Thorns of Truth (7 page)

“Go on. I’m listening,” she urged.

A beat of silence. Rose could hear drops of water from the faucet pinging onto the birdcage tray. Mr. Chips’ low cackling reminded her of an old man on a park bench, muttering under his breath. She looked around the cluttered kitchen, really seeing it for the first time in months—the oak pedestal table strewn with newspapers and magazines, her collection of vintage cookie cutters on the wall over the stove, the antique dresser drawers in which her good silver and linen were stored. The relentless sunniness of it all suddenly made her want to weep.

Then Drew was telling her, “We’ve decided to move in together.” His voice seemed to come from a great distance, from another time zone, where the sun had not yet risen on this late-night decision of his. “Mom, I asked Iris to marry me.”

There was a forced upbeat note to his voice, like the music piped into dentists’ offices, more numbing than Novocain. But this wasn’t going to wear off. Rose knew. Drew was going to spend the rest of his life taking care of Iris. Rescuing her.

Last night, watching helplessly from the curb as Drew shepherded Iris into a cab as gently and carefully as if she were an invalid, Rose had been struck with a terrible realization: her son would never get away now. How could he leave Iris, knowing what it might do to her?

And how could she, Rose, endure to sit back and do nothing while Drew put his own life on hold? Especially when she herself was partly responsible.
If I hadn’t played God … imagining I could give to some poor child what had been taken from me.
What had she expected? Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm? How could Iris—or any child—have emerged unscathed from
that
?

“Mom? Are you there?” Drew’s anxious voice jarred her from her thoughts.

“I’m here,” Rose replied, surprised at how calm she sounded, even though her insides throbbed as if she’d swallowed something burning hot.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t expect you to be thrilled. Not after last night. But trust me. Mom, I know what I’m doing.”

Do you?
she longed to cry.
Oh, Drew, have you any idea what you’re committing yourself to?
Marriage, for her, had been a joy. With another man, it might have been a life sentence. Even divorce, she thought, was better than being shackled to someone who would only drag you down. But Drew would never divorce Iris. He was too much like his dad, who’d been pushed past the breaking point by his first wife, yes, but who wouldn’t have left her, Rose felt sure, had there been one single grain of love between them.

“I have no doubt you
believe
it’s for the best.…” Rose stopped, arrested by the sight of Mr. Chips, head stretched forward with his beak slightly open, like a very alert pupil. Yes, she
was
lecturing. And it was the last thing Drew needed right now. Instead, she sighed, “Oh, honey, you know me—I want everything tied up with a red ribbon. Why don’t we discuss this later, when we’re both a little more rested? I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

“I could use a couple hours’ sleep,” Drew admitted. “Why don’t I stop by later on? We’ll talk then.”

“Great.” There was so much more she wanted to say, but some instinct made her hold back. Her son had nearly hung up when Rose said fiercely, “Drew? I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mom.” He laughed, sounding a little embarrassed.

“You remind me of your dad.”

“Yeah. Everybody says I look just like him.”

“I don’t mean just that. You’re … true blue.” An old-fashioned way of putting it, sure, but so apt. “It’s a good thing you decided to become a doctor.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d have made a lousy politician.” She smiled, thinking that Drew couldn’t be deceitful if you put a gun to his head.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Don’t worry. You have my vote anyway.”

“Glad to hear it. Thanks, Mom. Talk to you later, okay? Oh, and if Jay’s up tell him it’s okay if he uses my bike helmet—the strap’s broken, but he can fix it.”

No sooner had she hung up than Rose found her younger son poised in the doorway to the kitchen, yawning as if he’d just rolled out of bed. He was wearing a baggy T-shirt and boxers—his idea of pajamas—and stood balanced on one leg, storklike, while absently scratching his ankle with the big toe of his other foot. His dark-brown hair, straight like his grandmother’s, stood up in spikes all over his head, making him look like the world’s skinniest rooster.

“Was that Drew?” he asked.

She nodded. “He said to tell you—”

Jay broke in. “I heard you talking about the party. How’d it go? Did I miss anything?”

Rose nearly smiled at the innocence of his question. “I’ll tell you all about it. After breakfast.” She couldn’t face it right now, on an empty stomach, with Mr. Chips squawking and fluttering his wings to get Jay’s attention.

