Beyond Eden

9

Lindsay

Lindsay stood tall and straight and stiff directly in front of Demos’ desk. She said again, more calmly this time, “I won’t do it, Vinnie. And you won’t talk me out of it, so just forget it.”

“Did I tell you that you look real cute in that outfit, Lindsay? Like a real bow-wow. Is your underwear just as ratty? Glen told me how you’ve got this running-joke battle with the Lancôme ad folk. You’ll win this one, kiddo, hands down.”

“Listen to me, Vinnie. I won’t pose with my half-sister. I won’t be associated with her in any way. I won’t tell anyone she’s any relation to me. I’ll break my contract first and then you’ll have to haul me into court and it’ll be a real mess. But I mean it, I simply won’t do it.”

Vincent Rafael Demos sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together in front of his face. He frowned. Glen always told him his brain was like a chain saw, always hacking and hacking away until the solution to any problem was there, shining clear amid the wreckage. But this time, nothing came to mind.

“You also know why I won’t do it.”

Vinnie shrugged. “Your sister told me it was because you’re jealous of her, that you grew up that way. She also laughed and said she didn’t understand it because, after all, you were already a successful model and she was a nobody. Is that it, kiddo? You’re afraid everyone will want her and not you anymore?”

Lindsay smiled for the first time since she’d entered Demos’ office, a plush but too-stark room with white leather everywhere—sofa, love seat, chairs, even the photos on the walls were framed with white leather. “You know, Vinnie, I thought that too, but just at first. I thought, here she is again, and lo and behold, I’ve got something she doesn’t have, so her first reaction is to outdo me. But no, I’ve thought about it and that isn’t it. I just gave her the idea, that’s all. Look, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m an adult. If it were just a matter of jealousy on my part, I could handle it.”

Lindsay drew a deep breath.

“Come on, spit it out.”

“I won’t pose with her for the same reason you and I came up with the name Eden for me. Just Eden and nothing else.”

“Oh.”

“I know, you forgot.”

“It’s been five years since Paris, Lindsay. Who the hell would care now? No one, not even the scandal sheets. Geraldo won’t be knocking on your door.”

“That isn’t true, and now that you remember, you know it isn’t. I can see it now: ‘La Principessa and Her Little Sister, Lindsay/Eden, Together Again. Sharing Photos, Sharing the Same Man, Again. Will Little Sister Scream Rape This Time? Where’s the Prince?’ No way, Vinnie. Forget it.”

“I hadn’t realized, Lindsay, really, I hadn’t realized you still felt so strongly about it.”

“If you want Sydney for the Arden thing, then she’ll do it alone.” Lindsay tucked her hands into her jeans pockets. They were shaking. She felt cold but she was also determined.

“All right.”

“What’s all right?”

“She’ll do it alone. The Arden people are really high on her. She’s so damned beautiful and sophisticated and smart. All those things, and they show on her face, fortunately. I just wish I could have gotten hold of her years ago. If she decides to model, Lindsay, will you be able to handle it?”

“Just as long as no one knows who I am.”

“I can’t muzzle her. If she wants to tell who Eden is, why, then, she will.”

And she would. Lindsay knew nothing could hold her back if she decided to talk.

When she went to the Lancôme shoot, her clothes set the two ad people to screaming and clutching their hearts when they saw her. But winning the latest practical joke only brought a small smile to her face. She went to her apartment immediately after the shoot, turned the air conditioning on high, and brooded with a Diet Coke. What to do?

She knew Sydney. She would turn it all into a droll joke. That or she’d twist things about in a sweetly solicitous way that would make Lindsay look like a teenage hooker. Lindsay could hear her now, telling about what a pity it all was that her sister, poor Lindsay Eden, had misunderstood, how she herself had misunderstood, how the poor prince had felt so sorry for the ugly duckling. And everyone would think: She misunderstood? Sure.

Lindsay couldn’t bear it. She had to do something. Sydney was staying at the Plaza. She’d see her again, plead with her to keep quiet, she’d agree to do anything, anything. Lindsay remembered so clearly way back at the beginning, when she’d told Vinnie about what had happened in Paris. He’d said nothing much, just nodded now and again. He’d offered no sympathy, not patted her hand once. Better than that, he hadn’t doubted her once.

