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 advertising cars on late-night TV.
“Sylvie? Is that you?”
The voice, masculine and slightly accented, startled her so that she nearly spilled the brimming glass of club soda she had just picked up from the bar.
No, it can’t be—
Then she turned and saw that it was, and felt her heart start pounding. There he stood, gray now, and a little stocky too, but [159] otherwise hardly changed. Liquid black eyes in a face by van Gogh, blunt and earthy; tight black curls threaded with iron.
Nikos.
Could it be? How was it possible?
More than twenty long full years had gone by. Never a hint of him. She had wondered, yes, but assumed ... what? That he was dead, or had moved far away.
Or had those been simply her hopes? So that her crime would be hidden along with him, forgotten, no forwarding address.
And now
here he was.
Walking toward her with short powerful strides, the crowd melting away on either side. His old limp scarcely noticeable now.
Sylvie panicked. I can’t hide, or pretend not to know him. Oh God, what will I say?
“Sylvie! Incredible. Still as beautiful as ever. Poor Regina, she has not aged so well, but her voice is in its prime still. Did you enjoy Manon tonight?”
The accent was the same, but his English was better; he sounded poised, authoritative. Nikos clearly had made something of himself. Sylvie noted the superb double-breasted suit he was wearing. And his tie, an Hermes, with a gold and onyx tiepin and cuff links to match.
Could he see the effect he was having on her? She felt faint, as if all these years had never happened, as if all over again he was offering her a cigarette on the terrace outside her parlor.
“Oh yes, very much,” she said. Incredible, how easy to say the proper things even with her heart beating like a bird trapped in her chest.
“My wife, she would so have enjoyed tonight’s performance.”
There, you see. He’s married, probably a half-dozen children too, and maybe even grandchildren. So why are you standing here sweating like an escaped convict treed by bloodhounds. He couldn’t possibly know about Rose.
“A pity she couldn’t come then,” Sylvie murmured.
“Yes.” His dark eyes clouded over. “Barbara died last year.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Sylvie felt awkward consoling him. Her concern for Gerald came rushing back. She had to excuse herself. But she seemed unable to move.
“And your husband?” Nikos was inquiring. “He is here?”
[160] “Oh yes. As a matter of fact, he’s waiting for me now. So if you’ll excuse—”
Nikos placed a hand lightly against her arm. “It’s been such a long time, surely you have another minute to spare. For an old friend.”
Sylvie stared at him, feeling as if she had been burned where he’d touched her. For a terrible instant, she was sure he did know about Rose, and was torturing her by pretending not to.
Smile. Act natural.
“Why, of course,” she trilled a little too brightly. “How thoughtless of me. Here I was thinking how well you look, and I forgot to ask how you’ve been.”
“Very well, thank you. The gods of fortune have been kind in most respects. The work is good. Enough to keep me from sitting about brooding in an empty house.” He cupped her elbow, steering her closer to the wall, out of the flow of traffic. “Cigarette?”
Sylvie felt heat climb up her neck, again remembering the hot, sweet night when he had first kissed her. She shook her head, and watched him pull a slim gold case from his breast pocket, and withdraw a cigarette.
“What sort of work is it you do?” she inquired, trying to sound politely friendly. Obviously he no longer was a handyman.
He amused her then by lighting his cigarette, rather crudely, by tearing a match from a book and striking it with his thumbnail. She guessed the gold cigarette case had been a gift from his late wife.
“I have my own construction company now. At the moment we’re putting up some apartment houses in Brighton Beach. I hope to have them finished by September, God and the weather willing.”
Sylvie was stunned. “That’s you? You own Anteros Construction?”
Gerald’s bank had underwritten that project. She remembered him mentioning it, saying how smart it was building up in an area like that, right on the ocean and yet accessible with one fare to the City.
Nikos shrugged, a smile curling his full lips. “One thing I have learned, the bigger your company, the more it owns you rather than the other way around. I think your husband would agree, no?”
[161] Sylvie laughed. “Yes. How did you know? It’s one of Gerald’s favorite complaints.”
“I have always admired him, you know.” Nikos drew in on his cigarette, letting a thin curl of smoke drift from his nostrils. “A remarkable man. Smart ... and in ways of the heart too.” He tapped his chest.
Sylvie felt herself growing warm again. Why was he doing this? He had every reason to hate Gerald. It didn’t make sense unless he was mocking her somehow.
“Yes,” she answered stiffly. “Look, I really must—”
But Nikos seemed unaware of her discomfort. “You know, he did me a great favor when he threw me out. If he hadn’t forced me, I might never have gotten started on my own. Or the—” He stopped abruptly, as if catching himself from revealing something he hadn’t intended to. He covered the awkward moment with his brilliant smile. “But I see I am selfish, keeping you so long.”
