Garden of Lies (51 page)

Spotting him, she broke into a smile. “Hi!” She gave a little wave from twenty feet away, and

Max saw a dozen heads turn and stare. Even the proper Brits, Max noted with amusement, knew a

good thing when they saw it.

Rose slid into the chair opposite his. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing hard, as if

she’d been in too much of a hurry to wait for the elevator—which in this stately old hotel moved

from floor to floor like an aged family retainer—and had run all the way downstairs. Her scent

was like a gust of fresh air from a garden window hastily flung open.

“Sorry I’m late. I was dead to the world. Jet lag, I guess. You should have knocked on my door

before you came down.”

God, if she’d only known how close he’d come last night to doing a lot more than just

knocking.

“I figured you needed the rest,” he told her. “Besides, we have plenty of time. The meeting

with Rathbone isn’t until eleven. It seems his client feels it’s essential to sleep in even later than a

certain New York lady lawyer I know.”

Rose smiled. “Thanks. But just for the record, I was up half the night getting my notes

organized. My God, the amount of papers [308] generated by one half-assed remark! Say, is that

coffee still hot? I’d love some. Been waiting long?”

“Just got here, as a matter of fact. I was enjoying the view.” He signaled the waiter. “And never

mind the coffee, I’ll order you some tea. You’re obliged to drink tea at least once your first time

in London, preferably at the Savoy. It’s the law. They stamp it on your passport.”

“Must be their way of getting back at us for the Boston tea party.” She laughed, but in her eyes

he caught the same old shadow, some deep sadness in her eyes. A familiar helplessness swept

over him. Six years now, a long time. Would she ever trust him enough to open up to him about

it?

He watched her gaze wander past him, as she leaned forward on both elbows, cupping her chin

in her palms, taking it all in—the spectacular view, the Cinerama of the Thames. Max, watching

the light play across her face, and a slow childlike wonder dawn in her huge dark eyes, wanted to

touch her so badly he found himself almost trembling.

Then his mother popped into his head, saying with one of her cynical snorts,
No fool like an

old fool.
And he felt his heart drop, suddenly, as if a trapdoor had swung down in his chest.

Dumb, dumb, how could he have ever imagined ... ?

Get involved with a married man, why should she? And one twenty years older to boot.

Fella, you are way off the wall,
a weary inner voice mocked.
She doesn’t give a shit whether

you are married or not. To her, you’re a friend, a kindly boss, a dear old father figure, the kindly

aging mentor. A cross between Edmund Gwen and Fredric March.

And one of these days she’ll get married. Even if she never gets over the bastard who put that

dark look in her eyes. She’s thirty-one
—
hell, she’s overdue. She’ll want kids before it’s too late.

He imagined her pregnant, huge with child, carrying their child,
his
child.

Then he felt disgusted with himself. Lord, how long would he go on torturing himself this

way?

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he interrupted her rapturous contemplation of the landscape.

Rose turned from the window, dropping her hands into her lap. [309] “Oh, Max, it’s heaven!

I’ve never been anywhere like this—” she ducked her head in a sheepish laugh, “well, if you want

to know the truth, I’ve never been anywhere at all. Not outside of New York, that is. London is ...

oh, it’s like a fairy tale. I half-expect to see Peter Pan fly past.”

“Aptly put.” He smiled, recalling that their opponent in today’s legal matter, Devon Clarke,

had played Peter Pan here in London. She was said to be famous for it, like Mary Martin in New

York. And famous for a few other things besides.

Like hopping into bed with every male in the company, from the lighting technician to Captain

Hook.

How ironic, he thought, that it was Devon Clarke’s infidelities that had brought them here.

If her ex-husband had only come to Max
before
he’d turned in his manuscript, hanging all the

dirty lingerie out to air, Max would have banged some sense into his head and made him cut

those tidbits. But Jonathon Booth, it was clear now, had been just as bent on revenging himself on

Devon for cuckolding him, and so blatantly, as she was now on punishing him. Quite amazing,

she’d refused even to discuss settling out of court. She’d been demanding the whole dog and

pony show.

