Beyond Eden

15

Taylor / Eden

They saw in Christmas Day, but only just. At ten minutes after midnight, Taylor looked at her and gave a big yawn. Tomorrow morning, early, was Christmas stockings. They needed their sleep. He held out his hand to her as he rose.

She tentatively placed her hand in his, stood up, pulled down her loose wine-colored sweater, and said, trying to hide her sudden embarrassment, “I’ll go first, if that’s okay. I’ll be about ten minutes.”

He nodded, turning to face the fireplace, trying to be as laid-back as his computer friends in California. At that moment she felt a spurt of anger at him, for he’d known intimacy with a woman; he knew how to act, what to say, how to speak. He knew what to do. She said from the doorway, “This isn’t fair. I feel so strange. I don’t know how to act, how to joke around about all this like you do. I feel stupid.”

He grinned at her, waving her away as he said, “On the other hand, you’re wearing a beautiful ring. You’ve got me at your feet. What else do you want?”

Again, his light touch. She just shook her head at him. Lindsay called out to him when she was through in the bathroom, and after seeing to the candles, the fire, the front door, Taylor went into the bedroom. Only the lamp atop the bedside table was on. She was lying on the left side, flat on her back, the covers to her chin. She was staring at him.

“Hi,” he said easily, but he was thinking that she looked the twenty-first-century prototype of a vestal virgin. He unbuttoned his shirt. “You kept to the agreed-upon limit, didn’t you, Eden?”

“For what?” She was staring at him. He pulled off his shirt. Then he pulled his T-shirt over his head.

“For the presents in our stockings,” he said through the cotton. “Just nonsense presents, limit of fifty dollars. Did you stick to the limit?”

She watched the white T-shirt float to the floor. He began to pull the belt from the loops of his dark gray slacks. Taylor had decided while he’d waited for her that he would wear his T-shirt and shorts to bed tonight, then, after he moved in tomorrow, he’d wear sweats, nothing more. That was what he’d thought at first. Then he thought, why the hell hide his body from her? Why the hell pretend the situation wasn’t normal? Why the hell pretend he didn’t want her and not let her see that he did? Why the hell not have her get used to him, beginning immediately? It was a risk; it was a god-awful risk, but he accepted it, and prayed. His hand paused a moment; then he knew he had to go ahead with it. She had to get used to him. She had to know that even when he was naked there was simply no chance he would hurt her. She had to trust him.

“Did you?” he asked again, not looking up.

The belt landed on the chair, curling around the T-shirt. He sat down and took off his shoes and socks, then rose again, his fingers on the trouser button.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking my clothes off. I tend not to sleep in them, you know. It makes them last longer. Save on the laundry and cleaning bills. Now, did you stick to our limit?”

“Taylor!”

She couldn’t help watching, she simply couldn’t help it. The image of the prince flared bright and stark in her memory, and she saw him naked, saw his sex hard and long, remembered the heat of his breath on her face, the coldness of his hands on her body, and felt the old terror, the humiliation and fear, the helplessness.

“I managed to keep it at just $47.69, to be exact. I got you some neat things. You’ll see.”

She turned her head away.

She heard him whistling “Silent Night.”

But she wasn’t eighteen anymore. She wasn’t helpless. “Damn you, you promised me, you said that I could trust you, that you wouldn’t—”

He didn’t intend to pretend for an instant, nor did he hesitate to interrupt her. “I didn’t lie, Eden. Turn around and look at me. Get used to me, starting right now. I am incapable of pretending I don’t want you, so there’s no point in trying to hide it and pretend sex doesn’t exist and that I’m some sort of eunuch roommate. Look at me and trust me. I won’t ever do anything you don’t want.” He spoke slowly and easily, so calmly, his own voice nearly putting him to sleep. But not Eden. No, she was too terrified.

She turned her head slowly on the pillow. He was standing in the middle of her bedroom, naked, his arms at his sides, looking at her.

“I’m just a man, Eden.”

She stared.

“Do you still think I’m miraculous?”

“Yes,” she said finally after staring at him for a full silent three minutes. “I suppose you are.”

He grinned at her, feeling a whole truckload of relief. “I like a warped woman. Let’s get some sleep.”

He walked toward the bed, saw her freeze, but continued on his course. Normalcy was the key. He slipped under the covers. “Turn off the light. You wore me out tonight.”

