Garden of Lies Read online

  (from front/back flap)

  Sometimes an act that takes but moments to accomplish can change destinies forever. Garden of Lies is the unforgettable story of one such act, and of the lives irrevocably altered by that single, reckless decision.

  On a steamy July night in 1943, Sylvie Rosenthal gives birth to a dark-haired baby she knows is the child of her lover, Nikos. Tormented by the fear that her doting, wealthy husband Gerald will leave her when he learns the truth, Sylvie desperately seizes the chance fate offers her. When a fire rages through the hospital that night, she claims a newborn blonde baby of a dead woman as her own, leaving her real daughter to be raised by strangers.

  Rose, Sylvie’s real daughter, grows up in Brooklyn in genteel poverty, taking care of a hateful grandmother. It will take her years to become the successful lawyer she was born to be, tutored by the loving, brilliant Max Griffin—a man who loves her with a passion it will take years to acknowledge.

  Rachel, raised as Sylvie’s own in an elegant, rose-gardened brownstone, dedicates her life to medicine. Scarred by a disastrous romance, she volunteers to serve in Vietnam. Then, in a heroic fight to save a soldier’s life, she falls head over heels in love—only to find that the deceptions of the past have the power to destroy her. ...

  This utterly irresistible page-turner moves from the streets of Manhattan to the jungles of war-torn Vietnam and back again, exploding in a searing courtroom drama where the dark secret at the heart of Garden of Lies is revealed at last.

  Written by the year’s most exciting new novelist, Garden of Lies is a book you’ll guiltily stay up all night to finish. Richly textured and sensual, full of the passion, poignancy and drama that mark Eileen Goudge as one of our most sensational storytellers, it is a mesmerizing debut.

  This is EILEEN GOUDGE’S hardcover debut. She lives with her husband in New York City in a brownstone they restored.

  Jacket design by Neil Stuart

  Jacket illustration by Christopher Zacharow

  Hand lettering by Todd Radoni

  Author’s photograph © Jerry Bauer

  VIKING PENGUIN INC.

  40 West 23rd Street

  New York, N.Y. 10010

  Printed in U.S.A.

  Garden of Lies

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Viking Penguin Inc., 40 West 23rd Street,

  New York, New York 10010, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,

  London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 2801 John Street,

  Markham, Ontario, Canada L3R 1B4

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,

  Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published in 1989 by Viking Penguin Inc.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Eileen Goudge, 1989

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Goudge, Eileen.

  Garden of lies.

  I. Title.

  PS3557.O838G37 1989 813’.54 88-40395

  ISBN 0-670-82458-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  Set in Fournier

  Designed by Ann Gold

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  To my mother and father,

  who made it possible

  to dream

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part II

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part III

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  About the e-Book

  Acknowledgments

  One of the best reasons for writing a book, I think, is the opportunity it gives to live other lives. For this vicarious thrill, and their generous assistance, I would like to thank the following professionals: Fred Queller, for giving me a day in the life of a trial attorney, and providing his valuable time and transcripts. John Freedman, for vetting the book for legal accuracy (and staying up late to do so). Dr. Paul Wilson, for his medical expertise and thoughtful editorial comments. John Robinson (formerly First Lieutenant, 1st Battalion, Third Marines) both for helping me through the dark days of computer meltdown and for sharing his Vietnam experiences (he asks a rather unique favor—if anyone traveling to Vietnam should climb to the top of Dong Ha Mountain, please look for his class ring, which he lost in battle there twenty years ago: Cranbrook School, Class ’63, silver with blue stone). My dear friend Brenda Preston, whose roses have given me such pleasure through the years, and who provided useful information about them. Susan Ginsburg, for her guidance and for believing in me in the first place. Pamela Dorman, my editor at Viking, for her help in “fine-tuning” the book.

  And last, but far from least, my wonderful husband and agent, Al Zuckerman, who is all my heroes rolled into one, and who provided the glue that holds it (and me) together. Without him, this book truly would not have been possible.

  Prologue

  A poor widow once lived in a little cottage with a garden in front of it in which grew two rose trees, one bearing white roses, the other red. She had two daughters, who were just tike the two rose trees; one was called Snow-white and the other Rose-red. ...

  Grimm’s Fairy Tales

  NEW YORK CITY, JULY 3, 1943

  Sylvie Rosenthal stood before the tall gilt-framed mirror in the millinery department at Bergdorf’s.

  “I don’t know,” she said to the saleswoman hovering behind her. Sylvie straightened the brim of the green straw cartwheel. “You don’t think perhaps it’s a bit too much?”

  “I saw Eleanor Roosevelt wearing one just like it, in a newsreel just last week,” the plump saleswoman offered. “Of course, she wasn’t ... ah, expecting.” She dropped her voice to a funereal hush.

  Sylvie felt a flash of irritation. Why was everyone always reminding her? Dear God, couldn’t they let her forget just once?

