“I think I've known women like that.” He didn't even try to explain to her the level of insanity he had tolerated in his love life. It would have been impossible to try and she probably would have laughed at him, just as everyone else did. Insanity in his home life was all too familiar to him. “And you never wanted to try again, with someone else?” He knew he was being nosy, but had the feeling she didn't mind. She was remarkably honest and open about herself, and he admired that. One had the feeling there were no dark secrets, no hidden agendas, no confusion in her head about what she felt or wanted or believed. Although inevitably, there were probably scars. Everyone had them at their age, no one was exempt.
“No. I've never wanted to marry again. At my age, I don't see the point. I don't want more children, not my own at least. I wouldn't mind someone else's kids. Marriage is a venerable institution, and I believe in it, for those purposes anyway. I just don't know if I believe in it anymore for myself. Probably not. I don't think I'd have the guts to do it again. I lived with a man for six years, after my divorce. He was an extraordinary person, and an amazing artist, a sculptor. He suffered from severe depression and refused to take medication. He was basically an alcoholic, and his life was a mess. I loved him anyway, but it was impossible. More impossible than I can tell you.” She fell silent after she said it, and he watched her face. There was something agonizing lurking there, and he wanted to know what it was. He sensed that in order to know her, he needed to know the rest.
“You left him?” He was cautious with the words, as they approached the church.
“No, I didn't. I probably should have. Maybe he would have stopped drinking then, or taken his medication, or maybe not. It's hard to say.” She sounded peaceful and sad, as though she had accepted a terrible tragedy and inevitable loss.
“He left you?” Gray couldn't imagine anyone doing that to her, and surely not twice. But there were strange people in the world, who lost opportunities, sabotaged themselves, and destroyed lives. There was nothing you could do about it. He had learned that himself over the years.
“No, he committed suicide,” Sylvia said quietly, “three years ago. It took me a long time to get over it, and accept what happened, and it was hard when Jean-Marie, the children's father, died last year. The loss brought some of it back, grief does that, I think. But it happened, I couldn't change it, no matter how much I loved him. He just couldn't do it anymore, and I couldn't do it for him. That's a hard thing to make your peace with.” But he could hear in her voice that she had. She had been through a lot, and come out the other end. He knew just looking at her that she was a woman determined to survive. He wanted to put his arms around her and give her a hug, but he didn't know her well enough. And he didn't want to intrude on her grief. He had no right to do that.
“I'm sorry,” he said softly, with all the emotion he felt. With all the insane women he'd been involved with who turned every moment into a drama, here was a sane one who had lived through real tragedy and had refused to let it destroy her. If anything, she had learned from it and grown.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him, as they walked into the church. They sat quietly for a long time, and then walked around the church, inside and out. It was a beautiful structure from the twelfth century, and she pointed things out to him that he had never seen before, although he'd been there many times. It was another two hours before they walked slowly down to the port.
“What are your children like?” he asked with curiosity. It was interesting to think of her as a mother, she seemed so independent and so whole. He suspected she was a good mother, although he didn't like thinking of her that way. He preferred to think of her as he knew her, just as his friend.
“Interesting. Smart,” she said honestly, and sounded proud, which made him smile. “My daughter is a painter, studying in Florence. My son is a scholar of the history of ancient Greece. In some ways he's like his father, but he has a kinder heart, thank God. My daughter inherited his talent, but nothing else from that side of the gene pool. She's a lot like me. She could run the world, and maybe will. I hope she'll take the gallery over one day, but I'm not sure she ever will. She has her own life to lead. But genetics are an amazing thing. I see both of us in them, mixed in with who they are themselves. But the history and the ancestry are always there, even in the flavors of ice cream they like, or the colors they prefer. I have a great respect for genetics, after bringing up two kids. I'm not sure that anything we do as parents actually makes a difference, or even influences them.”
