Rose stared, stunned. She somehow couldn’t move or speak. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her sister cry.
When Marie lifted her face, her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She rose wearily, and said, “Wait. There is something.”
Rose watched Marie shuffle out of the room, her heart beating faster than it should have been. She remembered that story, “The Monkey’s Paw,” all about how wishes can come true in the most hideous ways.
She was sweating, afraid.
Marie was back a minute later with something in her hand, a small blue book. A savings passbook, Rose saw. Marie thrust it at her, quickly, as if she had to get rid of it.
Rose opened it, and saw the name typed inside: Rose Angelina Santini.
The original deposit was twenty-five thousand dollars, dated September 15, 1954. But then there were pages and pages of [495] withdrawals, years and years of them, a hundred dollars, fifty, seventy-five. In the very last column, the balance showed seven hundred forty-two dollars remaining.
She looked up at Marie. What was this?
Her sister’s eyes slunk away.
“It’s yours, all right,” Marie confessed, her voice low with shame. “I found it in Nonnie’s things along with those letters of Brian’s.”
“There was a letter with the bank book. From some lawyer. It just said that someone had opened this account in your name—it doesn’t say who, just that he wished to remain anonymous.”
“And Nonnie—”
“The way I look at it, she must have figured something was rotten in Denmark. I mean, why would some perfect stranger have given you all that money? She must have had suspicions all along about Dad not being your real father, and this just clinched it.”
“But you didn’t tell me. You kept it.”
“Yeah) I kept it.” Marie met her gaze finally, squinting a little as if it hurt her to do so. “Every day I’d tell myself it was just for a little while, I was just holding on to it for you. Then Pete got fired down at the hardware store, and we were so broke, and I told myself if I borrowed just a little, a hundred dollars to tide us over, it wouldn’t matter ’cause I’d pay it back soon as Pete cashed his unemployment check. It was easy, too easy. At the bank, I told them I was you. I had this old library card of yours, and the letter addressed to you, and I knew all the family names. After that—” she shrugged, “it just seemed like one thing after another. Bobby having his tonsils out. Gabe with his adenoids. And Pete, in and out of jobs faster than a Times Square hooker, with the bills rolling in, and overdue notices. I kept borrowing, telling myself I was going to pay it back someday ... and then when you got to be a fancy lawyer and all, I changed my tune, told myself you didn’t really need the money as much as I did, that it was unfair in the first place for you to have gotten it all. But I guess that doesn’t change what I did. And for whatever it’s worth, I hate myself. You couldn’t hate me any more than I already hate myself.”
Rose felt stunned, too shocked to think or speak.
Anger rose in her, thick and choking. Damn it. How could Marie [496] have lied to me? All these years. If she needed the money, all she had to do was ask. I would have given it to her, all of it.
Then Rose saw the way her sister was stiffening, squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin. Tears glittered in her eyes, but now they were hard, defiant tears.
Her anger faded as suddenly as it had come. She understood. Marie’s pride was all she had left. For her to have to ask for money would have been worse than lying. Worse than stealing, than anything.
Rose, overtaken by emotion—pity, relief, love—went over and put her arms around Marie.
“I don’t care about the money, Marie. Keep it all. But don’t you see what this means? He did care. Whoever my real father was. Somebody cared.”
Yes, somebody, she thought, but who? Who is he? And how is he connected to Sylvie Rosenthal?
Chapter 38
Sylvie, sighing, closed the ledger. It had been Gerald’s once, but now the spidery script that filled its lined pages was hers. She smoothed her palm over its worn calfskin cover. It had once been bright maroon and was now the color of port. In faded gold letters tooled across the top, it read: ACCOUNTS.
Monies received, monies paid. Each monthly column of figures nicely balancing out. All in order. All debts paid.
All except one, she thought.
The largest, most important one.
You’re a fool, she told herself. You should never have gone to that courtroom. Didn’t Rachel tell you not to go? Why couldn’t you listen to her?
Remembering Rose, her Rose—and how magnificent she had been, saving Rachel—Sylvie felt the old regret welling in her, but accompanied now by a new, sharper pain.