“I didn’t. Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, yes, you did. You didn’t squeal with incredible joy when you saw the ring. You didn’t leap into my arms and kiss my face off and scream that you couldn’t wait to marry me, that you were the happiest woman in New York. Oh, no, you nearly forced me to call out the Marines. Now I’ve got to regroup. Off with the light. I’ve got to think, to plan.”

The light clicked off. The bedroom was black as pitch. Lindsay moved around a bit, then became quiet. She said then, “Don’t you wear pajamas to bed?”

“No.”

“If I bought you some, would you?”

“No.”

She sighed.

“Speaking of pajamas, I hate nightgowns. If I burned all of yours, would you sleep nude?”

“No.”

“Well, there you are. Good night, sweetheart. It’s good to be here, where I belong.”

“Good night, Taylor. I’m glad you’re here. I think.”

“Do I get a good-night kiss?”

Silence.

“All right. A special kiss, an engagement kiss, a Christmas Eve kiss.”

She leaned over and kissed him, landing on his chin. He reached out to clasp her shoulders and instead brushed against her breasts. Oh, sweet Jesus, he thought. “No, don’t pull back. It’s dark in here. Now, let’s see if we can’t get our mouths together properly.”

They did and it was a sweet kiss, one that left him profoundly horny and left Lindsay feeling a small flutter in her belly, a sensation she attributed to residue fear.

When Taylor awoke the following morning at precisely ten minutes past seven, she was lying on her back, a good foot separating them. As he’d done before, he pulled her over and settled her against him. He didn’t go back to sleep. He lay there, quite happy and so pleased with himself he wanted to yell with it. She mumbled something and moved, coming closer, her thigh covering his legs quite thoroughly now, her palm over his bare chest, her face tucked into his throat. Her hair was thick and soft and wavy in his face.

He waited to see how she would react when she woke up. Unfortunately, she didn’t wake up, and by the time it was eight o’clock, he had to go to the bathroom.

“Well, damn,” he said as he eased away from her.

He brought hot chocolate, croissants, butter, and Kramer’s strawberry jam in on a tray. “Merry Christmas, Eden. Come on, wake up.”

Lindsay couldn’t believe it. A man’s voice, in her apartment, and she was in bed. It took her less than an instant to come fully awake. She stared at this man in her bedroom. He was wearing her white terry-cloth robe, belted at the waist. He was in her bedroom and he was bringing her food. He lived here. She must have lost her mind, she must be crazy. She’d lost it on Christmas Eve. He lived here and she’d agreed to it. Then she happened to look down at the blazing diamond on her left hand. Well, hell.

She scooted up in bed and patted her legs. Well, she didn’t have to act like a freaked-out fool. “Set the tray down right here, sailor. I’m starving.”

“Don’t you ever go to the bathroom?”

She ducked her head down.

“Eden, don’t be silly. Even though you’re gorgeous, your body’s a dream, still, even with all these perfections, you’ve got to go to the bathroom sometime.”

“All right,” she said, and went.

When she came back, teeth and hair brushed, the two bulging Christmas stockings were on the bed, along with the breakfast tray.

“This is wonderful,” she said, and realized with joy that it really was. It was new and different and she simply couldn’t believe it. She relished it. She wanted to hug it to her and never feel fear again. Perhaps Taylor was different—“I’m trying to show you that you can’t live without me. Food to a skinny woman is always a good start.”

She bit into a croissant. “Wonderful. Oh, that’s real butter. I’d forgotten I had any.”

“Kiss me good morning. It’s a tradition in my family that goes all the way back to the Spanish Inquisition. And it will become a tradition in our family as well.”

She kissed him, tasting of the delicious strawberry jam and hot chocolate on his mouth. He deepened the kiss just a bit and let it go at that.

Two weeks ago, Taylor never would have believed he’d be in bed with her on Christmas morning, the recipient of a sweet kiss, but here he was.

As she’d so aptly said, it was indeed miraculous. He wondered, as he picked up his first wrapped stocking present, if she loved him and just didn’t know it. He guessed he’d happily settle for “ miraculous” for the time being. There was lots to do before he asked her again if she loved him.

Taylor quickly discovered that Eden liked to talk in bed, when it was in the dark of the night, when she couldn’t see him or his reaction.

He, in turn, could have any reaction he wanted because she couldn’t see him. It suited both their purposes for the time being.

