The Splendour Falls

  Mistakes are always so clear in retrospect.

  John emerged from the door behind me. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, taking his new big-brother role much too seriously.

  ‘Away.’ I suited actions to words, but moved too quickly, tottering on my one good leg and catching myself on the wall.

  John steadied me on the other side. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Just champagne.’ I decided not to mention the Vicodin. It hadn’t had time to work yet. And, in my cast, it wasn’t as if I needed help staggering.

  ‘I need some air.’ It was too close inside, stifling with good cheer. I headed not for the lobby, but for the Fifth Avenue entrance.

  John caught up with me as I was looking for a break in traffic. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. Behind him, I saw the doorman staring, like he’d never seen a girl with a broken leg try to cross Fifth Avenue midblock before.

  ‘I’m going to the park.’ I shivered. It was mid-May, and the evening air was still cool.

  John’s fingers gripped my arm above my elbow. ‘You can’t wander around Central Park after dark by yourself.’

  That my plan seemed perfectly reasonable should have been a sign I was a lot more drunk than I thought I was.

  ‘It’s barely dusk.’

  ‘Your leg is in a cast.’

  I looked down, not in surprise, exactly. The throb of my leg was constant, blending into the background of my misery. Then something would remind me, Sylvie, your leg is broken, and the ache would come flooding back.

  Maybe I had reached that point with my emotions, too. I’d ground through the whole day, and now self-pity and passive-aggressiveness weren’t enough to distract me any longer. ‘I want to go to my dad’s bridge.’

  Something must have shown in my face. Tightening his jaw in decision, John stuck out his arm and hailed a cab. He had the knack of a native New Yorker, but I think it may have been my Day-Glo orange cast that got results so quickly on a Saturday evening.

  Technically, my father’s bridge was called an arch, not a bridge, and it wasn’t ‘his’ to anyone but me. The directions I gave the cabbie were to Greywacke Arch.

  The trip was longer than it would have been by foot. By feet, rather, if I’d had two working ones. The driver took the East Drive and I had him stop before reaching the stone arch that bridged the path from the Ramble to the Great Lawn.

  It was a struggle just to manoeuvre my cast out the door. I left John to deal with the cab and limped to the side of the drive. The ground fell away steeply to the path below; covering it was the pointed arch, like something from a Moorish temple. The striations of its stone were still visible in the dusky light.

  A million familiar city noises covered John’s footsteps, but I felt his approach – body heat, a change in the air pressure. Sensing people behind me was a skill I’d developed in dance; it’s handy to know who’s upstaging you.

  ‘I can only keep the cab waiting for five minutes.

  ’ Kicking off my shoe, I thrust my beaded evening purse into his hands and stepped onto the grass. ‘There’s foty dollars in there.’

  ‘Not really the point. Where are you going?’ He nervously positioned himself between me and the drop-off. ‘Let’s not risk life and remaining limb, OK? My dad would kill me if he knew I was …’

  ‘Knew you’re what?’ I challenged. ‘Enabling me?’

  ‘Yeah. That.’ From the corner of my eye, I saw him slip off his jacket. He settled it, the fabric warm from his body, on my shoulders, defrosting my skin and, unexpectedly, something deeper inside me, too.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said softly.

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ He gestured to the bridge. ‘What’s the connection? Your dad was a landscaper, right?’

  ‘Landscape architect,’ I corrected, automatically, but the distinction seemed important. ‘The arch was originally built a hundred fifty years ago. Restoring it was Dad’s first big job.’

  I pointed westward, through the trees. ‘He worked on the reconstruction of the lawn and Turtle Pond, too.’

  ‘I remember that. Big project.’

  ‘Yeah. This arch is my favourite, though.’ The slope to the tunnel was a tangle of lush plantings and tumbled boulders. Like the rest of Central Park, it was an artful illusion of random, natural beauty – exactly like ballet.

  ‘My father would have understood.’ The words slipped out on a sigh, surprising me. I hadn’t meant to say them out loud. My head was spinning; the whole night seemed to be alive, and moving in strange ways.

  ‘Did he get to see you dance as a soloist before he died?’