“You must’ve gotten in late. It was after midnight when Drew called.” Jay shot her the narrow look of a suspicious father.

“I stopped at a diner on my way home. What
is
it with you guys? Do I have to report back to you every time I have coffee with a friend?”

Jay snorted knowingly. “A guy, just like I figured.” He shuffled across the kitchen and pulled a box of Toastie O’s from the cupboard over the stove. “Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so. He’s a friend of Brian’s.” Rose saw no point in mentioning that she hadn’t noticed what time it was, had been startled when she’d glanced at her watch and seen that a quick cup of coffee had somehow become two hours.

“Mom, you’re all red.” Jay, on the verge of cramming a handful of Toastie O’s into his mouth, stopped short to stare at her. “You must like him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rose, her face growing even warmer, suddenly became busy lining the birdcage tray with fresh newspaper.

But Jay just stood there, staring. “Wow. You must
really
like him.”

Without looking up, she advised briskly, “You’d better get dressed. Aunt Marie is coming over.” Her sister was making a special trip into the city, to pick up the old sofa Rose had recently replaced.

“Okay, okay. I can take a hint.”

“And for heaven’s sake, would you please eat that out of a bowl? You’re dropping it all over the floor.”

“Jeez. You don’t have to bite my head off. It’s not
my
fault if you feel guilty for sneaking around behind Dad’s—” Jay broke off suddenly. His face, already hectic with acne, flushed a feverish crimson. Clearly, he hadn’t meant for that to slip out.

Even so, Rose whirled about, her face tight and hot. “
What did you say?
”

Jay, looking guilty, backed up against the counter, tiny doughnuts of sugar-crusted cereal dribbling from his fist onto the linoleum, crunching under his bare feet. His greenish eyes—Sylvie’s eyes—slid to one side, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” His voice, low and sullen, pricked at her.

“Look.” She faced her son squarely. “I am not going behind anyone’s back here. Your father …” She swallowed hard against the rising lump in her throat. “He wouldn’t have wanted me to just sit home every night.” There, she’d said it. Even if she didn’t exactly
feel
it.

“I
said
I was sorry,” Jay flung back at her.

“You sound as if you have a problem with it. Do you?” She wasn’t going to let him wriggle out from under this one, no sir.

“Not with this
guy,
whoever he is.” Jay’s eyes blazed with a hostility that seemed to come out of nowhere. “Anyway, it’s not my opinion that counts.”

“Who are we talking about, then?”

The minute the words were out, she knew she’d walked into a trap. She could feel it closing about her, cold and unforgiving as steel. Even before Jay answered with a tight little shrug, “You
know
who. Dad.”

“Your father is dead,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, but it’s still always about him, isn’t it? Everything. Even the new sofa—you said it was what
he
would have picked. Like he’s ever gonna see it. Like it friggin’
matters.
” Seeing her son looking so grave, with those roosterish tufts all over his head. Rose would have smiled if she hadn’t been so close to tears. He shook his head as solemnly as a professor and said, “Mom, don’t take this the wrong way, but you need to get a life. One that’s not about Dad. You want to see this guy? So
see
him. Don’t go around acting like he’s some kind of friend.”

“I have a life, thank you very much,” she snapped. “And right now it’s about all I can handle.” She slid the tray into its slot in the birdcage with a loud clang.

Was she overreacting? Probably. But she was so upset she could hardly see straight. As she stood—her back to Jay, leaning into her fists on the counter—Rose found herself remembering last night. The calm oasis of that little coffee shop on Third Avenue, the simple pleasure of another adult seated across from her. Someone who passed the sugar without her having to ask, who seemed to know intuitively what she needed: conversation that had nothing to do with what had happened at the party.

Instead, they’d talked about Eric’s volunteer work at Haven House … and her big case,
Esposito
v.
St. Bartholomew’s Hospital
, for which she had a preliminary trial date set for August, after more than three years of collecting affidavits and evidence, not to mention a seemingly endless string of evidentiary and motion hearings. He told her about his lifelong love of aviation, confessed that when he was down in the dumps he sometimes took a drive out to the airport. Nothing seemed too impossible, he’d observed with a laugh, watching those big jets lift off.

