Thorns of Truth by Eileen Goudge Page A

her shoulders and the backs of her bare arms like a lovely warm shawl, thawing the ice that had taken up more or less permanent residence in her fingers and toes.
    It occurred to Sylvie that, as active as Nikos still was in his business, it had been some time since she’d missed her own. All that delicious excitement and challenge—poring over luscious fabric and wall-covering samples at the D and D building on Third, bidding at auctions, hearing the cries of delight over a room transformed from a raw space into something wonderful and inviting. But maybe she didn’t mourn it so much because she’d discovered the greater joy of simply being. Of taking the time to marvel at the curve of a rose petal … or rejoice that she was still breathing.
    Nikos, she smiled to herself, wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he were to retire; for him, working was being. But if there was a silver lining to this blighted existence of hers, she was seeing it now—in the primroses, snapdragons, and hollyhocks reaching up to touch the afternoon sun that slanted across a brick wall, and in the ladybug trundling across a hosta leaf outlined in red like a valentine.…
    “Sylvie?”
    Startled, she straightened and looked around. At first, all she could see was the sun’s reflected light backfiring off the French doors that stood open onto the patio. Then her vision cleared, and she recognized the figure walking toward her. Rose.
    Sylvie felt a flicker of anticipation that was followed, as always with Rose, by a tiny throb of regret—the knowledge that, try as she might to compensate in other ways, she would never be the mother Rose wanted, or deserved.
    Rose looked as if she’d walked all the way here—her face flushed, and her dark hair sprung loose in wild tendrils, its distinctive white stripe standing out like a feathered plume. But today was Tuesday, Sylvie remembered, and Rose was clearly dressed for the office, in a stylish suit and sensible heels. What was her daughter doing here in the middle of a weekday afternoon?
    “Goodness, you startled me!” Sylvie instinctively brought a hand to her heart. “I heard the door, but I had no idea …” She wagged an affectionately scolding finger. “You should have called to let me know, I would have put on something nice.” She looked down in chagrin at the faded housecoat she was wearing.
    Yet a day that brought one of her daughters, or grandchildren, was automatically a good one, no matter how dowdy she looked—or ill she felt. She wouldn’t let anything spoil this lovely surprise. She would ask Milagros to bring a pitcher of iced tea out to the patio, where she and Rose could sit and visit. There was even a clump of lemon mint somewhere, if she remembered correctly.… Yes, over there, under the Oriental poppies …
    “I can’t stay long,” Rose protested as Sylvie bent over to snip some mint. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. Do you have a few minutes?”
    Discuss? So formal! Sylvie smiled encouragingly.
    “Oh, I don’t know. You see how busy I am. So busy I can hardly see straight.” With a merry laugh, she stepped up onto the patio. But the effort left her winded, as if she had been dashing about … and suddenly it felt much too warm to remain outside. Gesturing toward the open French doors, she said, “Come, dear, let’s go inside, where it’s cool … and I can put my feet up.”
    Kissing her daughter’s cheek, Sylvie was pleased to see that Rose was wearing the ruby earrings that had once been hers. Old, precious—yet, like so much of what she’d tried to share with Rose, those, too, had been given to her in the most unorthodox fashion—the first earring when Rose was just a little girl, the second not until many years later.…
    Her mind slipped its groove, and she was seeing Rose again as she had on that long-ago day, standing outside her school—a little girl with olive skin and wild dark hair … and the grave eyes of a grown-up.