  ‘Yes.’ A shrink-type question, but I found myself answering anyway. Stupid self-medicated truth serum. ‘He was already sick, but I didn’t know it.’

  I kneaded the toes of my left foot into the grass, with the strange feeling that it connected me to Dad, through this ground that he loved so much. ‘He worked until the very end. He said getting his hands in the dirt energized him, like a plant in the earth.’

  I was the opposite, a cut flower without roots, no longer attached to the nourishing soil. Melodramatic, yes. But that’s how I felt not being able to dance.

  John was watching me, but not with a shrink’s critical neutrality. Maybe he wasn’t completely ruined by the training yet. ‘Did you get his green thumb?’

  ‘I don’t know. Dad always sent me potted plants instead of bouquets, and I managed to keep those alive.’ I didn’t quite smile. ‘Mother used to get so angry that he wouldn’t spring for a couple dozen roses.’

  John echoed the humour in my voice. ‘I’ll bet. That reception alone must have cleaned out a couple of hot-houses.’

  I might have laughed, if I were the person I used to be. Instead, I pulled the pin from the boutonniere on the lapel of his tuxedo jacket and let the flower drop into my hand. ‘When I was a kid, and saw Dad transplant cuttings, it looked like magic. You put this little sprig of green in the ground, and it takes root – keeps growing instead of dying.’

  Now I knew it wasn’t magic. Some things could be replanted, or even grafted onto something new. Some wouldn’t take. What I didn’t know was which type I was.

  ‘Back then,’ I continued, while I peeled the florist tape from the boutonniere, ‘I thought that worked on anything. That it would fix toys, china, dolls …’

  John sounded amused. ‘That could have been grim, if you’d experimented on a house cat or something.’

  ‘No kidding.’ He watched, obviously curious, as I lowered myself on one leg, sliding my cast out to the side. I was still impressively limber, and I think the Vicodin was starting to work, making me feel loose in body, and in mind. Because I didn’t know why else I was telling him this, or why I was even going through these motions.

  ‘I came up with this sort of spell of my own.’ Working my fingers through the webbing of grass roots, into the sod, I made a little hole. ‘If there was something important that I wanted to take root, metaphorically speaking, I would plant it. Like this.’

  I dropped the boutonniere – a miniature calla lily that echoed the big ones in Mother’s bouquet – into the ground.

  ‘That’s kind of sweet,’ said John. ‘I thought you hated my dad.’

  With a sigh of reluctant admission, I folded the sod over the lump of the flower. ‘I can’t hate anyone who seems to be making my mother happy.’

  John laughed. ‘Now I know you’re drunk.’

  I chuckled slightly, mostly at my own whimsy. He must be right. I was never whimsical. Not since The Accident.

  Still squatting on one leg, I laid both palms on the bump in the grass and pressed it down. A tingle ran up my arms and back down again. I seemed to see – or sense, rather – a wave rippling out from under my hands, like I’d dropped a rock in a pond.

  The world tilted, off-kilter for a moment, and I lost my balance, my arms windmilling to catch myself. I fell onto my butt and things righted themselves with a thump. ‘Whoa.’

  ‘Nic
e one, Sylvie.’ John bent to pick me up under the arms. ‘Way to use that dancer’s grace.’

  I was too flabbergasted to retort. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘What?’ he asked, setting me carefully back on my feet. ‘Your magic spell?’

  My mouth opened to say ‘Yes!’ when I realized that he was being sarcastic. Because magic spells were crazy. And I was just superstitious. And probably drunk.

  ‘I don’t feel so good.’ My stomach fluttered and twisted, though the dizziness came and went.

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  The cabbie honked his horn. John turned and marched me – figuratively speaking, hobbled as I was by the cast and all – back to the taxi. He had the big-brother thing down. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but at that moment, I wasn’t sure I didn’t.

  ‘My shoe,’ I said, when my bare left foot hit the pavement.

  He grumbled but made sure I had my feet under me before heading back for it with a curt ‘Stay here.’