I’ve seen what you have made of your life, my daughter. And I am proud. You are beautiful and brilliant, just as Nikos said you were. And I was wrong to deny you. Even having Rachel, having her love, can never make up for that.
Last night, when Nikos told her he had decided he would not reveal her secret to Rose, she’d been so relieved. She had felt like someone from the Bible, delivered from a deadly plague by the hand of God.
And then, when he said he still wanted to marry her, more than ever now, she’d been moved to tears.
Now, alone with her thoughts, Sylvie wondered if she should say yes.
I do love him, she thought, but do I really want to marry him?
Sylvie gazed for a long moment at the portrait of herself over the fireplace, her likeness, yes, but someone altogether different, really. She was no longer that timid woman who had once come [498] secretly to Nikos in his basement room, but someone who could be herself, openly, without embarrassment or regrets.
It was only her heart that hadn’t changed. Her heart, which had never stopped grieving for Rose. ...
Sylvie suddenly felt very tired. She brought her forehead to rest against the ledger, its leather so smooth and burnished from handling it seemed almost to have the patina of living flesh.
Alone, she could almost enjoy her weariness, let it settle in with her like an old friend. She could put her head down in the middle of the day, and there was no one to cluck over her, ask if she was ill.
How strange life is, Sylvie thought. After Gerald died, how I hated being alone, sitting down to a breakfast table set for one, the whole day stretching out ahead of me like the loneliest road in the world.
But now she found she liked it, her solitary breakfast, sometimes on a tray in bed, making her feel pampered, luxurious, with the Daily News or “Good Morning, America” for a bit of the world. Writing all the checks, her own money, no one raising an eyebrow if she splurged on another pair of irresistible shoes, or a new dress from the designer floor at Saks.
But most of all, she loved depending on no one but herself. What a luxury that was! And how good to feel strong enough now to do so much!
Sylvie recalled a day at Nikos’s house, less than a month ago. She was there alone, poring through fabric swatches, when upstairs a pipe burst, water gushing as if from a spring right out into the center parlor. She had panicked, too overwhelmed to think what to do. But then she had rushed to the basement, found the main cutoff valve, called the plumber’s emergency number, and even mopped up the water before it could seriously damage the ceiling below.
But if Nikos had been there, he’d have taken care of everything, and she would have felt weak and quite useless. And she would have wanted him to do it all. That was what was so awful. She was strong. But was she strong enough to resist letting a man take charge? And not just a broken pipe either, but of everything, of her whole life?
Yet Nikos, God bless him, he needed her.
I have Rachel, at least, Sylvie thought, but Nikos has no one. No, it’s even worse than that, a daughter he yearns to love but cannot.
[499] Oh God, forgive me, all those years I was so afraid of Gerald’s finding out. But it was Nikos I was really hurting.
Could she ever be forgiven? By Rachel,
by Nikos, by Rose? God, how she longed for it!
Sylvie lifted her head. Somewhere in the silence of the house a clock was chiming. Why was it so quiet? Bridget’s day off. Only Manuel, out in the yard raking up the dead leaves in the rose garden.
The weatherman had promised snow. And it did look that way. Outside the window, the sky looked still and somehow swollen; soon her rosebushes might be blanketed under a white quilt of snow, vanished like a dream.
But not gone, not really. Under the snow and beneath the frozen soil, some lovely green would be secretly hibernating. And in the spring, there’d be a miracle, and everything would bloom again.
And so it goes, she thought. Something dies, but it’s never really all gone. In our hearts, there’s always a little piece left. And it can bloom again.
The front-door buzzer pierced the silence, startling her. And for no reason at all, her heart began beating quickly.
She felt frightened of answering the door.
But even while inwardly she hesitated, her footsteps carried her across Gerald’s office, out into the hallway, her heels clacking on the marble-tiled foyer. And without even pressing the intercom to see who was there, she pulled open the heavy walnut door.
