should have called to let me know, I would have put on something nice.” She looked down in chagrin at the faded housecoat she was wearing.

Yet a day that brought one of her daughters, or grandchildren, was automatically a good one, no matter how dowdy she looked—or ill she felt. She wouldn’t let anything spoil this lovely surprise. She would ask Milagros to bring a pitcher of iced tea out to the patio, where she and Rose could sit and visit. There was even a clump of lemon mint somewhere, if she remembered correctly.… Yes, over there, under the Oriental poppies …

“I can’t stay long,” Rose protested as Sylvie bent over to snip some mint. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. Do you have a few minutes?”

Discuss? So formal!
Sylvie smiled encouragingly.

“Oh, I don’t know. You see how busy I am. So busy I can hardly see straight.” With a merry laugh, she stepped up onto the patio. But the effort left her winded, as if she
had
been dashing about … and suddenly it felt much too warm to remain outside. Gesturing toward the open French doors, she said, “Come, dear, let’s go inside, where it’s cool … and I can put my feet up.”