Their most memorable late-night talk had been short and had moved him more than he’d expected. She’d said matter-of-factly, “I’ve always wanted to belong. To have someone who loved me and cared what happened to me. Someone who never questioned me, who believed me, and accepted me.”

Jesus, he thought, and swallowed, then reached out his hand and poked her ribs. “Well, now you do. Don’t forget, all that still goes even when we have our first knock-down, drag-out fight.”

“It’s nice,” she said, grabbing his hand. She didn’t release it.

That was all, and he knew he’d never forget it as long as he lived. Her hand remained in his all night. It wasn’t until the second of January that Lindsay remembered about her mail. Most of it was addressed to Lindsay Foxe. It was possible, of course, that Taylor had already looked at incoming bills and letters, but she didn’t think so. When he snooped, she imagined he wouldn’t resort to sneaking looks at letters. Still, she either had to tell him who she was or do something about the mail. She felt like a fraud, but she didn’t do anything about it.

She shied away from admitting she was Lindsay Foxe. On the other hand, the odds were that he wouldn’t ever recognize that name, not in a million years, except that he had been in Paris. All he’d had to do was look at a newspaper or scandal sheet. How could he not know? Oh, God, she couldn’t bear it. But then again, just maybe he would never find out about her even if the name did sound familiar to him. In terms of his abilities, she had no doubt that if he were curious about her name, he’d know all about her within an hour. She wasn’t ready to tell him. Not yet. It surprised her that the wound still festered. For nearly nine years now she’d handled it, down to joining self-awareness groups in college and spouting the party line. Before, she’d really thought herself well-armored, despite Dr. Gruska’s two appearances, but Taylor was different in her life. He counted. She didn’t want to lose him. She didn’t want him to look at her and think she’d been a teenage Lolita. He already knew too much, but this—she simply couldn’t handle this yet.

She didn’t know what to do. What she did do, finally, was get a post-office box. It would be a real pain in the rear but she could see no alternative. Except to tell the truth. No, not yet. If Taylor noticed she didn’t get a scrap of mail anymore, he didn’t say anything.

He noticed, all right, because he’d been wondering if he should initiate a change of address. He wanted to confront her with it, but he decided to wait.

Damnation. Who was she? Why did it matter about her name? When was she going to trust him?

They both admitted to the other on the eighth of January that the apartment was too small for the two of them.

Lindsay was afraid to speak of it, but Taylor wasn’t and he got the ball rolling.

“Let’s either move to my place—it is bigger, but probably still not big enough—or let’s go looking. What are you doing Saturday?”

It was a commitment that appalled her. It was even more real than the diamond that winked brilliantly up at her. It felt very heavy on her hand. She thought suddenly of the look on Demos’ face when he’d seen it. Shock, incredulity, and finally, pleasure. Glen had acted wounded, tossing his head, but he’d given her a big hug. Now Taylor wanted to move. It wasn’t a do-or-die decision, but to her it was close, very close.

“Well?”

She just looked at him, that look that used to drive him nuts, it was so wary and uncertain.

“Question, Eden. We’ve been together for two weeks. Do you realize that last night while I was taking off my clothes you were sitting up in bed, your arms around your knees, and you didn’t miss a beat in what you were saying?”

“I was concentrating on what I was telling you.”

“I was hard as a rock and you didn’t blink.”

“Oh, all right. So I’m getting used to you—to all parts of you. So what?”

“Two days ago, I woke up early. You were lying all over me. When you woke up, I pretended to be asleep. You got up, went to the bathroom, came back, and sprawled all over me again. What do you think of that?”

“I was too groggy to know what I was doing.”

“Right.”

“I was cold and you’re like a furnace.”

“Right. Do you remember only last night, you were talking to me through the bathroom door? Normal as could be.”

“I was creaming my face. Surely you should be grateful I spared you that.”

“Was that all you were doing?” He flicked his fingertips over her flushed cheek. “No, please don’t resort to violence. Regardless, it’s time to go the next step. Let’s look in the paper and see what’s available to rent.”

She threw the newspaper at him. “All right, just do it and shut up.”

“Okay,” he said mildly, smoothing it out. “How much can you afford for your half?”

She laughed, flinging her arms out. “Let’s splurge. I make lots and lots of money. I want one of those big old apartments with high ceilings and lots of molding and old marble fireplaces and views that make you cry, but, of course, modern kitchen and bathrooms.”

