daughter.…
Rachel had phoned last week with the news, sounding more relieved than happy. Drew was so good with Iris, she’d pointed out; he would look after her, make sure nothing bad happened. As if that were any reason to marry! At the same time, Sylvie had heard the anxiety in Rachel’s voice, like a stitch pulled tight. She knew how easy it was to fool yourself into thinking that any port in a storm, even a marriage rooted in guilt and fear, was better than none.
Sylvie had wanted to argue how wrongheaded it would be. But she didn’t dare. Hadn’t she done enough already? All those years ago, turning two innocent lives—Rose’s and Rachel’s—irreversibly inside out. If it hadn’t been for her own arrogance in believing that fate could be twisted, physically wrenched like a broken bone being set, none of this would be happening. Rachel might not be losing sleep over a daughter as troubled as she was charmed. And Rose worrying over a son who felt responsible for everyone but himself.
Rose. Sylvie hadn’t spoken to her since the party, but guessed that Rose, as fond as she was of Iris, had to be beside herself. Under the circumstances, what mother wouldn’t be?
It was all Sylvie could do not to put in her two cents. And this morning, after tossing and turning all night, hadn’t she nearly done so? She’d been dialing Rachel’s number, in fact, when reason finally got the upper hand. What, after all, could Rachel do? Or Rose? Drew and Iris were old enough to know their own minds, if not their hearts. Either God would guide them onto the right path, or they would stumble onto it themselves. Interfering might, in the end, only make matters worse.
Seeing how nice a day it was turning out to be—sunny, but not too humid—Sylvie had decided to prune her roses instead.
Yet here it was nearly three in the afternoon, and she had only just now set foot outdoors. Where had the time gone? She’d lingered over breakfast, true—eating was such a chore when you had no appetite—then had indulged in a short nap that had somehow stretched into a long one. Before she knew it, Milagros was standing over her bed with a lunch tray, looking as if there would be the devil to pay if Sylvie didn’t take at least a spoonful or two of the nice soup she’d fixed.
Poor Milagros, who used to come in three days a week—Nikos had prevailed on her to move in so as to keep an eye on Sylvie while he was at work. Sylvie hated it, of course. Having her housekeeper fuss over her was an affront to her independence and her privacy … but most of all, she hated it because it was necessary.
The least she could do, Sylvie resolved, was to continue filling the house with the scent of fresh-cut roses.
Stooping with her secateurs to snip a pinkish-gold bloom from the “Peace” rose that had overtaken the trellis where she stood, Sylvie thought how much easier it was to make a resolution than to keep it. Like her decision—one she’d insisted that both Nikos and Dr. Choudry honor—to shield her family from how truly ill she was. It was easy to argue that Rose and Rachel had more than enough of their own worries to handle right now. But at 2:00 A.M. , with her chest on fire and her heart racing like the engine of a car stuck in mud, sometimes not even Nikos’ loving arms and whispered reassurances were enough. What Sylvie desperately yearned for in those hours was to grab hold of what she could feel slipping away, to hang on tight to her precious loved ones—Nikos, Rose and Rachel, her grandchildren.
Faintly, from deep in the house, Sylvie heard the front door buzz.
Milagros would get it, she thought. Mostly likely it was for Nikos—a set of blueprints being delivered by hand, or some official document from the buildings department too important to risk being lost in the shuffle at his office.
She kept on with her gardening—tying back a runner, picking a Japanese beetle off a leaf riddled like fine lace. The sun settled over
Rachel had phoned last week with the news, sounding more relieved than happy. Drew was so good with Iris, she’d pointed out; he would look after her, make sure nothing bad happened. As if that were any reason to marry! At the same time, Sylvie had heard the anxiety in Rachel’s voice, like a stitch pulled tight. She knew how easy it was to fool yourself into thinking that any port in a storm, even a marriage rooted in guilt and fear, was better than none.
Sylvie had wanted to argue how wrongheaded it would be. But she didn’t dare. Hadn’t she done enough already? All those years ago, turning two innocent lives—Rose’s and Rachel’s—irreversibly inside out. If it hadn’t been for her own arrogance in believing that fate could be twisted, physically wrenched like a broken bone being set, none of this would be happening. Rachel might not be losing sleep over a daughter as troubled as she was charmed. And Rose worrying over a son who felt responsible for everyone but himself.
Rose. Sylvie hadn’t spoken to her since the party, but guessed that Rose, as fond as she was of Iris, had to be beside herself. Under the circumstances, what mother wouldn’t be?
It was all Sylvie could do not to put in her two cents. And this morning, after tossing and turning all night, hadn’t she nearly done so? She’d been dialing Rachel’s number, in fact, when reason finally got the upper hand. What, after all, could Rachel do? Or Rose? Drew and Iris were old enough to know their own minds, if not their hearts. Either God would guide them onto the right path, or they would stumble onto it themselves. Interfering might, in the end, only make matters worse.
Seeing how nice a day it was turning out to be—sunny, but not too humid—Sylvie had decided to prune her roses instead.
Yet here it was nearly three in the afternoon, and she had only just now set foot outdoors. Where had the time gone? She’d lingered over breakfast, true—eating was such a chore when you had no appetite—then had indulged in a short nap that had somehow stretched into a long one. Before she knew it, Milagros was standing over her bed with a lunch tray, looking as if there would be the devil to pay if Sylvie didn’t take at least a spoonful or two of the nice soup she’d fixed.
Poor Milagros, who used to come in three days a week—Nikos had prevailed on her to move in so as to keep an eye on Sylvie while he was at work. Sylvie hated it, of course. Having her housekeeper fuss over her was an affront to her independence and her privacy … but most of all, she hated it because it was necessary.
The least she could do, Sylvie resolved, was to continue filling the house with the scent of fresh-cut roses.
Stooping with her secateurs to snip a pinkish-gold bloom from the “Peace” rose that had overtaken the trellis where she stood, Sylvie thought how much easier it was to make a resolution than to keep it. Like her decision—one she’d insisted that both Nikos and Dr. Choudry honor—to shield her family from how truly ill she was. It was easy to argue that Rose and Rachel had more than enough of their own worries to handle right now. But at 2:00 A.M. , with her chest on fire and her heart racing like the engine of a car stuck in mud, sometimes not even Nikos’ loving arms and whispered reassurances were enough. What Sylvie desperately yearned for in those hours was to grab hold of what she could feel slipping away, to hang on tight to her precious loved ones—Nikos, Rose and Rachel, her grandchildren.
Faintly, from deep in the house, Sylvie heard the front door buzz.
Milagros would get it, she thought. Mostly likely it was for Nikos—a set of blueprints being delivered by hand, or some official document from the buildings department too important to risk being lost in the shuffle at his office.
She kept on with her gardening—tying back a runner, picking a Japanese beetle off a leaf riddled like fine lace. The sun settled over
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