She thought of the place in Murray Hill she’d bought last month, a wreck ... in worse condition even than this house had been.
Now she was spending her days tramping through [525] rubble-strewn rooms, sweet-talking Building Department inspectors, counting deliveries of tile and lumber, haggling with contractors. But eventually the raw work would be done, and she could begin the part she loved best—the finishing touches, the lovely details. Each room like a blank canvas awaiting her brush.
The excitement of it! A cup of coffee first thing, then off to D and D for wallpaper samples and fabric swatches, to the Bowery for lighting fixtures, or to a huge warehouse she knew of in Red Hook, full of dusty architectural remnants—mantels, stained-glass windows, ancient paint-encrusted doors.
Then, at the end of the day, her reward, a hot bath, a glass of sherry, a quiet dinner. And best of all, Nikos. Friend, lover, partner. He would make a wonderful husband, too. If only—
Sylvie started at the sound of the heavy pocket doors rolling back on their tracks.
“You look so relaxed, I thought you were asleep.” Nikos’s voice, low and husky, stole up behind her. Then she felt the warm brush of his lips against the nape of her neck. “Darling Sylvie. You were the belle of the ball tonight.”
He came around and sat across from her in the wing chair. He looked so handsome in his tuxedo, Sylvie thought, yet distant somehow, like some distinguished senator chairing a fund-raising banquet.
Nikos leaned back heavily, pushing his fingers through his hair, then unbuttoning his jacket, tugging at his bow tie and studs. She watched as his throat, broad and brown, appeared in the gap of his undone collar. Now he looked like hers again, a man of earth and fire.
“I think I had one too many glasses of champagne,” she said and laughed. “The only bell I know about is the one ringing in my head, I’m afraid.”
“Well, then, I shall have to put you to bed,” he said and smiled, points of reflected firelight leaping in his black eyes.
Sylvie felt something tighten in her chest. “No ... not tonight, darling ... I should get home. I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. The architect at eight-thirty, then over to Phillip’s. There’s a Tiffany transom I have my eye on. It would be perfect for the Murray Hill house.”
“Sylvie ...” Nikos was leaning forward, his elbows braced on [526] his knees, his blunt weathered hands forming a steeple upon which his chin rested. He looked troubled. “I may not be the most educated man, but I know an excuse when I hear one. And you have been running away from me all week ... is there something you wish to tell me?”
Sylvie stared into the dying fire, and felt sadness well up in her. She heard the soft ticking of rain against the windowpanes. Spring rain always seemed the coldest to her. Why was that?
An old memory swam up. She’d been trudging to school in her yellow hooded rain slicker and red rubber boots. Halfway there, accidentally she stepped into a big puddle, her boots filling with water, her feet feeling all slushy and cold. She had sat down on the curb and peeled the boots off—shoes and socks, too. But then, she couldn’t undo the wet laces to put the shoes back on. So she just sat there, crying, until a man came along and called Mama from a phone booth.
She thought: I’ve spent most of my life feeling weak and stupid, waiting for some man to come and rescue me.
No more. She’d stand on her own.
“I can’t marry you, Nikos,” she said softly. “I won’t put you off any longer. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Nikos seemed frozen, as if this time she were looking at a photograph of him, sitting there, tie askew, chin resting on the steeple of his fingers, his eyes like two holes burned in his leathery face.
“It’s ironic in a way,” she went on, seeing him double now, her eyes filling with tears, “because it was you who helped me see that I could survive on my own. I never would have if it hadn’t been for you. But now I like having them ask my opinion at the bank. I like knowing that if the roof caved in, I wouldn’t panic, I would handle it. I like being ... in charge.”
“I don’t want your submission,” Nikos said, his hands opening in supplication. “Only your love.”
“You have that, my dear. Always.”
“Then, why?”
“Because ...” she thought, forming her words carefully, “... I know myself too well. Each day I would grow a little more dependent on you, a little more afraid to try things on my own. It’s not your fault, Nikos. It’s just the way I am. And perhaps that’s my greatest strength ... to be able to see my own weaknesses.”
[527] “Oh, Sylvie.” She saw there now were tears in his eyes, too. “It is I who am weak. I don’t know how I could survive without you.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “I only meant I couldn’t marry you. But that doesn’t mean we have to stop seeing each another, does it?”
“Perhaps not.” He sighed, leaning back. “But I would always be pulling in that direction. I want a wife, Sylvie. I miss being married. I’m growing old ... too old to chase about, not knowing which bed I’m waking up in, yours or mine. I want you. All the time, not just here and there.”
Sylvie felt a tug at her heart, but not as strong a pull as she’d feared. “Oh, Nikos, there is nothing wrong with what you want. And I wish I could give it to you. If it was just a ... a matter of handing it over, I would do it gladly. In fact, you have my heart already ... but I cannot give you more than that.”
There was silence, and Sylvie heard a sudden noise, like a sigh. She looked over, and saw that the embers in the fireplace had fallen in on themselves, and a swarm of sparks was spiraling up the chimney.
She felt calm, strangely. As if this decision had been a steep hill she had finished climbing, and now she could rest for a bit.
After waiting a long while for him to say something more, she decided to take a chance, and stretched out her hand to where he sat.
For an awful moment her hand seemed to hang in midair, heavy and cold.
Would he push her away? Be angry at her? Oh please, God, don’t let him be angry. I love him, and I still need him in so many ways. ...
Then, blessedly, she felt Nikos’s strong warm fingers curling about hers; and now he was rising, pulling her to her feet.
“You think you have conquered me, do you, my headstrong Sylvie?” He was frowning, but his eyes were tender.
“Beaten you? Oh, Nikos, please don’t think of it that way. I only meant that if I married you, I wouldn’t remain the woman you love now.”
“You are wrong. I will love you always, in whatever guise. And I do not give up so easily, as you well know. Not when I am truly determined.”
[528] “But, Nikos.” Sylvie smiled. “You already have me.”
“Forever?”
“For tonight, tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that, and—”
“I see. Well, then, we shall start now. With tonight. Will you stay with me tonight?”
She saw through Nikos’s strategy, and smiled. Oh well, it wouldn’t hurt to give in just a little, would it?
Then he was rising, pulling her to her feet, and into his arms, his hard bulk warming her, his stiff shirt collar tickling her neck. Sylvie smiled to herself, her heart beating much too quickly. Oh yes, she understood now. All the tomorrows Nikos would string together, on and on.
“Well ... I suppose I could cancel that architect tomorrow morning,” she said. She would let him think he’d won, when really she had already decided.
“And in the morning,” he murmured, “you must stay for breakfast. I need your advice about something. That little patch of ground out in back, I’ve been thinking about planting roses there. ...”
About the e-Book
(July, 2003)—Scanned, proofed, corrected and formatted by Bibliophile.
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Garden of Lies Page 59