“No problem,” he said when she’d finished. “You know what, Lindsay? You don’t really look like a Lindsay. You look like an Eden. How about that for your modeling name? Just plain Eden. It evokes wonderful images and promises mysteries and puzzles of a womanly sort. No one will ever know. How about it?”

But now Sydney was here. Lindsay picked up the phone and called information. Within minutes she heard Sydney’s voice.

“Ah, Lindsay, is that you? Whatever do you want now?”

“I want to know if you plan to model.”

“Why, yes, I believe I will. The Arden people want me badly and the money they’re offering turns even my head. After all, I am a real princess, not just a phony name like Eden, for example. It turns out they would have accepted you because Demos was pushing the sister idea. Yes, I think I will be their spokeswoman for the new perfume. Do you know they’re considering calling it La Principessa? And then I’ll be there on all the propaganda material, on TV, in magazines, everywhere. People magazine will probably want to do a story on me.”

Lindsay’s knuckles showed white, she was clutching the phone so tightly. “Will you say anything about me? Do you plan to tell people I’m your half-sister and it’s such a pity and your husband, the prince, and—” Lindsay ran out of words. She was breathing fast and her hands were so clammy the phone was slipping from her grasp.

Sydney mused aloud. “Do you think it would even come up, Lindsay? That is your real name, isn’t it? How depressing for Father to learn that you’re ashamed of your name. Of course, on the other side of the coin, he’s relieved that you’re not connected with him in any way.”

Lindsay knew Sydney would remind everyone the moment the opportunity arose, simply because she would be recognized very soon as the wife who shot her husband in bed with her sister in Paris five years before. She’d never take that. She’d shift things and bring Lindsay into it and Lindsay would end up with the blame all over again. She very gently replaced the phone into its cradle. She drank another Diet Coke and went to bed.

At midnight she was still awake, lying in the dark, thinking, remembering, her breath hitching even as she thought of the man’s name.

His name was Edward Bensonhurst. He was a businessman in automotive parts, with two kids and an ex-wife in New Jersey, and now he lived in Manhattan. Lindsay had met him at a party and liked him. He, however, had wanted to have sex. When she told him no, he’d turned ugly. She told him off and got away from him. Then he’d called her two days later and laughed. He knew who she was. He told her he could play a prince if that’s what turned her on. He was the same age as the prince had been in Paris. Hell, maybe he could even get his ex-wife to come over in time and shoot blanks at him. He’d even wear leather if she wanted him to.

She never knew how he’d found out and he hadn’t said. She’d hung up on him and kept her answering machine on for the next three weeks. He’d called ten more times, cajoling, making threats, but finally he’d just stopped calling. She prayed he’d finally decided she wasn’t worth his effort. God, would it never end?

The phone rang and Lindsay grabbed for it. For an instant she thought it was Edward Bensonhurst again. Foolish, so foolish. She answered it and heard her father’s voice.

Vincent Rafael Demos sat in his office in the dark and in absolute silence for a long time. The air conditioning cut out all the noise from the street, eleven stories below. It was ten o’clock at night. Even Glen had left an hour earlier, in a huff, refusing to cook him any dinner. “Not even a microwave omelet,” Glen had shrieked at him.

Demos was sitting there in a very cold office and he was sweating. He’d memorized the brief newspaper account and it played and replayed endlessly in his head.

“. . . Unidentified man, approximate age sixty, found stabbed to death in East Orange, New Jersey. No identification was found on the body, just a note reading…”

That damned bloody note! God, and someone hoped a reader would recognize Gloria or a Demos and call the police? That was all he needed, to have the cops coming to call. He knew he had no choice, not anymore. If he didn’t respond now, there would be new clues released to the cops, and slowly, surely, the net would tighten around him. Just look how they’d set up this private investigator, this damned ex-cop, so Demos would see just how serious they were. Yeah, the guy, Taylor, was even following the victim and they’d killed him, thumbing their noses at the cops and him and this Taylor. He had to do something because if he didn’t there would just be another incident. The cops would come. Someone else would probably die and maybe the someone else would be someone Demos knew.

Finally he picked up his phone and dialed the number. There was an answering machine. When he heard the beep, Vinnie said only, “I’ll leave the money tomorrow at the usual place.”

