Thorns of Truth by Eileen Goudge Page B

Except for the one glimpse of her daughter just after Rose’s birth, Sylvie had not laid eyes on her until that moment. She remembered the shame she’d felt … and the longing. She’d yearned to hold her daughter. To give Rose something of herself.
    On impulse, Sylvie had snatched the earring from one ear and thrust it into the hand of the child gaping at her in disbelief. A mistake, of course. She’d realized it at once. What must that astonished little girl have thought? How could she have imagined that the strange lady acting so crazy was the mother she hadn’t even known existed?
    Yet that lone earring had proved to be the compass that years later had led Rose back to her, to this very spot.
    Had her daughter ever regretted seeking her out, finding the truth?
    Over the years, their friendship had grown, like the roses in her garden—slowly, and not without its thorns. But they never spoke, except obliquely, of the secrets that had been revealed that cold afternoon.
    Now, as she saw the sun flash off the ruby teardrops in her daughter’s ears, it struck Sylvie that Rose must have worn them for a reason. And that maybe whatever it was had something to do with why she was here today.…
    Sylvie shivered, her fingers growing icy again.
    Inside, the house felt cooler than usual for this time of day. Sylvie led the way through the sun-splashed morning room, with its chintz-cushioned wicker chairs and forest of potted plants, down the hallway, and into the sitting room just off the parlor.
    Sinking onto the velvet sofa, she felt embraced somehow. In this room, unchanged in over half a century—since she’d come here as a young bride—she could honestly believe that the best things in life were the most lasting. Her tired gaze welcomed the sight of her Queen Anne secretary, glowing in the muted sunlight as if freshly polished. And the rich jewel tones of the Berber rug in front of the fireplace, with its ornate lion-headed brass andirons. Even the flowers arranged in the Chinese vase on the marble mantel—a mass of daylilies and gladioli—seemed a part of the lovely timelessness.
    She watched Rose lower herself into the easy chair under a pair of framed Audubon prints. “Sorry to sneak up on you like this,” she apologized with a nervous little laugh. “You’ve probably guessed why I’m here.” The polite smile slipped from her face. “Rachel, I’m sure, has told you.”
    “About the engagement? Yes.” Sylvie sighed.
    Dear Lord, give me the strength to help her.…
    Rose was frowning, her face clouded. At the same time, Sylvie couldn’t help thinking how much lovelier she had become with middle age. The bold features that had once seemed too large for her face softened somewhat by her years. Even the sadness she’d worn since Max died hadn’t diminished her beauty. If anything, she was even more haunting. It was hard to take your eyes off Rose—and, in some ways, even harder to look at her.
    “Then you must know, too, about the party she’s throwing.” Her daughter’s dark eyes flashed with outrage. “As if this ridiculous engagement was anything to celebrate!”
    “Celebrate? Oh no, I don’t believe Rachel sees it that way.” Sylvie didn’t add that Rachel had asked her to help organize the party, for which she’d already set a date—little more than three weeks away. “She wants for Iris to be happy, that’s all.”
    It was the wrong thing to have said, Sylvie realized at once.
    “It’s what she’s always wanted, isn’t it?” Rose replied coolly. “A magic bullet to fix whatever’s wrong with her daughter. What would surprise me, frankly, is Rachel having any illusions about it being the best thing for my son.”
    Sylvie, feeling boxed in, was moved to defend Rachel. “I know how fond she is of Drew. Rachel wouldn’t want to see either of them get hurt. Anyway,” she gently pointed out, “it isn’t up to Rachel. Or you.”
    “If it had been, believe me, I’d have had plenty