  She fingered the brim with its niching of apple-green tulle, her annoyance at the woman lost in a wave of self-doubt. Oh dear, if only Gerald were here. I never know what to choose. And I’ll feel so awful if he doesn’t like
it.

  She took the hat off, and peered at her reflection, feeling, as she had so many times in the eight years since her marriage, puzzled, unworthy even. When he says I’m beautiful, God knows what he sees.

  She saw a long, thin face, ordinary except for the eyes. They were wide, a champagne-bottle green, and her lashes and eyebrows were so pale, they were almost invisible. Her eyes seemed somehow to look perpetually astonished.

  Sylvie remembered Gerald once telling her she reminded him of a Tenniel engraving of Alice. She smiled to herself. Yes, perhaps he’s right about that. I do think I’m in Wonderland sometimes.

  She glanced around her. Shopping here at Bergdorf’s was incredible, a secret paradise seemingly untouched by the war. The stone urns erupting in sprays of tiger lilies and orchids. The delicate French tables and bow-front vitrines filled with lovely hand-blown perfume bottles—even if these days the perfume itself was ersatz. [4] The enormous crystal chandelier suspended from the marble rotunda. How far she’d come from the days she’d picked over the sale table at Ohrbachs, when paying more than five dollars for a hat would have been unthinkable. Yes, she thought, I have tumbled right down the hole into Wonderland.

  Tomorrow, the Golds’ annual Fourth of July lawn party, and pregnant or not, she was looking forward to it. The red-white-and-blue striped tents; the smoky mouth-watering barbecue smells; then dancing to Lester Lanin on an enormous platform ringed with Japanese lanterns. Except no Japanese lanterns this year, Evelyn had told her. Evelyn’s kid brother, shot down near Okinawa. Japanese lanterns were the last thing in the world she wanted at her party.

  Sylvie carefully took off the green hat, and surrendered it to the saleswoman.

  Perhaps the navy Lilly Dache with its red ribbon would be more appropriate, Sylvie pondered. And with its military brim, more in keeping with the times. She so wanted Evelyn to—

  Sylvie froze.

  Low in her abdomen, she felt a sudden heaviness, as if inside her the baby had plunged downward. No, was actually pushing down. A hot pressure. And, oh God, it wasn’t letting up. The ache in her lower back that had been bothering her all morning now became a fistful of needles jamming into the base of her spine.

  It’s not happening, she thought. It can’t be. I won’t let it.

  But she knew it was.

  Deep inside her she felt a snap, like a piece of elastic giving way. Warm liquid, what felt like a river of it, gushed between her thighs.

  Sylvie staggered as if someone had struck her. She felt her heart bump up into her throat. Then she stared down, horrified at the spreading, darkening stain on the beige carpet. Her water had broken. Dear God! She felt as ashamed as when she’d wet herself as a child in school.

  Icy dread sluiced through her.

  This was it, no more pretending to be delighted, overjoyed even, reassuring herself the baby was Gerald’s, had to be Gerald’s. Now the truth. Fear closed about her heart like a cold fist. It might not be Gerald’s. And, oh God in heaven, if it wasn’t ... if it looked [5] like Nikos? Eyes black, with his coffee skin and springy black hair ...

  No, she had to shut that out, slam the door on it.

  Sylvie, struggling to calm herself, peered into the mirror. This time she saw not Alice, but a puffy, blurred face floating above a grossly misshapen body. She felt strangely detached, as if she were gazing at some exotic specimen of marine life in an aquarium. Or a drowned woman, her face a watery gray-green, filaments of red-blond hair drifting about her pale neck like seaweed.

  “Madame ... are you all right?” An anxious voice reached through the green depths to her.

  Sylvie turned to find the henna-haired salesclerk gaping at her, eyes boggling behind cat’s-eye glasses, the clown spots of orange rouge on her sagging cheeks now a dark blood red.

  Yes, that’s where she was. Bergdorf’s, Hats. The green or the blue? She lifted the blue hat from its stand on the glass countertop, fingering its veil. Cunning, the way little beads of jet had been sewn into the netting to make it sparkle. ...

  “Madame?” Plump fingers gripped her arm.

  Sylvie, forcing herself, managed to resist the current that kept pulling at her.

  She opened her mouth to say she was fine, please don’t make a fuss.

  Then in the pit of her stomach she felt a thump that spiraled up into a wave of dizziness. No, she was not all right. No, definitely not.

  Her knees began to buckle. She clutched the edge of the counter, steadying herself, and was confronted by a row of dummy heads, each sporting a different hat. Their smooth eyeless faces sent a chill through her. They seemed to be accusing her, a jury rendering a verdict: guilty.

  If only Gerald were here! He would know what to do. He could summon a maitre d’ just by raising his eyebrow. A flick of his finger and like magic a taxi would materialize from snarling traffic. A single look from Gerald at the bank could bring clerks, cashiers, loan officers scurrying.