He thought of the beautiful Stanislas original oil he would have to sell to get enough money together. He’d bought it in 1981 in the Village when it had been dirt cheap and he had been dirt poor. He’d hocked his hunting knife to buy it. He thought about the dead man, probably Ellery Custer. It sounded like poor Custer, killed to send Demos a message, probably stabbed by that bitch Susan with that gold-plated stiletto of hers, the one that was a gift from her ex-husband, the note doubtless planted by her on poor old Custer’s body, giving that phony name, Gloria, and the real one, Demos. Him.

Well, it was over now. He was safe.

Lindsay took a taxi from San Francisco airport to Presbyterian Hospital on Webster Street. It was midafternoon when she arrived. The first person she saw was her new stepmother, Holly, sitting in the small waiting room reading a magazine. She was swinging her leg, her shoes off. She looked up, saw Lindsay, and smiled.

“The dutiful granddaughter is here. Well, good. The old lady’s been asking for you nonstop. I didn’t want your father to call you—it’s such a horribly long trip for you—but he said his mother told him that if you didn’t come, she’d blame him and she’d fix him but good, and that, we all know, means money. You see, she knew you’d come, regardless of what you were doing. She’s an old witch, God knows, but tough. I have to admire her for that.”

“Yes, I’d come for her.”

“You think she’ll give you any of her fortune, Lindsay? Is that why you’re such a little sweetie?”

“No.”

“Good, don’t ever kid yourself, because she won’t. Everything will go to your father and to me. It’s only fair. He’s her only son. Too, she knows you’re making good money now with your modeling.”

“I’m going to see her now. Where is Father?”

“He’s in court, naturally. He works, you know. He told me to wait here until you arrived. Now that you have, I’m off. Have fun with the old witch. Oh, incidentally, you’re to stay at the mansion, Grandma’s orders.”

Lindsay didn’t want to go anywhere near the mansion, but she didn’t say anything. She walked to her grandmother’s room and quietly pushed the door open. It was a lovely private room, decorated in soft pastels—peach and pale green. Several French impressionist paintings, excellent copies, were on the walls. There was a small sofa and two chairs near the hospital bed and a large window.

She stood there quietly, looking at her grandmother. She looked small, that was Lindsay’s first thought. She was eighty-three years old but she didn’t look it. Her skin was smooth and soft-looking, supple, her silver-white hair still thick, her eyebrows well-defined, her cheeks pink. Lindsay had seen very old people before, and invariably they looked like fleshless mummies, all seams and bones, with their pink scalps showing through sparse hair. But Gates Foxe looked like she always had. She was wearing a soft yellow bed jacket with antique Carravannes lace around the collar. Lindsay walked quietly to the bed and stood there.

Gates opened her eyes.

“Hello, Grandmother.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Lindsay.”

Lindsay grinned at her. “Why is it you always look so wonderful and make me feel like a grub?”

“It’s my bones. Excellent bones, and you’ve got them too, my dear. Except for my blasted hip. I fell on the stairs, so clumsy of me really, and it snapped like a wishbone. But I’ll be up and about in no time at all. No more bed for me than is absolutely necessary. It reduces one, you know, to have to look up at people.”

“I believe you. Do you have much pain?”

“No. See this tube here? Whenever the pain is too bad, I simply press this little button and painkiller is released directly into my bloodstream. No waiting for the nurses to decide enough time has passed. Medical practices are improving. Now, my dear, tell me how long you can stay. Tell me how the modeling is going and when you’ll hit the cover of another big magazine.”

Lindsay had sent her a half-dozen copies of Elle.

“I canceled out three shoots. They weren’t all that important. I just have to be back in New York in a week and a half. That’s a biggie for Women’s World I have to be there for. I’ll be passing myself off as a professional stockbroker, I think, complete with business suit and briefcase, shot down on Wall Street near Trinity Church. As for another cover, who knows?”

“Sit down, Lindsay. You’re looming, and it makes me uncomfortable. That’s it, pull that chair over. You’re so tall, just like your grandfather, and now that you’re a model, you stand much taller. I like that. I always disapproved of you slouching when you were younger. Dear me, to see you all grown-up. It makes me feel positively ancient. Your mother was here this morning. You will see her, of course.”

“Yes.”

“She’s about the same, I guess. She’s proud of you, but—”

“Yes, but.”

“She’s so very unhappy. She never learned to focus outward. She wallows in her own misery, and alcohol doesn’t help.”

“No.”