Eric had once flown in a B-17 bomber, for a TV segment he’d done on a former World War II fighter pilot who’d restored one of the old planes. “If you want to know what it’s like to
really
fly,” he told her, “take a ride in one of those suckers. The noise alone is enough to knock the wind out of you.”

“I prefer taking my chances on the ground,” she’d said, shuddering as she remembered Iris’ close call out on the terrace.

Eric had shrugged. “Win or lose, it’s all a gamble. The way I look at it, the only thing you can be sure of is that unless you’re willing to take some risks, you wind up with nothing.”

As she’d listened to him then, it had all seemed so simple … a perfectly acceptable risk. Dinner next time, maybe a movie. Or even a drive out to an airfield to watch the planes take off. What could be the harm?

Yet, meeting Eric’s gaze, she knew it wasn’t as simple as that. Nothing about Eric, she suspected, would be uncomplicated. Even the way he was sitting—loose-jointed, with a hand curled about his coffee mug, measuring its warmth, yet at the same time seeming in no hurry for it to cool—suggested a man of many textures and facets. Some rough, others worn smooth as volcanic glass.

Until now, she hadn’t dared to
really
look at him, to take in the whole of him. What if she liked what she saw a little too much? But now she allowed herself the small, guilty pleasure, noting his long fingers and unusually large wrists; the crease of an old scar over one eyebrow, and the way his shoulders seemed to cant at a slight angle. He’d loosened his bow tie, and unbuttoned his dinner jacket, which gave him the vaguely rakish look she associated with old Cary Grant movies. Yet there was nothing studied about his appearance. She noticed a darker patch of jawline to the left of his Adam’s apple that he’d missed while shaving, and smiled. Max was always doing that, she remembered. His “blind spot,” he’d called it.

Rose, instead of the usual tears, was flooded with an unexpected warmth. She felt a sudden urge to reach across the table, and wrap her fingers about Eric’s. But how could she, without giving him the wrong message? For the truth was, no matter how interesting this man, how
desirable
even, she just wasn’t ready for anything more than this: sharing a late-night conversation, and cup of coffee, with a friend.

Jay is right
, she thought now, in the warm safety of her kitchen.
I should get a life.
The question was, what kind? What could another man possibly offer that her own husband hadn’t already given her, a hundred times over? Isn’t that what disturbed her most about Drew and Iris? That her son, if he married for the wrong reasons, would never know the kind of happiness she and Max had shared?

Slowly, she turned to face Jay, who’d loved his father, too … and who was still angry at Max for leaving them. She could see it in his jaw, cocked at an angle, and in his long arms, poised tensely at his sides. Somehow, she’d let him down. Drew, too. She’d allowed her own grief to swallow up everything in sight.

And now there was nothing left to say, nothing that would make a difference. She watched as Jay abruptly turned, and began rummaging in the cupboard where the bowls and plates were stacked. With his back to her, she sneaked a hasty swipe at her eyes.

“I forgot to buy milk,” she told him, wanting to say more, to explain—but nothing she could say would make things better, ease his pain … or bring Max back. “I’ll call Marie, and ask her to pick up a carton on the way.”

“Drew better watch himself. That girl will push him over the edge, I’m telling you.” Marie shook her head.

She sat across from Rose at the kitchen table, facing the window that looked out over the stone well of a garden, where a rare shaft of sunlight was being served up like a slice of some exotic fruit. Rose’s sister didn’t seem to notice, or care. Her thin face was pinched, and the nails on the fingers clasped about the mug in front of her were more bitten-looking than usual.

“Iris doesn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Rose felt compelled to argue in Iris’ defense. She already regretted having succumbed to the impulse to tell Marie what had happened last night. Her eldest sister, who wasn’t exactly the forgiving sort, would only underline what Rose herself was thinking.

“People like her, they never do,” Marie stated with flat authority. “They’re like a walk at night in a bad neighborhood—you may get mugged, but it’s nothing personal. I ought to know. I made the same mistake marrying Pete.” She peered into the sugar bowl, wrinkling her nose. “Hey, you got anything besides this Sweet ’n Low crap?”