Sylvie had not asked, because in her heart she must have known somehow who it was. Even before she’d swung the door fully back, and glimpsed the tall, olive-skinned girl in the Burberry raincoat poised on the front steps, the first snowflakes swirling down, catching in her dark hair like petals, Sylvie knew.
Standing in the doorway, rooted to the spot, she felt her heart leap, smashing against her chest.
“Rose,” she breathed.
Chapter 39
Rose stepped inside, bringing a gust of cold air with her. Sylvie felt the young woman’s huge dark eyes fixing on her with the same bewildered curiosity as the last time they had actually stood face to face, that wintry day in a Brooklyn schoolyard.
Sylvie, almost overcome with an irrepressible longing, had to fight to keep from clasping her daughter to her bosom.
Instead, Sylvie just stared at Rose, watching the snowflakes turn to water, dripping off her raincoat onto the black and white marble tiles. A shiver ran lightly up her spine.
“How did you know my name?” Rose asked.
Sylvie took a step backward, and her hand found her throat, found the little buttons marching up the neck of her red cashmere cardigan. She caught hold of the top one, twisting, feeling it begin to tear free of its threads.
“I ... ,” she began, but her voice caught in her throat. She wanted to cry out the truth.
But it was as if her voice, her throat, her lungs all had frozen, and the cold was spreading now in waves, numbing her, turning her to ice.
I am your mother. I gave birth to you, then gave you away. But how, how can I ever tell you such a thing?
“We haven’t, I suppose, actually been introduced, but Rachel has told me all about you,” said Sylvie, feeling spineless, and hating herself for it. “Please, won’t you come in? You must be half-frozen. They say we may have six inches by the time it’s over. Amazing, isn’t it? In November? Here, why don’t you give me your coat? Then we can go up to the parlor and talk. You’ve come about Rachel, haven’t you?”
Her chatter seemed to come out of nowhere, someone else’s voice sliding past her frozen lips.
[501] Rose seemed to falter, her expression hesitant and uncertain. She allowed Sylvie to take her coat. Under it, Sylvie saw, she was wearing a simple navy wool skirt and a white sweater. She looked so much like that solemn little girl, dressed in her school uniform, whose image Sylvie had carried like an invisible locket in her heart for more than twenty years. She couldn’t go on with this dreadful pretense, no, not a moment longer.
“Coffee? Or do you drink tea?” But, oh dear God, she could. She was doing it. “I myself prefer tea. Camomile tea. It’s very soothing to the nerves, they say.” As she led the way upstairs, Sylvie kept up the chatter. “Please, sit down. Anywhere.” She indicated the coziest chair, the plump chintz loveseat beside the fireplace. “You didn’t say. Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please, if it’s no bother.”
“No bother at all. It’s my housekeeper’s day off, though, so I’ll just pop into the kitchen myself. I won’t be a minute.”
Sylvie felt a great relief at just getting out of the room, at not having to look into those eyes, Nikos’s eyes. Accusing her. Blaming her. Rose can’t know who I am, but she senses things. Deep down she must remember. ...
In the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, Sylvie clung to the edge of the counter, her arms and shoulders aching. She felt dizzy, and the cold seeped through her body with a constant, burning pain.
When the tea was ready and she’d stayed away as long as she decently could, she carried the tray up, listening to the chinking of the Wedgwood cups trembling in their saucers, willing herself to stay steady.
“Here we are,” she said brightly, settling the tray on the low rosewood table in front of the settee. “Do you take lemon?”
Rose nodded. “Yes, please.”
“Now then,” Sylvie said, handing Rose the delicate flower-painted cup brimming with steaming tea, “is there something I can help you with? Something concerning Rachel?”
“I ... not really ... it’s just ...” Rose shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes darting about the room as if she didn’t really know why she was there. Then her dark gaze fell on Sylvie again, and Sylvie felt herself begin to shiver helplessly, terrified that Rose [502] was now peering right through the window of her pretenses, seeing right into her dark secret.
