Illusions of Love by Cynthia Freeman

was going to love her. They were right for each other, meant for each other. When he came home, she’d make him realize that. They were both cut from the same piece of cloth, understood each other’s
    worlds, spoke the same language as she and Maury never had. She trembled at the thought that to spite Martin she could have destroyed her life. She’d been tempted to explore her sexuality, but even at the height of her desire for Maury, she had held back. Martin had stood in the way even then.
    It had taken something as catastrophic as the war for her to throw herself at Martin’s feet. But pride be damned. At least Martin knew how she felt. Sylvia was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the car had stopped until Edward, the chauffeur, reached in to help her out.
    As soon as they reached the house Julian said, “My dear, if you don’t mind, I’ll skip lunch. I have a headache and I think I’ll lie down.”
    “Of course,” Bess said.
    “I’ll have a tray sent up to you, darling.”
    The women watched as he slowly ascended the stairs. When they heard the door shut behind him, Bess sighed and said, “Dear me. You must be famished.”
    “Not especially. But I think you should have something, Aunt Bess.”
    Bess looked at the girl she had known since birth, wishing that Sylvia were the daughter that she had never had. But then Sylvia had never been all that close to her own mother. Whenever she had a problem, it was Bess to whom she turned. Perhaps the tie between them was stronger even than blood.
    Sylvia settled herself into the down pillows of the chair and looked about the familiar room. Thank God nothing seemed to have changed. She remembered the time Martin was twelve and had fallen off the library stairs reaching for a book. She had run to him and tried to help him up, but he couldn’t move.
    “Gosh, Sylvia, wait a minute. I think I broke my ankle.”
    “Oh, you couldn’t have.”
    “Don’t argue with me, Sylvia. I think it’s broken.”
    “How can you tell?” “Cause it throbs like hell.”
    “You better not let your mother hear you say hell.”
     
    “Sylvia, do me a favour. Go home.”
    “After I’ve helped you up.”
    Between Sylvia and the arm of the chair, Martin got up, hobbled out of the room and up the stairs. He sat gingerly on the bed, swung his leg over and then lay down. The pain was excruciating and his ankle was the size of a grapefruit.
    “Holy cow. I really think I’ve broken it, Sylvia.”
    “Okay, don’t move. I’ll go down and get Anna.”
    She slid down the banister and ran to the kitchen to tell Anna, the Roths’ housekeeper.
    “Anna, Martin broke his leg,” she said breathlessly.
    “Now where does it hurt?” Anna said when she reached his bedroom.
    “It’s my ankle. I think it’s broken.”
    “I’m sure it’s no such thing,” she said, much like Sylvia.
    “Because it hurts like hell.”
    Anna’s eyebrows knitted together.
    “What did you say, young man?”
    “I said it hurts so much.”
    “Well, I hope that’s what you said.” But Anna was concerned particularly since the Roths were away.
    “Now don’t move, Martin. This may hurt for a moment, but let me put one of these pillows under your leg.”
    He let out a yell as she lifted his foot.
    “Now, Sylvia. You’ll have to step out for a while,” Anna said.
    “Why?” Sylvia asked in mild defiance.
    “I’m going to try and get off Martin’s pants and make him comfortable.”
    “But why can’t I stay? I’ve seen him lots without his pants.”
    “Have you really, young lady? Well, there’s much to tell when Mr. and Mrs. Roth come home. Now leave the room immediately.”
    Sylvia glared at Anna and reluctantly obeyed. For the next week she sat in Martin’s room, since he was confined to bed with a compound fracture.
     
    Her memory of those innocent days was interrupted by Bess asking, “Would you like a little sherry?”
    “That would be nice.”
    They sipped in silence. After awhile