“It’s all right,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t see how relieved she was. She looked down at the glass of club soda growing warm in her hand. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to replace this. It looks as if it’s gone flat.”
“Allow me.” Before she could protest, he had snatched the glass from her hand and was making his way toward the bar. But the gray-haired man behind the counter was shaking his head, saying he was closed.
Sylvie watched, embarrassed, as Nikos pulled a bill from his wallet and handed it over the counter. And from the eager look on the bartender’s face, she guessed it to be a large one. Nikos returned a moment later carrying a fresh glass of soda with ice in it.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said.
Nikos shrugged again. “Let’s just say I owe your husband a debt. Consider this a small partial repayment.”
Sylvie couldn’t imagine why Nikos should feel grateful to Gerald, but she heard only sincerity in his voice. Perhaps it had something to do with the bank’s involvement in the Brighton Beach project.
“Thank you, in that case,” she said. She put out her free hand, and it was instantly enveloped by his huge and calloused one. “Goodbye. It was nice seeing you again.”
[162] She was turning to go when Nikos touched her shoulder. “Wait. One more thing. You never told me. About your daughter. She is well?”
For one terrible instant, Sylvie thought he meant Rose. His child. Her heart felt as if a fist had closed about it, forcing the blood out. Slowly, she turned to face him, struggling to hold on to her composure.
“Rachel is fine,” she said. Gerald must have mentioned Rachel to Nikos. That was it. Nikos was just being polite.
But now he must see something is wrong, she thought, feeling desperate. Look how his eyes are narrowing, his face hard all of a sudden.
Sylvie leaped in to cover the awkwardness. “You must have children of your own,” she said quickly.
“No.” Nikos shook his head regretfully. “No children.” His cigarette had burned down to the filter, and he put it out in the tall metal ashtray on the floor beside him without seeming to be in any particular hurry. “Barbara and I wanted children. Very much. And each time she became pregnant, we hoped that this time ... but it wasn’t meant to be, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry,” Sylvie told him. Hadn’t she said that already? She couldn’t remember. She felt paralyzed, her mind going around and around.
Nikos bent close then, so close she could smell the nicotine on his breath. “Sylvie, I know,” he said quietly.
He was not acknowledging her expression of sympathy. That was a statement all its own. Panic crashed through her, rocking her off balance. She felt something wet seeping through her dress. Gerald’s soda. It had tipped, and some had spilled down her front.
Now her mind was reeling faster. He knows he knows he knows ...
“What do you know?” she asked, pinning a smile of coquettish innocence on her face that even without a mirror she knew would fool no one.
“I suspected it for a long time,” he said. “You gave birth to a child nine months after you and I—”
“No,” she stopped him, taking a jerky step backwards, more liquid splashing down the front of her dress. “You’re mistaken.”
“Am I? There was a time I hoped I was, I’m ashamed to say.”
“This is insane,” she hissed.
“I won’t listen to another minute [163] of this.” But his hand was circling her wrist now like a steel bracelet. Only it was his flesh that burned, her arm that was icy cold. Tears welled in her eyes. “Please, I must get back to Gerald. He’ll be wondering what’s kept me so long.”
“Sylvie, I’m not trying to hurt you. You must believe that. I want only one thing. For you to say it, just say it. Only that. Give me that much. I never asked before, out of respect for Barbara. Gerald too. And I swear if you say it’s true, I’ll leave you alone. I won’t ever come near—”
Sylvie wrenched away, unable to bear it a second longer, the naked hunger in his dark eyes, knowing as she now did that she had betrayed Nikos as well as Gerald.
She ran, for once not caring how she looked, or who saw. Gerald. She must get back to him. Oh dear God, it would kill him if he found out. He must never know.
“Sylvie!” Nikos was calling out to her. “Wait!”
Sylvie could feel her face burning, imagining people were staring, gossiping.
Please, she wanted to shout, please leave me alone.
But even as she ran along the curved parterre wall with the soda slopping over her knuckles, as she ducked through the door to their box, the sound of her heart rushing in her ears like a train inside a tunnel, she knew it wasn’t really Nikos she was running from but her own self, the terrible truth.
Rose ...
Chapter 7
Rose, worming herself into the packed subway car, groped for the support handle. She teetered as the train lurched forward, bodies all around surging against her. Thank heaven, at least she was going in the right direction. Home.
She closed her eyes, imagining she was there already. Climbing up the stairs, four steep flights, slowly, slowly, so she could enjoy the anticipation. Not even knowing Nonnie would be there could spoil the delicious hope that a letter might be waiting for her—a letter from Brian.
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