“I didn’t come about Rachel, actually. I ... well, it all seems a little silly now that I’m actually here ... but the thing is, yesterday, in court, I thought I recognized you. I was sure of it, in fact.” Rose reached up under her cloud of dark hair and pulled something from her ear.
Sylvie flinched. Dear God, oh dear God, the earring I gave her. She kept it. All these years. She stared at the earring, cringing inside, as if it contained some deadly poison that might harm her.
Now Rose was holding it out, a ruby in the shape of a teardrop that dangled from a diamond stud. It twinkled bright and hot as blood in her outstretched palm.
“A lady gave it to me when I was a little girl, just nine years old,” Rose explained. “A lady who looked like you. Almost exactly like you, as a matter of fact. Of course it was a long time ago, but I remember her so well. ... You ... this woman ... took this earring from her own ear, and just handed it to me, without saying a word. Well, you can’t imagine how shocked I was ... it was as if ... as if a fairy godmother had appeared out of nowhere and waved a magic wand over me. Only she ran off without ever telling me why, or who she was. I was hoping maybe you could help me. I thought you might somehow know why. ...” She trailed off, staring at Sylvie as she refastened the earring.
Now those black eyes were burning her, just as Nikos’s had, burning right through her. And Sylvie could feel layers and layers of her pretense peeling back like so many coats of old paint. She knows. She remembers me. Dear God, let the lies stop. Let me tell her the truth.
She couldn’t, though. The truth felt too huge, a great boulder that would choke her if she tried to push it out.
And now another truth struck her: I’ve kept the secret so long it’s a part of me, like my own living flesh. Cutting it out would be like killing some part of me.
“I wish I could help you, my dear,” she lied once again, hating herself more than she ever thought she could, “but I’m afraid I don’t know this woman. You say I remind you of her? Well, I know what that’s like. I met a woman once, and it nearly drove me crazy, she [503] looked so familiar, and I couldn’t think why. I never did figure it out. Oh dear, your tea has gotten cold. Let me pour you a fresh cup.”
Rose replaced her cup in its saucer with a decisive click. “No ... thank you.” She seemed very agitated. “I ... I have to go. I apologize for taking your time. For barging
in on you like this. But, you see, I thought ... I was so sure ...”
“Please, don’t apologize. I’m delighted you came. I wanted to thank you anyway. For helping Rachel. You were marvelous.”
On her way down the staircase, Sylvie prayed that Rose wouldn’t notice how badly she was shaking, how false and tinny her words surely had sounded.
And then she saw, as they reached the bottom, the look in Rose’s black eyes. You lied, those eyes said. I don’t know why. But I know that much.
Sylvie thought of the ruby earring that matched Rose’s. And she remembered how, years ago, she had pulled out a loose brick in the garden wall, and hidden the earring behind it. Like a seed, she thought now, one not planted in the earth, one that will never grow.
Right then, she wanted to lie down on the cold tile floor and die.
Chapter 40
Rose, watching Sylvie go to the closet for her coat, felt an urge to grab her and shake her. Her one chance to find out the truth, maybe her only chance, and it was slipping away. In a moment it would be gone.
She knows something, Rose thought, but, dammit, she won’t tell me. She seems afraid. But why? Who could she be afraid of?
And then, glancing about as she waited for her coat, Rose looked into an open doorway—the room looked like a man’s study: worn leather chairs, an antique map, and huge 1920s posters of great operas framed on the walls. Over the fireplace, with its massive brass lion’s-head andirons, hung an oil painting of a young woman in a blue chiffon dress, hands resting in her lap. Pale as she was, she seemed to glow with warmth and life, as if she might step right down into the room.
Rose, intrigued, drew closer, crossing the threshold. Stopping before the fireplace, she stared up at the portrait, at the willowy green-eyed woman with hair like watered silk. Then she noticed something else, a bit of red shining below her ear, a ruby set in gold, and shaped like a teardrop. The artist had painted it with such skill it actually seemed to sparkle.
Rose felt dizzy, her heart leaping with quick, shallow beats, like a stone skipping over the surface of a pond. It’s her ... my guardian angel.
Garden of Lies Page 56