The Sonnet Lover Read Online Free PDF Page B

dissertation on Shakespeare’s sonnets. I realize after a moment that although the language, the rhythm, the structure, even the turn of mind, are undoubtedly Shakespearian, the poem could not be by Shakespeare. After all, Shakespeare never wrote a sonnet about a lemon house.
     
The way the limonaia wombs these trees,
Within its sun-veined skin of fragile glass
To be reborn amidst spring’s gentle breeze,
I’ll give to thee, whose face art can’t surpass.
For how thy memory has lingered on—
In spite of cruelest winter’s drear and howl—
By inner mirror seen; I’ve dwelled upon,
I must confess, my treachery most foul.
But then!—I spy such lemons hanging bright,
And delicately sheathed with glass to show,
How prosperous our love might be despite
Betrayal, wombed against entombing snow.
When love feeds on a fruit as bold as wine
I once again can conjure thy love mine.
     
    There’s something heartbreaking about the poem. The lost love trapped behind the glass, the sense of summer giving way to cold winter. Or perhaps it’s just my own associations with the limonaia that have brought tears to my eyes.

CHAPTER
THREE
    W HEN THE SCREEN GOES DARK, THERE’S A LONG MOMENT OF SILENCE . T HEN the applause begins, slowly at first, but building to a steady roar. It’s all Mark can do to silence the crowd long enough to announce The Lemon House (I must still have had my eyes closed when the title played) by Robin Weiss as the winner of the Hudson College Invitational Film Show. The applause becomes thunderous. As Robin appears on the stage, I feel a sob catch in my throat at the sight of him. He looks so frail and ghostly pale caught in the spotlight.
    There’s clearly no way I’ll be able to get through this crowd to congratulate Robin, so I beat a hasty retreat to the reception, where I’ll have less competition. I show my invitation and faculty ID to the security guard stationed in front of the elevators and ride ten floors up to the penthouse suite.
    I realize I’m a little too early when I get off the elevator, but at least there’s no line at the bar. Plus, I recognize the bartender as a former student.
    “A Greek Goddess, Dr. Asher?” he asks me as I approach.
    I look behind me as if expecting a white-robed Athena to appear from behind one of the potted trees in the corners.
    “It’s the party’s signature cocktail,” he tells me, pouring a drop of orange liqueur into a glass flute. “A hint of Grand Marnier, Cointreau, and”—popping the cork on a bottle of Moët Chandon—“champagne.”
    When the fizz settles, he hands me a drink the pale orange color of Tuscan stucco. I take an experimental sip and nod my head appreciatively. “Nice, Jake,” I say, pulling his name out of an invisible roster in my head. “Are you graduating this year?”
    “I graduated last year,” he tells me, lining up a dozen champagne flutes and carefully measuring a few drops of Grand Marnier in each one. “I’m bartending until I can get an acting job. I heard there’s going to be a lot of film people here tonight.”
    The elevator opens and a flood of laughter and perfume wafts into the room. I see Jake looking over my shoulder appraisingly at the crowd. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” I say. “Good luck.”
    I walk away from the newcomers toward the wall of north-facing windows overlooking the park. It’s a gorgeous view, one of my favorites in the city, especially at this time of day, when the sky is the cobalt blue of twilight. Across the park, the Washington Square Arch, recently cleaned and restored, gleams white, and the lights of Fifth Avenue seem to spring out of it like a luminescent river that casts shimmering droplets along its banks. Something in how the lights look tonight, distant beyond the cold glass, reminds me of the lemons in the limonaia in the last scene of Robin’s film. I find myself pressing my face against the glass just as Zoe had.
    “You shouldn’t stand so close to the