Garden of Lies (70 page)

sidewalk seeping up through the thin soles of her sandals seeming to slow her, as if she were

trudging across the salt flats of Death Valley.

She wanted to be home, first a cold shower, then naked with Max under the lazily spinning

ceiling fan in the bedroom they now shared. She thought of how he would make love to her,

slowly, with infinite tenderness. She felt herself go soft in the knees, and between her legs, just

imagining.

All at once, though, she felt afraid, confused.

How?
How can I want Max that way? Isn’t it Brian I love?

And Max, what does he want from me?

A little warmth, she supposed, after so many years of a cold marriage. A friendly face to wake

up next to in the morning, someone to encourage him, reassure him that there was, indeed, life

after divorce.

And afterwards, when he moved on, what then? Would they be just friends again? Could they

really go back to what they’d had? Rose felt a surge of loneliness.

She reached for his hand, and felt reassured. His fingers wrapped tightly about hers.

“We’re here,” he said.

“Where?” She hadn’t been watching the street signs, just following him in a sort of daze. Now

she looked up, saw a limitless expanse of gray granite with mammoth Art Deco trimmings. The

Empire State Building.

[431] “Come on,” Max said, “I’ll take you to the top. There’s a nice breeze up there.”

“Isn’t it too late? The Observation Deck will be closed.”

Max winked. “Don’t worry, I have my connections.”

Minutes later they were in an elevator, rocketing up.

“Old friend of my father’s,” Max explained, telling her about the elderly janitor who’d

unlocked this elevator for them. “Pop got Moe his job here. And the guy’s been here on the same

night shift practically since the place was built. He knows it probably better than he knows his

own wife and kids.”

The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped out. The King Kong T-shirts, Big Apple mugs,

and Yankee pennants opposite them in the window of the darkened souvenir shop looked forlorn.

He led her down a short flight of stairs, through a glass door, and then they were outside, a cool

breeze whipping past the high plexiglass shield, tugging at her hair, her skirt. Rose felt as if she’d

been plunged into an invisible river and was being caught up in the cool momentum of its current.

She leaned out as far as she could, breathless at the sight of Manhattan strung out below like a

great jeweled web. She had been up here only once before, on a school field trip, but never at

night. The gritty city was transformed into something magical. Gone were the hot, dirty

sidewalks, the angry pushing crowds, the jangling traffic sounds. She felt as if she were being

given a gift, an exquisite Carder necklace presented to her in an equally splendid velvet box.

She turned, and caught Max’s gaze. He was watching her, not the view. His clear blue eyes

were fixed on her, a small smile on his lips. Rose thought,
You wonderful man. You knew. You

wanted to surprise me.

“Thank you,” she told him.

“My father used to take me up here at night,” Max said, slipping an arm about her shoulders,

his bulk a warm cove she slipped into easily. “He’d hold me up, and I’d feel as big as King Kong.

And he’d say, ‘See that, Maxie. You’re on top of the world! And it’s all yours. All you gotta do is

grab on to it.’ ”

“Well, in a way you did, didn’t you?”

Max dropped his head slightly and was silent, his face in shadow. [432] She felt as if he had

slipped away somehow, and she touched his arm, wanting to follow wherever it was he had gone.

Was he thinking about his daughter? The divorce papers had been drawn up, so Mandy had to

know he wasn’t ever coming home. That had to have been tough for Max to explain.

Max looked up, smiled, his expression so sad she wanted to hug him, tell him everything

would be all right. But she couldn’t promise that. Who knew better than she how mercurial life

could be?

“It’s funny,” he said. “I used to think Pop had it figured right. That’s what life really was all

about, success and making lots of money. He thought so, because he never had either. And what

you don’t have is always more important to you than what you do have. But I know better now. I

don’t have to be on top of the Empire State to grab on to life. No, not when it’s here. Right next

to me.”

He turned, staring straight at her, and the lights from below caught his face, stunning her, as if

she had been groping through a tunnel, and had emerged suddenly into blinding daylight.

She understood. It all became clear. What he was saying, the way he was looking at her.

Dear sweet Jesus, he’s in love with me.

How long? she wondered. How long had he loved her, and she too deaf, dumb, and blind to see

it?

Looking at him now, at the clear love shining from his face, the sad knowing look in his eyes,

she realized with an exquisite, nearly heart-stopping pang that probably it had been a long time.

Longer than they’d been lovers. Maybe for years.

Rose saw it all now. His many kindnesses, each one like a tiny pearl, small and inconsequential

by itself, but strung together, one after another, they had multiplied into a beautiful and precious

necklace wound about her throat. He had given her the greatest gift of all, the kind that asked

nothing in return.

Tears filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Wrong thing to say, all wrong.
But it was all she could think of.

“Don’t be.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckle, his touch so light it might have been the

wind.

“I didn’t realize.”

“I know.”

[433] “Oh, Max ... I wish ...” she broke off, not knowing what to say, only what she felt. That it

was hopeless.

He stroked her hair, gently, rhythmically, as if she were a child in need of comforting. She

thought she could hear his heart beating, pounding like a hammer.

“I know,” he said. “You’re in love with Brian.”

“Yes.”

“Even though he’s married.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you’re handling his wife’s case? Because of Brian?”

“Partly.” She shrugged. “Yes.” But there was more, too, and she wanted to tell him. “This

might sound strange, but ... I like her. She’s straight, and so incredibly dedicated.”

“And Brian? Is he still in love with you?”

“Brian? I don’t think it’s as simple as yes or no. I’ve known him forever. We’re part of each

other, in a way. So there’s a piece of Brian that’s always belonged to me, and always will. But

he’s confused right now. He has to sort things out for himself. When he has, I’ll know.”

“And you’re prepared to wait?”

