Garden of Lies (28 page)

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.

Please, God, this time let there be one. It’s been so long, two whole months, and I’ve been so

patient. Just one letter, a postcard, anything. I know he’s not dead, because his mom and dad get

letters. There has to be a good reason I haven’t gotten one.

But what if that was the reason, because he didn’t love her anymore?

Rose felt herself begin to sweat, a coin of clamminess between her breasts that was spreading

in a circle like a drop of water on a blotter, making her armpits soggy, sticking the back of her

blouse to her shoulder blades under her thick wool coat. But at the same time in her stomach she

felt an icy lump of fear.
Please ... oh please let there be a letter this time. ...

Then she became aware that a body wedged against her back was moving. A male body that so

reeked of cigarettes she could smell it from behind was undulating against her. Dear Jesus, even

through the thickness of her coat she could
feel
him, his hardness. Anger and loathing boiled up

inside her.

She tried squirming away, but she was jammed in on all sides, and meanwhile he only pressed

closer. She couldn’t even turn and see who he was, dammit.
Pervert, creep, he probably makes

obscene phone calls to little girls.

[165] Then Rose thought of the book tucked under her arm, the bound 1967
Law Review

volume. She angled it downward, and brought her elbow back in a knifing motion, the heavy

book giving the blow added weight. She felt it connect, and heard a surprised grunt. The pressure

against her back abruptly eased.

Then they were jerking to a stop, doors sliding open, the conductor bawling, “De Kalb Avenue,

next stop Atlantic!” Passengers squirmed out and then even more shoved themselves in. Rose had

an urge to charge between them and fling herself free out onto the platform. The next train

probably wouldn’t be as crowded, and at least she’d be rid of the pervert.

But no. She gritted her teeth and hung on. She had to get home. To Brian’s letter. Yes, today

there would be one, she was sure of it. Maybe several, a whole bunch of them, all the letters he’d

have sent her, which had somehow gotten misdirected, or stuck in the wrong post office

somehow.

“Just this one thing, God,” she whispered under her breath, her prayer drowned out by the