Then last week, that desperate call from Jonathon. Devon, it seemed, was finally willing to

talk, but only if Jonathon’s lawyer flew to London to negotiate ... at Jonathon’s expense, of

course.

Rose had written all the pleadings on the case, and had done the research, so he had asked her

to come along. And he also was playing a hunch. Rose had a peculiar talent for getting at a

problem sideways, like a crab. In this case, that talent might make all the difference.

Max observed that a flush had crept into Rose’s cheeks, outlining the high spoon-shaped curve

of her cheekbones. Then she laughed. “Peter Pan? Oh God, I just remembered that part in Jon’s

book, when he found her in bed with Lady Hemphill’s sixteen-year-old twin sons. God, how

weird!”

“Of course we know she wasn’t doing it for fun.” Max made himself keep a very straight face.

“She’s a method actress. She was just studying her part, trying to ... how did she put it? Oh yes ...

‘transmogrify’ herself into the soul of a teenage boy.”

[310] Rose chuckled, then said, “She sounds interesting, this Devon Clarke. Believe it or not,

I’m actually looking forward to this meeting. Are you sure she’ll be there?”

“Yes, and she’ll probably be wearing sequins and bells. I think she’s enjoying all this. Good

publicity for her new show. She’s in a revival of
Blithe Spirit.
At first the Haymarket was half

empty, and now I hear she’s selling out every night.”

To the waiter who had materialized at their table, he ordered, “Tea for the lady.”

“Max, I don’t know. Do you think I’ll be able to hold my own with a woman like that?”

“You’re forgetting, you’re the intrepid one. Remember, that little sportscar ride, you nearly

breaking both our necks to prove that damn thing wasn’t safe? I promise you, Devon Clarke

won’t be half as tricky. Or nearly as dangerous.” He passed her the napkin-covered basket in

front of him. “Brioche?”

“Thanks. I’m starved.” She helped herself to a pastry. “Speaking of cyclones, human or

otherwise, you were right, you know, what you did. Did I ever tell you? How much I admired you

for risking your job that way.”

Max fell silent, remembering. The meeting with Graydon Wilkes, chairman of Pace Auto, two

days after that hair-raising ride. Max had bluntly accused him of withholding vital information,

and just as bluntly informed him of what the consequences would be if such information should

ever become public.

“You’ll have so many lawsuits on your hands you won’t know which way to turn,” he’d told

Wilkes. “You’ll spawn a whole new breed of ambulance chasers—lawyers who specialize in

suing Pace Auto, like the ones who handle nothing but asbestos or DES suits. They’ll take you to

the cleaners. Ream you. You’ll be lucky to be left with the skin of your back.”

Wilkes had turned as gray as his sharkskin suit. Then he had given Max a look of such hatred,

Max had been sure he was about to be fired. In fact, he would have quit, walked out the door, if

Wilkes hadn’t, after an interminable minute, dropped his eyes and said, “All right. Let’s do a

recall.”

Max remembered how high he’d been flying, and he felt some of that now, seeing the way

Rose was looking at him, proud and pleased. “No, you never told me,” he said.

[311] Rose frowned, her eyes turning dark, pensive.

Now Max felt deflated, as if he were falling, tumbling to earth like a broken kite.

“A lot was happening at the time ... ,” he began, adding hesitantly, “It was right after you ...

when you were so sick.”

“Oh. Yes ... of course.” She looked away, but not before he caught that ghost hurt in her eyes.

Dammit, why wouldn’t she talk about it? Wasn’t six years long enough?

Six years. His thoughts went reeling back to those weeks Rose had been ill, feverish for several

days, then so weak she could hardly get out of bed. No, the truth was, she hadn’t
wanted
to get

up. After a while, she had grown so thin it had frightened him, seeing the cadaverous hollows in

her face, the sunken brackets of her collarbone. So every day he made time to visit her, on his

lunch hour or after work. He would bring her food, tempting her with stuffed squabs, hot spinach

pie, crusty fresh bread from Balducci’s one day, spicy Szechuan take-out the next. He’d ply her

with magazines, paperback novels, and finally, when she began to show some interest in getting

better, a stack of paperwork from the office. Slowly, slowly, she had inched her way back to the

land of the living.

