of women like her in New York who were just too damn smart and successful for their own good, and wound up alone. Although for all he knew there was a man waiting for her in New York or Paris or somewhere else. But he doubted it. She put out a vibe that suggested she was independent and unattached, and liked it that way. It didn't seem to bother her at all, and she was obviously not on the make, for them, or anyone. Charlie had shared his assessment of her with Gray over cigars the night before.
The next morning, as they walked up the hill to San Giorgio, Gray discovered that Charlie's thoughts about Sylvia were correct.
“You're not married?” Gray asked her cautiously, curious about her, as well as what she knew about the church. She was an interesting woman, and he wanted to be her friend.
“No, I did that once,” she said carefully. “I loved it when I was married, but I'm not sure I could ever do that again. Sometimes I think I love the commitment and lifestyle more than the man. My husband was an artist, and a total narcissist. Everything was about him. I adored him, almost as much as he adored himself. Nothing else ever existed for him,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. She wasn't bitter, she was just finished with it, and Gray could hear that in her voice. “Not the children, or me, or anyone. It was always about him. After a while, that gets old. I'd still be married to him, though, if he hadn't left me for someone else. He was fifty-five when he left me, I was thirty-nine, and over-the-hill as far as he was concerned. She was nineteen. It was a bit of a blow. They got married and had three more kids in three years, then he left her too. At least I lasted longer. I had him for twenty. She had him for four.”
“I assume for a twelve-year-old that time?” Gray snapped, feeling angry on her behalf. It sounded like a rotten deal to him, knowing what he knew of her now, that she had gone to New York after that, penniless with two kids, and no help from him.
“No, the last one was twenty-two. Old for him. I was also nineteen when we got married, and an art student in Paris. The last two were models.”
“Does he see your kids?”
She hesitated in answer to the question, and then shook her head. The answer seemed painful for her. “No, he saw them twice in nine years, which was hard for them. And he died last year. It leaves a lot of things unresolved for my kids, about what they meant to him, if anything. And it was sad for me. I loved him, but with narcissists, that's just the way it is. In the end, the only ones they love are themselves. They just don't have it in them to love anyone else.” It was a simple statement of fact. Her tone was regretful but not bitter.
“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,