Lindsay watched her grandmother gently press the button that would release some painkiller into her arm. She said nothing, waiting for her grandmother to speak.

“I’m tired, Lindsay. Why don’t you go to the mansion and get settled in. Come back and see me this evening.”

“I’d rather stay someplace else, Grandmother.”

“Nonsense. You’re a grown woman now, not eighteen years old. You must learn to deal with your father sooner or later. It’s time, Lindsay, past time. Stop being a victim to your memories. You’re no longer a little girl for him to hurt and wound at his leisure. Deal with the present as you find it. As for your father, there are many things you don’t know about, but they aren’t important. Just remember, don’t let anyone intimidate you anymore, not even Royce.”

Easily said, Lindsay thought.

Lindsay wondered if anyone had ever dared disagree with her grandmother. She said, smiling as she squeezed her grandmother’s hand, “If I say no to you, you know very well you’ll intimidate me.”

“That’s different. I’m your grandmother and very old and sick and you must show me due deference. Go along, now. Oh, by the way, Holly’s a mess. Don’t give her any tit for tat. It wouldn’t be fair, even though it would probably make you feel good. She’s too vulnerable just now.”

Lindsay spoke to the doctor on her way out. His name was Boyd, and he was considered one of the best orthopedic surgeons on the west coast, at least that’s what Lindsay’s father had told her the night before. He was clearly astounded at Mrs. Foxe’s progress. He estimated only another week in the hospital if her recovery continued so rapidly. He smiled at Lindsay then and asked her if she would like to have a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. To discuss her grandmother’s case more thoroughly. His smile widened. He was a very confident man.

She said no with a sweet smile and left. It was only a short distance from the hospital to the Foxe mansion. Lindsay paid the taxi driver, set her two suitcases on the sidewalk, and stood there a moment staring at the house and beyond it to the clear blue sky over San Francisco Bay. It was an odd day in July when there was no fog. But it was crystal clear today and the air was so sweet and crisp and fresh it nearly made her eyes water. The Golden Gate Bridge looked stark and bold against that painfully clear sky, the barren Marin headlands, brown and gaunt from lack of rain, the backdrop. Lindsay had always loved the fog to curl around the bridge, softening it, blurring the headlands.

The mansion loomed up huge and neat and overwhelming, its pale brick mellow and soft with age. Odd that it seemed bigger to her now as an adult than it had when she was very young. The grounds were immaculate, the bougainvillea and roses and fuchsias and hydrangeas all in riotous oranges, reds, pinks, and whites. The grass was mowed smoothly, the hedges trimmed perfectly. Still, Lindsay didn’t move. She saw the front door open and there was a woman she didn’t recognize standing there. She waved to Lindsay.

Mrs. Dreyfus, the new housekeeper, showed Lindsay to her old room down the east corridor on the second floor. Lindsay thanked her and asked what had become of Lansford, Gates Foxe’s butler for thirty years. He’d retired, Mrs. Dreyfus told her, but Dorrey, the cook, was still here. There were two maids now, since Judge Foxe and his wife had returned to the mansion.

She finally left Lindsay to herself. Lindsay looked out the bow windows toward Alcatraz, then turned away. She lay on her bed and, to her surprise, fell asleep immediately.

One of the maids woke her at six o’clock.

It was time to see her father. She didn’t want to. There was no choice.

She washed her face and pulled her hair back into a soft bun at the back of her neck. Curly tendrils of hair fell at the sides of her face and the gentle deep waves flowed back to the bun. She applied makeup lightly and pulled on a silk wraparound dress of dark blue and white. The blue matched her eyes, the salesperson had assured her. Lindsay didn’t know about that, but she liked the dress, felt assured wearing it. She put on white heels, sending her to six feet, two inches, the same height as her father. She smiled at her reflection in the long mirror. She’d be right at his eye level. If she tilted her head back, she’d be taller. She felt confident for the first time in her life going to face her father. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her. She wouldn’t let herself feel worthless. She was ready for him, her grandmother’s advice clear in her mind.

Her confidence plummeted the moment she entered the huge living room. Sydney stood there by the fireplace, a glass of wine in her hand, speaking to their father. She was laughing, her left hand going out to touch his sleeve. He spoke more quickly, and when he finished, Sydney threw back her head and laughed deeply.

“Oh, hello, Lindsay, do come in.”