“Yes.”

She hated hurting Max, but she told him the truth. “As long as I have to. As long as it takes.”

“I see,” he said softly.

Rose had watched a ten-story apartment building being demolished once, and she still

remembered the sight of it collapsing, not exploding like a bomb, but folding in on itself, floor by

floor, with an odd sort of grace, like an ancient dowager attempting a curtsey. Max reminded her

of that now. Folding in on himself, the planes of his face shifting, caving like sections of wall.

She wanted to reach out, stop him from hurting.

But all she could do was put her arms around him, while a strong wind tore at her as if it meant

to carry her away. The only thing that seemed to anchor her to the concrete floor was the huge,

aching weight of her heart.

“Max,” she murmured. “Oh, Max, I wish it could be you. More than anything in the world.”

Max wanted her. She could feel it as she held him.

[434] And the funny thing was, she wanted him, too. She longed to give him what she could,

even if it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t a little love better than none at all?

Suddenly, Max was kissing her, and she was kissing him back. Hard, bruising kisses, not like

the gentle lovemaking those other times. Desperate kisses that spoke of endings rather than

beginnings. With a groan, Max sank to his knees, pressing his face into the furrow where the

wind molded her skirt to her thighs. His fingers digging into her buttocks, his breath heating her

through the thin fabric.

Rose arched against him, her head back, letting the wind ride over her face and stream through

her hair.

Max was reaching under her skirt, tugging at her panties, his nails scraping her thighs. And

dear God, she was helping him.

Now her panties were balled in her fist, a scrap of lace, a whisper of silk—she’d bought them

at Lord & Taylor’s after that first night they had spent together—and she tossed them into the

wind, watching a strong gust catch at the silvery slip of fabric, sending it up over the partition in a

long swooping arc. Then sailing out over the dark canyons and glittering avenues below like

some fantastic bird.

She turned back to Max, riding her skirt up over her naked thighs, and whispered, “Yes, take

me.”

Chapter 31

Sylvie lay beside Nikos in the dark, aching, exhausted. It was the first time they had made love

in her bed. The bed she had shared with Gerald.

He’d been a little rough, not like the other times. And so quick, hardly caressing her, as if he

wanted it to be over, get it out of the way.

Was he angry with her?

She listened to the labored flow of his breathing, feeling her own heart wind down little by

little. The hot darkness felt almost smothering. She groped for Nikos’s hand across the tangle of

sheets, and felt a flood of relief as his fingers closed about hers.

Sylvie went back over the evening in her mind. A superb dinner at Caravelle with a spectacular

bottle of Chateau Ausone to celebrate the house, finished at last. She’d wanted tonight to be

special, each detail perfect, exquisite, down to her dress, soft green Burmese silk, the leaves of a

Monet water lily. It matched her eyes, and the emeralds in her ears. Yet Nikos hardly seemed to

notice. He had been polite, but distracted, his mind on other things. And now this heavy silence.

What was he thinking?

She squeezed his hand, hoping for a response.

Yet she already knew. In her heart she dreaded his words. It had been building between them

for three weeks, since she had told him about Rose. Nikos had been quieter, more pensive, but

she’d sensed his turmoil.

“I saw her,” Nikos said. “Rose.”

Sylvie felt her chest grow tight, her lungs constrict, as if she were sipping air through a straw.

I
should never have told him,
she thought.
I
should have kept the secret. What good could I

ever have thought would come of my telling him?

“She is beautiful. And smart,” Nikos went on, his voice ragged. [436] “If you only knew ... if

you could see her, Sylvie, my God, our
daughter.”

Sylvie, unable to bear the huge pressing weight on her chest, pulled herself up. She kicked off

the sheets that clung to her ankles, and swung her legs over the side of the mattress.

Her legs were rubbery as she crossed the carpet, snatching her dressing gown from the

needlepoint bench in front of the vanity. She pulled it on too quickly, hearing something rip in

one sleeve. As if it mattered, as if anything mattered now.

She sank down on the Recamier daybed, its worn velvet cushions folding about her, seeming to

hide her, bury her.

The tall French windows were open, a lukewarm breeze lifting the skirts of the parted lace

curtains. In the moonlight, Sylvie could make out the shapes of her roses, but no colors, as if she

were looking at a black and white photograph. The Shot Silk that had climbed up past the

wrought-iron balcony railing, its huge blossoms peeking through the harp-shaped balustrades.

And the Blue Nile, pale against the ivy blanketing the south wall.

Oh, keep them safe,
she prayed.
My daughters. Keep them from harm. Punish me, not them.

“For thirty-two years I’ve wanted nothing more than to know my real daughter,” she said softly

into the perfumed night. “Oh, Nikos, you don’t know, you can’t imagine! Your own little girl—to

know she’s out there somewhere, in trouble perhaps, or unhappy, and you can’t help her. You

can’t hold her in your arms and make everything all right. I’ve dreamed so often of that ... dear

God, to
hold
her ... just for a moment. To ask her forgiveness. What I would give for that!” She

held her arms out. “All this, everything ...”

She turned toward the dark silhouette sitting up in bed, the pain in her heart so great she

thought she might die. “Even you, my darling Nikos.”

Now he was rising, shadowy, now stepping into the silver light, solid and glowing as he

crossed to where she sat. He crouched at her side, taking her cold hands in his.

“I am sorry, my Sylvie. For all you have suffered. I do not blame you. You must never think

that. I only wish ...” His voice broke, and his eyes glinted in the moonstruck darkness. “I wish I

had known, years ago. Our child,
my child,
raised by strangers ... [437] it hurts to think of it ...

and if I had known, things would have been so different. Sylvie, Sylvie—why didn’t you tell me

before?”

He
did
blame her. And he had a right to. Could she really have expected him to feel any