Max knew what had caused it; he knew about Brian. He had pieced the story together from the

little Rose had divulged, but mostly from the media coverage—after the story in the
News
there

had been pieces in
Newsweek,
a photo story in
Life,
even a spot on the
Today
show. They were

America’s favorite sweethearts for a week or so.

But Rose never spoke of Brian after that first week. She suffered, he knew. It was in her eyes.

God, those eyes. They haunted him, even when he wasn’t with her. And heaven only knew what

was in her heart, her poor heart that had been ravaged so.

Oddly, after that, she became harder, stronger, more ... brilliant somehow. A diamond chiseled

and faceted by tragedy. First, nonstop studying for her bachelor’s degree. Then law school, the

same single-minded energy electing her to the
Law Review
at Columbia. He and his partners

hadn’t done her any favor when they took her back, as an associate. If anything, it was the other

way around.

The arrival of the tea broke Max’s reverie.

He felt his gloom lifting, turning to amusement, watching Rose take it all in, eyes wide. The

tall domed Sheffield teapot, the silver [312] tea strainer that fit over the mouth of the cup, the

bowl heaped with glistening brown lumps of Demerara, the white china pitcher filled with

steaming water, the creamer brimming with foamy milk.

She stared at the array of paraphernalia on the white damask tablecloth. “I don’t know where to

start. Are you sure they don’t offer a course in this?”

The childlike perplexity on her face reminded him so of Monkey he felt a pang of

homesickness for his daughter. He thought of how she had watched him pack for this trip,

perched on the edge of the quilted bedspread—all legs and skinny arms and russet hair down to

the middle of her back—solemnly following the progression of shirts, ties, socks he was folding

into his suitcase. This had been their ritual before every trip, since she was a baby. In the old

days, when he finished packing, he would stand there, hands on hips, lips pursed, and say,

“Hmmm, seems to me I’ve forgotten something. I wonder what.” Then Monkey would pounce

into the open suitcase, all giggles. “Me!” she would cry. “Me, Daddy!” But this time she hadn’t

picked up on her cue. When he spoke the ritual words, “I wonder what?” she had simply rolled

her eyes and said with majestic disdain, “Oh, Daddy, I’m
way
too old for that.”

Fifteen. Oh Christ, where had the time gone? He was frightened by the ease with which people

you love could slip away. He mustn’t let that happen with Rose. No, he must keep her ... as a

friend, if not a lover.

Max picked up the thick white china pitcher.

“Here, let me show you.” And in the same instant he thought ruefully,
Henry Higgins, you

stupid old fart, don’t you know when to quit?
“Milk first, like so. Now you strain the tea through

this. Careful, only halfway. It’s very strong, that’s what the hot water is for, to dilute it. Now

sugar if you like. Voila!”

He watched Rose take a first, tentative sip. “Not bad. But all this fuss over a cup of tea, it’s no

wonder they lost the war against us.”

“Drink up.” Max glanced again at his watch. “The Brits haven’t lost yet ... not until we see the

whites of Devon Clarke’s eyes,” he joked.

Max shifted impatiently in the leather wing chair. It was twenty past one, and the Gray’s Inn

office of Adams Rathbone, Esq., had [313] begun to feel like a sauna. They were no closer to a

settlement than they’d been two and a half hours ago. He felt as if he were in a tedious drawing-

room play, where characters cleverly sniped at one another, but nothing ever really happened.

Even this office, he thought, looked like a stage set. All cluttered with Victorian gimcrack—

horsehair sofa laden with cushions, an antique needlepoint bellpull by the door, a scrimshaw tusk

mounted over the fireplace. There was even a chair off in the corner piled high with books