They found just what she wanted on Fifth Avenue between Eightieth and Eighty-first streets in the elegant 1926 Bishop Building. It hadn’t been advertised, of course. Taylor and Lindsay both had put the word out and it had been Demos who’d called with the lead. The apartment was one thousand, eight hundred square feet, with lots of shining old wood, both on the walls as wainscoting and on the floors. It cost three arms and a dozen legs, Taylor thought, but what the hell. He turned to see her mesmerized, just standing in the middle of the immense living room, staring out the big bay windows to Central Park and the museum.

“How much do you earn?”

Lindsay knew what the rent was. She also realized he was a man, and men, in general, simply couldn’t comprehend a woman earning a whopping lot of money. She said, her chin up, “I can afford more than half, with no strain on my budget, if that’s what worries you. I can even afford the security deposit, all by myself. I can even afford the whole thing.”

“Good. Half will be just fine. I don’t want to miss my trip to France in the spring or have to eat onion soup at the end of the month. Shall we sign the lease?”

Lindsay found that when she signed her name, her real name, on the line beneath Taylor’s, to the one-year lease, she didn’t even hesitate. But she did notice his signature. He hadn’t crowded her. He hadn’t looked down to see what she’d written. He’d even walked away while she was signing the lease. When she folded their copy of the lease and stuffed it into her purse, he still remained quiet. She’d tell him when she was ready. Evidently that wasn’t just yet. He was surprised when she said, “You signed S. C. Taylor. What does the S.C. stand for?”

“I’ll tell you on our wedding night.” Didn’t she realize he could play a tit-for-tat game? Evidently not. He saw the shock on her face at his words and tried very much to disregard it.

* * *

They moved in on the twentieth of January with only the requisite number of New York moving screwups. Their belongings together didn’t fill up the apartment, but Lindsay was coming to realize that it was more fun this way. Now they’d be able to plan, to argue, to decorate and compromise. It was the compromise part, the sheer fun of discussing everything together, that made her life, all of it, immensely fuller and richer. It made her life more normal because her focus now took into account another person’s feelings and moods and opinions. It felt odd. It also felt wonderful.

It was also a commitment the size of which she never considered possible in her life. It was a commitment that shouted for honesty. Soon, she told herself, soon. Taylor was too important to play games with, much too important. Important to her.

On February 2 they’d taken an afternoon to look at Persian rugs for the living room, and had argued and insulted each other’s taste, all in all having a fine time. They’d bought a Tabriz, all in soft blues and creams and reds and pale yellows and pinks. It was beautiful in the living room. Taylor claimed credit, as did Lindsay. They fought and yelled at each other. They laughed and drank tea even though Lindsay would have given anything to eat some ice cream. And it was that night, at ten minutes past eight, that the phone rang.

Lindsay answered it, cutting off the middle of a sentence to Taylor. She was still laughing when she said, “Hello!”

There was a brief silence; then, “Lindsay, this is your father.”

She clutched the phone in her fist, all laughter gone. “What’s wrong?”

“Your grandmother is dead. Your mother is dead as well. Your mother was drunk and driving your grandmother to one of her interminable board meetings. They went flying down Webster Street, out of control, and hit four other cars, all empty, thank God. Your mother—”

God, she hated him. She stared at the phone. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?”

He was silent and she could almost picture his impatient shrug. “I’m calling you now. The funeral is on Friday. You might want to consider flying out here.”

“Yes, I will. Thank you for calling me. It’s quite decent of you.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm, Lindsay. It doesn’t become you any more than your absurd height does. I spoke to Sydney yesterday. She’ll be flying back from Italy.”

Of course he’d called Sydney immediately. But not her, not Lindsay. Her mother was dead. Her grandmother, the timeless old lady, was dead. Gates Foxe, a San Francisco fixture, seemingly immortal, always on the move, always active. And her mother. Drunk? No, she couldn’t accept that, she couldn’t. She hadn’t gone to San Francisco at Christmas. She’d been delighted when Kennedy had closed down with the snowstorm. She’d made no attempt to get another, later flight. She didn’t get to see either of them. And now they were dead.

“When you arrive, just take a taxi to the mansion. I suppose you’ll have to stay here.”

“Yes,” she said, and gently hung up the phone.

She raised her eyes. Taylor was looking at her intently. She said, “That was my father. My grandmother and my mother are dead. They were killed in a car accident yesterday. I’d best call the airline now for a reservation out tomorrow morning. The funeral is on Friday.”