  But no, wrong, Gerald must not know. Thank God he’d still be in Boston until tomorrow ... bank business ... about war bonds or something.

  [6] Sylvie covered her mouth, one hand clapped over the other as hysterical laughter bubbled to her lips. The one person she needed, depended on ... now, when she needed him most, she dared not turn to him.

  How could she have done this to him? How?

  Gerald was so good. Always. Her headaches—when she had one, even the slightest little noise set off an avalanche inside her skull and, God bless him, Gerald made sure that he and the help moved about the house silent as shadows.

  Sylvie thought of the days when not just her head, but her feet, her whole body had constantly ached, when a cab ride seemed the most heavenly luxury. Standing all day passing money through the grille of her teller’s cage, stampeded in the subway, and then home, climbing the cabbage-smelling stairs, six never-ending flights, every blessed night.

  Exhausted, wondering how much longer she could manage to stand on her feet, Sylvie felt as if she’d just now climbed those stairs. She shivered. Why was it so cold? The hottest day of the year, the radio had said, and yet the store felt like an icebox.

  “Should I call a doctor?” The salesclerk’s shrill voice broke in on her.

  “No, I ...”

  The ache in the small of her back was spreading, like a tight band wrapping about her middle, as if she were wearing a girdle that was too small. Pain slammed through her in icy waves.

  God, God, get me to the hospital. Any minute, they’ll have to carry me out of here on my back, in my stained dress. Everybody staring. God, no, I’d rather die.

  She shook free and pushed past the perfume counters, their mixture of fragrances cloying, making her stomach heave. Somehow she made it outside, through the heavy glass exit door, wrenching her way to the curb through air so thick it was like syrup.

  “Lenox Hill Hospital,” she gasped, sagging into the back of a cab.

  She cranked the window down, letting in a blast of hot air, a soup of exhaust fumes and baking sidewalks. Still, she couldn’t stop shivering.

  The elderly cabbie began humming “While We’re Young.” [7] Sylvie wanted him to stop, but felt too wretched to speak, and too guilty.

  “Wadda ya say, now that we got those Nazi bastards pushed outta Egypt, ya think Ike’ll invade Italy?”

  Plainly, he was the talkative type. She stared at the little roll of fat bulging over the back of his collar. It was an angry boiled-red color, scribbled with wiry black hairs.

  Sylvie wanted to be polite and answer, but just then she felt nausea rolling up her middle in a slow greasy wave.

  As the taxi lurched up Park Avenue, she got that tight feeling again, starting in her lower back and spreading around her abdomen like pincers. Tighter and tighter, until it became a red-hot shaft driving straight through her. God! Sylvie stiffened, arching her back, feeling the springs of the caved-in seat digging into her buttocks. To keep from screaming, she bit the inside of her mouth.

  Sylvie longed for her moth
er so intensely that for a minute she could feel Mama’s firm plump arms about her, smell the sharp eucalyptus scent of the Vick’s VapoRub she always massaged into Sylvie’s chest when her asthma was bad. Don’t cry, shainenke, Mama’s voice soothed inside her head. I’m here. I won’t leave you.

  She could see her mama’s sleep-puffy face, the frayed gray rope of her braid twisting down one shoulder of her worn flannel wrapper. And in her watery blue eyes, the ghost of the little girl who had played croquet on the lawn of her papa’s great house in Leipzig before she’d had to flee to America.

  Mama, abandoned by her weak husband, selling postcards and catalogues in the Frick Museum for twenty-eight dollars a week, foolishly dreaming of that better life she had left behind.

  It had embarrassed Sylvie to hear how she spoke of the museum, as if she owned it, as if every painting were theirs.

  Tomorrow after school you’ll visit me at the museum, and I’ll show you the new Rembrandt. Think of it, Sylvie. Such beauty, to own such beauty!

  We owned nothing! Sylvie cried out to herself, struggling against the claws of pain that drove into her now. Only a few sticks of furniture. And the hand-me-downs that Mama’s sister, Aunt Willie, whose husband had built up a big business in fox collars and stoles, sent over in the gold-colored boxes meant for his merchandise.

  [8] Mama always said we had something better than Aunt Willie’s big house on Ditmas Avenue. We had each other.

  But that wasn’t true, Sylvie thought with a pang. Mama left me, didn’t she?

  The pain in Sylvie’s belly seemed to snake up into her throat. Mama ... oh Mama, why did you have to die?

  She closed her eyes, felt tears burning behind her lids slip out the corners, slide down her cheeks. She thought of that day, prissy Mr. Harmon calling her from her teller’s cage into his office. Your mother ... I’m sorry ... a stroke. Everything had gone fuzzy and gray, then black. And then, waking up, she was riding in a limousine. Leather seats smooth as melted butter, deep cushions and carpeting under her feet, a window separating the back seat from the front, with a gray-capped driver. How strange, a whole other world!