  Of course I didn’t. I limped past the taxi, to the other side of the bridge. In the wintertime, I would have been able to see clearly to the Great Lawn – the big swath of level ground where, during the day, dogs would chase Frisbees and kids would play baseball. It was May, so my view was interrupted by the new foliage, but not blocked like it would be in summer. That, plus the moon and the ambient light from the city, left me frowning at the scene.

  John came up behind me again. ‘Hey. I thought you were going to get in the cab.’

  ‘I was, but …’ The vista wavered as I stared. ‘Are they doing some sort of historical reenactment?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  I pointed through the trees. ‘The village of cardboard lean-tos out on the lawn.’ I tried to remember the last time I’d been in this area of the park. I’d been lost in self-pity for a while, but this was something even I would have noticed.

  John glanced towards the lawn, his brows drawn in confusion. ‘You mean, like a Hooverville? The ones built during the Depression?’

  That was what I meant, but I didn’t understand his confusion. Then I realized, he didn’t see it. But the people who moved through the tumbled huts cast shadows in the moonlight. I could see the glimmer of a lantern, hear the crackle of a campfire. The evening chill carried the damp-earth smell of cooking turnips and the mournful whistle of someone trying to cheer himself up after another long day of fruitless searching for work.

  I stared at the shades in the twilight, all silhouette and gloom, and the trees around me swayed. No … that was me. I was swaying. Was this what being wasted felt like? I was dizzy and confused and somewhat judgement-impaired, but I still felt in control of my faculties. Certainly not so far gone as to be hallucinating in Central Park.

  ‘Sylvie.’ John caught me by both shoulders and bent to look into my eyes, blocking my view of the town and the sad people in it. ‘Level with me. How much did you have to drink?’

  ‘Just some champagne and …’ I stopped before mentioning the Vicodin. Or, maybe more important, before confessing that I was seeing images he wasn’t, some strange five-senses film reel from one of the Park’s major moments. And while this seemed surreal but reasonable to me in my buzzed state, I could see where such a confession could lead to a seventy-twohour hold for observation at some nice private hospital upstate and away from gossip.

  Drunk was better than crazy, and as John’s face dipped and swam in front of me, I wasn’t faking anything when I answered, ‘Maybe more than some. I lost track.’

  He blew a short strand of hair off his forehead. ‘Great.’

  Darkness crawled in from the edges of my vision. ‘I think I’m going to pass out.’ Considering how my brain was whirling, my voice sounded weirdly matterof-fact. I had to warn him, because he was going to have to catch me. ‘Don’t tell your dad, OK?’

  My knees went limp just as he pulled my arm across his shoulders. ‘I won’t.’

  He’d been so nice to me that I actually believed him. But I’d forgotten: shrinks always stick together.

  Chapter 2

  A growl brought me back to the present; Gigi had discovered her reflection in the mirror. I heard the toilet flush, and figured I’d better make an exit before Cruella de Vil came out of the stall.

  Besides, I’d procrastinated long enough. Cousin Paula might be the type to send airport security to look for me. The public story was that I was visiting my father’s family to give Mother and Steve a chance to honeymoon and set up house. But I didn’t doubt for a moment that the stepshrink had told Dad’s cousin that I was some kind of teen-starlet substance-abuse cliché, and needed ‘special handling’ while I ‘worked through some things’. Which was Upper West Side speak for ‘sobered up’.

  I checked my reflection – a matter of habit before going onstage – smoothing back a few pieces of mousy brown hair that had slipped from my bun, checking my teeth for lip gloss. My skin was pale and the fluorescent lighting emphasized the purple shadows under my eyes.Lovely.

  My eyes continued downward, over my girly T-shirt and jeans. They were a little loose; I’d kept the weight off, even though I’d never have to worry about lifts again. Just to delay leaving, I moved my sweater from tied around my waist to draped over my shoulders, not because I was cold, but because the pale pink colour made my face look less like the walking dead. It was all about the costuming.

  ‘In the bag, Gigi.’ The dog obediently tucked her front paws into the carrier. Feeling rebellious, I let her ride with her head sticking out so she could watch the world go by. At least one of us should be having fun.