Taylor watched her dial information and ask for United reservations. She was calm, far too calm. But he waited, listened to her voice as she spoke to the reservations person.

When she hung up, she said, “Oh, dear, I’ve got to call Demos. I won’t be able to make that photo session tomorrow. It’s sportswear, in January. Isn’t that odd? I don’t remember—was I doing something on Friday? Taylor, do you know?”

He walked to her and very gently drew her into his arms. She was stiff and withdrawn. He didn’t know what to do so he just held her and stroked his hands up and down her back.

“Why don’t you go take a nice hot shower. I’ll call Demos for you.”

“Thank you, Taylor.” She pulled away from him and walked out of the huge, half-empty living room, down the long corridor to the master bedroom.

He called Demos.

“You going to San Francisco with her?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t asked me to.”

“Maybe it’s best you don’t,” Demos said after a goodly silence. “I understand her father is a real jerk, her stepmother is a bigger jerk, and there’s her half-sister, Sydney, who’s—well, that’s neither here nor there. Oh, God, it’s not fair, is it? Take care of her, Taylor.”

“Yes, Demos, I will.”

He walked into the bathroom. She was lying in a full tub of hot water, her head back against the rich pale pink marble, her hair wet and thick against her shoulders, covering her breasts.

“You all right, sweetheart?”

She was naked but she didn’t care. She opened her eyes and turned her face to look at him. He was sitting on the toilet seat, the look of worry on his face real and honest. It touched her deeply.

“I’m all right. It’s such a shock. My mother—I haven’t really been close to her since I was sixteen and she and my father sent me away to boarding school in Connecticut. My father said she was drunk and responsible for the accident. But my grandmother. It’s hard, really hard to believe she’s gone. She was always there, always.”

Still, there were no tears in her. Only a vague worry.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

She shook her head. “No, no, I don’t want you to meet my—It doesn’t matter. I’ll be coming back Friday night. I won’t stay there, in the mansion, any longer than I have to. I’ve always hated it there.”

The mansion? There was so much he wanted to know, so very much, and she’d been getting closer to him, closer by the day. They’d had a wonderful argument just the day before, and had ended up in each other’s arms, laughing and even kissing a little bit. And now this.

“Call me when you arrive.”

“All right.”

That night he held her close as he did every night. She was very quiet and his impression was that it wasn’t pain holding her silent; it was shock and disbelief, a numbness that invaded the brain so that one could deal with the enormity of the loss. Quite normal, he supposed. Two violent deaths at the same time. He wished she wanted him with her. But he wouldn’t push. Not now.

She took a taxi to Kennedy.

At least he knew when she was due back. He’d pick her up when she returned. Maybe by then she’d need him, really need him.

San Francisco was sunny, sixty degrees, paradise on earth. Lindsay breathed in deeply as she walked from the baggage claim outside to where the taxis were lined up.

Thirty minutes later the taxi pulled up in front of the mansion. The man whistled. “Quite some digs. You live here, lady?”

“Oh, no. I’m just an occasional visitor.”

“It must be great to be the folk who do live here. Can you imagine all the bucks?”

“No, not really.”

She didn’t want to press the bell. She didn’t want to see Holly, her stepmother, or her father. She still felt nothing save that vague stillness that seemed to be coming from inside her. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon. Odd, back home in New York it would be dark now. What would Taylor be doing? Would he be home?

Home. It sounded wonderful.

She rang the bell.

Holly answered the door. A fat Holly, with a double chin, a pasty complexion, and bloodshot eyes. From crying? Lindsay doubted it. She recognized the signs from her mother. The bloodshot eyes were probably from drinking too much for too long too often.

“Well,” said Holly, stepping back. “You’re here. Come in, Lindsay.”

She was wearing a loose flowing top over very tight knit pants and sneakers. She looked like a forty-year-old woman trying to look like she was twenty-two and thirty pounds lighter.

“Hello, Holly. I hope you’re doing all right.”

Holly smiled. “It’s your family, not mine. I will miss the old lady, though, odd as that might sound.”

“It doesn’t sound odd at all.”

“You didn’t have to live here day in and day out as her daughter-in-law, taking orders, not being able to do what I wanted to do, always having to beg, to plead, to get anything I wanted. Your father was her own personal puppy. God, you’re lucky you lived three thousand miles away.”

“You don’t have to stay, Holly. All this was your decision.”