Lindsay nodded toward Holly, in pale cream silk lounging pajamas on the sofa, and came slowly, unwillingly, into the room. The last time both she and Sydney had been here was when Lindsay had been sixteen years old, at Sydney’s wedding. It lacked only her mother and five hundred guests. But there was Holly, a fine substitute. She’d gained weight; she was drinking what looked to be a double martini.

“Hello, little sister.”

“Sydney. Hello, Father.”

Royce looked her up and down and frowned. “You’ve gotten even taller. You look like a damned Amazon.”

“The heels make me your height.”

“Take them off. You look ridiculous. Not like a woman, but some sort of female impersonator.”

Lindsay took off her heels. Intimidation was a strange thing, or was it simply the long habit of a child obeying a parent? She wondered if she’d ever look him in the eye and tell him to stuff it.

“That’s better,” Royce said. “Not much, but it is the best you can do.”

Lindsay laughed. She couldn’t help it, she laughed. She leaned down, picked up her heels, and put them back on. She reached upward and stretched her back. “Ah, that feels better. As I said, Father, I’m now your height. You forget I’m a model. I’m supposed to be an Amazon.”

Royce wanted to strike her. For a moment he could think of nothing to say. Never had she gone against him, never. Look at her, the skinny beanpole! Damn, he wanted—He drew a deep breath. He would pick another time and then she would obey him without hesitation; he would see to it. He picked a piece of lint off his light gray suit coat. “Holly says she saw you at the hospital this afternoon. How was your grandmother?”

Lindsay realized she’d been holding her breath, waiting to see what he’d do. She’d won. This time she’d won. Her grandmother was right: no more intimidation. Now, if only she could stop hurting deep inside whenever he looked at her with his indifferent dislike. She answered in kind, “In good spirits. Dr. Boyd is very impressed at her recovery.”

“She’ll outlive us all,” Holly said, fingering the four gold chains around her neck. She also wore four rings on her right hand. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “Sydney says you don’t drink alcohol because you’re too heavy. Would you like some soda water?”

“Yes, thank you, Holly. I’m surprised to see you here, Sydney.”

“I don’t see why. She’s my grandmother as well, and I was in New York, not Italy. I was just telling Father I would be modeling for Arden—nothing lowbrow or anything to be ashamed of, even for a powerful federal judge. Just imagine, both of us models.”

“You’ll be wonderful, Sydney.”

“Quite probably. I was just telling Father how your jealousy—so unnecessary now that you’re grown—clouded your judgment, how I wanted us to do the commercials together, two sisters, both so different—”

Lindsay interrupted her easily. “It had nothing to do with jealousy.” Holly thrust a glass of soda water into her hand. Lindsay took a quick drink. “It had to do with what happened five years ago. I told Demos why I didn’t want the whole business dredged up again.” Lindsay paused, then said, “I am asking you, Sydney, once you make your debut as a model, not to tell people what my real name is and our relationship.”

Sydney regarded her silently for several very long moments. She seemed amused.

“Eden,” Royce snorted. “That name of yours, it’s absurd. It makes me shudder every time I think of it. I do hope none of the past gets raked up. However, the tabloids are sleazy and always looking out for cheap thrills. I don’t think Sydney plans on speaking of the past, Lindsay, because it would hurt her, and she knows I don’t want her to be hurt. She’s had too much pain to bear already because of what you did.” He turned to Sydney. “Are you set on doing this modeling?”

“We need the money,” Sydney said matter-of-factly. “And Arden will pay buckets, so Demos tells me. Besides, Italy is boring and too far from home. A real live princess is out of the ordinary, Demos says. And one who doesn’t look like a dog without makeup is evidently priceless. Since his percentage depends on how much he can squeeze out of them, he’ll do his best.”

Royce nodded. “I’m still not sure about this. I hope you’re right. I trust you won’t claim any relationship to Lindsay. I don’t want all that garbage raked up again. I don’t want you to suffer anymore.”

“My suffering is over, Father, I promise.”

Royce still looked uncertain. He looked toward a portrait of Gates, painted in 1964. Stylish, cold, so sure of herself and her dominance over him. “God, that old woman will live forever, Holly’s correct about that.”

Lindsay drank more of her soda water to keep her mouth shut. Then she heard herself asking, “Will you, Sydney? Tell people who I am?”