  By the time I reached baggage claim, the arrivals had thinned out. I cast my eye over the remaining people, looking for Paula. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure I could pick her out of a lineup, let alone a crowd.

  I didn’t see anyone searching for me, so I headed for the baggage carousel. Unlike Dad’s cousin, my fuchsia suitcase was easy to spot. No porters, though. I scanned the area, trying to look like a big tipper, but realized I was on my own.

  Switching Gigi to my right shoulder for counter-balance, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase as it came by. The trick was keeping the majority of my weight on my left foot; the orthopaedic surgeon had declared my right leg healed – finally – but its muscles were still weak. I had physical therapy exercises to do while I was here, and a referral to a Montgomery specialist if I had any trouble. I didn’t intend to have any trouble that required a specialist. Not for my leg, or my head.

  I managed to lever the suitcase onto the edge of the carousel, and stood in an uncomfortable arabesque while I tried to figure out how to pull it down without knocking my good leg out from under me. That would be an awkward headline: Ex-ballerina flattened by actual baggage. Overdose of irony suspected.

  ‘Careful there.’ The masculine voice startled me, but not nearly as much as the arm that wrapped around me, bracing the heavy suitcase. My normal instinct – the one that told me when someone was coming up behind me, the one that told me to scream ‘fire’ instead of ‘rape’ if someone grabbed me – all short-circuited with a tangible fizzle so strong that I was surprised I didn’t smell smoke.

  My inhale of alarm carried in a whiff of herbal soap, but it was the scent of clean air and damp earth that filled my head and took me to a strange place, so I seemed to be simultaneously standing in an airport in Alabama and someplace wild and wet and green. The only constants were the steadying arms around me, and the feeling that my heart was going to beat out of my chest with anticipation, or fear, or both.

  It was dizzying, unnerving, like confusing a memory with a dream. For an instant – the nanosecond between information coming in and my brain processing it – I was certain that if I turned round, I would know this guy.

  My heart squeezed with real fear then, at the thought that reality was going slippery on me. Again. But before panic could do more than flex its claws, the moment ended. The eerie feeling of recognition vanished, leaving just a perfectly normal rush of
Wow, someone smells really nice in its wake.

  A calloused hand covered mine on the suitcase handle. ‘I have it. You can let go.’

  I couldn’t place the accent. Not the expected drawl, but a rounded, liquid slurring of syllables. Vaguely British, but too soft to be Scots or Irish. A tiny echo of remembrance tingled down my neck, but that might have merely been the musical inflection of his voice so close to my ear.

  Belatedly, I snatched back my hand and took a discreet step out of the way while he, whoever he was, got the luggage under control. I covered, hopefully, my lapse in composure by checking on Gigi – who had prudently retreated into her carrier during the suitcase wrangle.

  I can be very pragmatic about personal space. Doing lifts and holds with a partner, you don’t have the luxury of modesty. I’d probably had more guys’ hands on my no-touch zones than any other virgin in America. Yet there I was, flustered and blushing, tingles zipping over every point where our bodies had touched. This, at least, was normal, even if it wasn’t exactly normal for me.

  Jeez, Sylvie! Stop being such a girl. He could be hideous, or old, or have three eyes. And it wouldn’t matter, because he was a random Good Samaritan whom I would never see again.

  ‘Sylvie Davis?’

  Or he might be a stalker. A crazed ballet-fan stalker. Stranger things had happened. It figured they would happen to me. It had been that kind of year.

  ‘Hello? Miss?’

  Gigi prairie-dogged up from her bag to acknowledge the greeting. I steeled myself and turned, clamping the carrier securely against my side in case I had to run.

  A tall young man stood holding my suitcase. Not hideous. Not old. The normal number of eyes, at least where I could see. They were unusual, though, an earthy sort of green that darkened around the edge of the iris. His hair was brown, curling where it touched the top of his ears and the edge of his rugby collar. His face was handsomely chiselled, with the clean, symmetrical lines of classical art. The Romantic period – strong brow, straight nose, firm jaw. Gainsborough, maybe. There was a rustic look to the fall of his hair and in the way his cheeks and nose had been painted warm by the sun.