She gave Lindsay a malignant look, then shrugged as she walked into the main drawing room. The heavy brocade drapes were pulled closed. The room was chill and damp.

“Jesus,” Holly said, and went on a rampage, jerking open every curtain in the vast room. “That miserable housekeeper, I’m going to fire her ass on Monday. Yes, on Monday I’ll be the boss here and anyone who doesn’t like it can just get the hell out. And that includes your precious Mrs. Dreyfus. All the old bag can do is snivel and talk about how Mrs. Gates would have done this or that. Jesus.”

Lindsay set her single bag down in the hall, then walked to the vast Carrara marble fireplace. “I’ll light a fire, all right?”

“Yeah, sure. It feels like bloody death in here.”

Lindsay’s hands jerked.

“I need a drink.” Lindsay watched Holly walk to the drink tray and pull the stopper out of a Waterford decanter. It was Glenlivet and Holly poured herself a double shot, neat.

“Drinking more, Holly? Really, dear, you should try to control yourself. People will be coming by to offer their sympathy. The last impression you want to give is that the new lady of the house is a lush.”

Sydney was wearing a slender black wool dress with three-inch black heels. Her stockings were black with seams up the backs of her legs. Her hair was pulled back from her face and held with gold combs. Her makeup was restrained, perfect. She looked pale and fragile and utterly beautiful.

Lindsay said from where she remained in front of the fireplace, “Hello, Sydney. When did you get in?”

“Last night. It was a very long flight from Milan. You’re looking about the same, Lindsay. How was New York when you left?”

“Cold and sunny.”

“And Demos?”

“The same.”

“Really, Holly, dear, not another shot? Surely you’ve had more than enough. You’re much more in the open about your drinking than Lindsay’s mother ever was. You’re also fatter than her mother ever was. And this fixation you seem to have with mirrors—isn’t it a bit painful to look at yourself now?”

“Go fuck yourself, Sydney!”

Sydney laughed. “I doubt I’ll ever have to resort to that, unlike you. Poor Holly. All that fat you’re carrying around turns men off, don’t you know that? Particularly my father.”

“Just stop it, both of you!”

Sydney and Holly both stared at Lindsay. She was on her feet, pale, furious. She’d had enough. “Listen, no more sniping. Sydney, just keep your nasty comments to yourself. For God’s sake, Grandmother and my mother are dead. Just stop it, damn you both.”

“Such passion,” Sydney remarked in Holly’s general direction. “And here I had thought the prince had sucked all of it out of my little sister.”

Lindsay dumped the two fat logs she was holding on the floor. She watched them roll over the beautiful golden oak. One log dented the oak badly when it struck. She said nothing more, merely walked out, shoulders straight, feeling like death herself. Nothing ever changed. Things just seemed to get worse, and now that Grandmother was dead, there was no one to put on the brakes.

She didn’t see Mrs. Dreyfus.

She went to her bedroom, locked the door, and unpacked the few clothes she’d brought, putting them away, paying no heed, really, to what she was doing. Her brain was numb and she was grateful for it.

She wondered what her grandmother had been doing with her mother. There’d really been no love lost between the two women, as far as she knew. But she’d been gone a long time. And sometimes things did change. Just maybe her grandmother preferred the ex-daughter-in-law to the current one. Now Lindsay would never know.

Lindsay closed her eyes. She saw Taylor, laughing, pulling her against him and hugging her tight, nibbling her earlobe, whispering that she had abysmal taste in Persian carpets, that Bokaras were too flimsy and far too red for his taste, which was, of course, superb. Then he went on to her fresh-meadow air freshener. It clogged his sinuses, he said, and got under his fingernails. It smelled like a brothel. It smelled like a cat box in a rich house. God, she missed him, his normalcy, his humor, his balance. She saw Taylor as he’d been last night, worry in his eyes, and helplessness, because he didn’t know what to do, what to say to her.

Dear God, he was so dear to her.

At seven o’clock there was a knock on her door. Lindsay was dressed, sitting in front of her window, staring toward Alcatraz Island. Waiting for someone to fetch her. Knowing she’d have to see Sydney and Holly again. And her father.

She followed Mrs. Dreyfus downstairs to the drawing room. The first person she saw was her father, Judge Royce Foxe, standing in a stark black suit with white linen, looking handsome and elegant as always and laughing at something Sydney was saying to him. He looked up at Lindsay, and his laughter died.