Sydney smiled. “Father’s right, you know. Eden is such a junky name, so silly really, like a kid playing grown-up. Maybe what you need is to have the air cleared, face up to the past and just laugh. Maybe that would really give your career a needed boost. Perhaps I can help you. Then again, perhaps not.”

Judge Royce Foxe laughed and lightly tapped his fingers on Sydney’s cheek. “I’ve always loved your sense of humor, you damned little tease.”

“Let’s have dinner,” Holly said, and jumped to her feet. She really had gained weight, Lindsay noticed. At least fifteen pounds. Just like her mother. She watched Holly stop in front of a mirror just beside the door, a mirror that hadn’t been there before.

“I don’t know what to do, Grandmother.”

It was the next afternoon. Summer fog was thick, blurring the scenery outside the hospital window. It felt cozy and warm in here, protected.

“Well, at last you’re ready to tell me what’s been making you fidget all over my room for the past hour! What is it?”

“I don’t like to burden you, truly—”

“I’m bored, Lindsay, just plain bored. Give me a problem, give me something to think about, something to focus on, so my brain won’t rot.”

“Sydney is going to be a model. Like me.”

“That’s absurd!”

“No. She even told Father last night. He was unsure about it, but she talked him around. Did you notice that Holly’s gaining weight?”

“She’s also drinking more. Yes, I know, just like your mother. But about Sydney. Why is she doing it?”

“She told Father she needs money.”

“All right, why do you care?”

Lindsay could feel the cramping in her belly as she forced the words out. “People will figure out who she is really fast and she’ll tell them who I am and it will all start over again. That’s why I’m Eden. I don’t have a last name, I don’t have Lindsay Foxe’s identity in New York. I’ve been safe the past year.”

Gates Foxe didn’t say anything. She stared at her granddaughter.

Lindsay kept talking, unable to keep the words inside. “She’ll do it in such a way that everyone will think that I seduced the prince, that it was all my fault, that I was some kind of slut and a pervert.”

“No, my dear. Actually, Lindsay, she won’t say a word.”

“But you didn’t hear her last night! I don’t know what to do! I’ve tried to plead with her and—”

“How can you be so stupid? One never pleads with Sydney, it’s a waste of time. She despises weakness. I’m surprised you haven’t ever realized that before. Of course, to be fair, you haven’t been around her all that much. There are nine years between you. But with Sydney, my dear, it’s pure and simple reason that works, reason and self-interest, nothing else, and that reason must be bottom-line. Sydney has had to deal with quite a lot on her plate, too much, I’d say, for someone weaker than she. But there it is. She copes and she succeeds at what she does. She sets a course and doesn’t go off on a tangent. She also enjoys tormenting you. You’re a wonderful target for her, just as your mother was before you, because you care about feelings, your own and others’. She doesn’t.”

“But by speaking of Paris and Alessandro, she would be hurting herself as well, wouldn’t she? I don’t understand why she would even consider doing it.”

“You were correct the first time. You would be the one to come out looking like a Lolita. Sydney is so bright it sometimes frightens me. If she chose to speak of what happened in Paris, why, then, you would look like a conscienceless little slut, and Sydney would come out the brave wife/martyr and everyone would praise her and adore her.”

“I’ve got to stop her. I can’t deal with it again.”

“So you have dealt with it, then. Is that why you majored in psychology? I thought so. Something so juicy is difficult to keep buried.”

“I’ll kill her.”

“A thought, but impractical, my dear. No, Lindsay, I will deal with Sydney. You don’t have the ability to do it. At least not yet. Yes, leave her to me.”

The following afternoon Sydney came into Lindsay’s bedroom. She looked beautiful, immaculate, chic. She looked angry, but when she spoke, it was with rueful amusement.

“You’ve won this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“You got Grandmother to do your dirty work for you. I won’t tell anyone about you, that’s the deal. You can continue being wholesome Eden with your sweet smile. Oh, sure, the media will find out who I am almost immediately and I’ll be bugged about Alessandro and about Paris and about what really happened. But I won’t give you away, little sister. But know this, I will outshine you, Lindsay, don’t doubt it. Give me six months and you’ll be a has-been.”

Lindsay wasn’t really listening. She wondered what her grandmother had used as bottom line to ensure Sydney’s silence. Self-interest, she thought. That meant money.