The Sonnet Lover by Carol Goodman Read Free Book Online Page A

there’s any air left to breathe in the room. When he sees me he throws me a desperate look. I see him mouth the words “save me.” A bit dramatic, I think, reminding myself that Robin is one of the drama crowd now—a group well known for their histrionics. I’m worried, too, that Robin has been talking about me to these film people. What impression must he have given for Leo Balthasar to refer to him as “my boy”? But still, I can’t leave without at least congratulating him.
    As I head toward Robin, I tell myself that once I’ve fulfilled my promise I can go home. I pick up another Greek Goddess on my way and pause to listen to the comments of some nearby partygoers. I overhear two young men condemning Robin’s film as overly sentimental and a girl with lime green hair earnestly explaining to three other girls, who, like this girl and Zoe, have dyed their hair in various fruit shades (tangerine, pink grapefruit, kiwi), why the winning film wasn’t by a woman. “It’s a boy’s club at Graham’s villa,” she complains. “They get all the best equipment and first pick of the prime locations. And the best rooms. The girls were all stuck in an old convent with bars on the windows and no ventilation. It was like an oven.”
    I’m tempted to stop and commiserate with the girl—I’ve been in the “little villa,” as the old convent is called—but I intercept another desperate look from Robin and I’m afraid that if I don’t get to him soon he might begin calling my name aloud. As I get closer to Robin, the comments I overhear grow more favorable, but there’s still an edge of resentment to many of them. Near the center, a skinny boy in torn jeans, cowboy boots, and an Invader Zim T-shirt asks Robin whether he didn’t feel as if his film was derivative. “I mean, the words weren’t your own, man. You were just quoting some dead white guy.”
    “Finding images to evoke Shakespeare’s sonnets is no easy feat,” I say, feeling I’ve arrived just in time to speak up for Shakespeare as well as Robin. Of course, it’s only Robin who can reward me with those bow-shaped lips curving into a smile. “I thought the film was lovely,” I say, raising my glass to Robin. “Worthy of the Bard.”
    A few people join me in the toast, including Gene Silverman, who calls out, “Here, here,” and claps Robin on the back. His hand slides off Robin’s shoulder and somehow manages to find its way onto Zoe’s arm. He’s probably just drunk, but I find myself wondering whether there’s anything to Mara’s suspicions. I take a long sip of champagne to drown out the thought, and as I’m lowering my glass, Leo Balthasar, returned from the balcony, turns to me.
    “And what did you think of the last sonnet, Dr. Asher? Worthy of the Bard, as well?”
    “It’s hard to judge on a single hearing, but I found the last sonnet”—I pause and stare past Balthasar’s amused smile to the windows as if looking for the right word in the lights streaming along Fifth Avenue, but really I’m remembering again that final image of the lemon trees behind glass—“moving. The comparison between the lemon trees surviving the winter and the endurance of a betrayed love was…” I stop because I see Orlando Brunelli entering the room. How in the world did he get in? I’d thought for sure that Mark would alert the security guards to his presence. “Um, very nicely developed. The rhymes were exact and the iambic pentameter consistent,” I finish lamely, glancing around the room to locate Mark. Orlando has spotted Robin and Zoe and is walking straight toward us. “Although I’d have to see it in print to make a more considered evaluation.”
    “But could it have been written by an Elizabethan poet?” Balthasar asks. “By Shakespeare’s Dark Lady, perhaps?”
    I laugh. “I don’t see any reason to think so. The poet seems to be offering his or her beloved the gift of a limonaia —which is sort of an Italian greenhouse for