Beyond Eden

Epilogue

“It’s all over now, Lindsay. The jury brought in the guilty verdict and Uncle Bandy will be out of the way for so long we’ll be able to die and reincarnate at least twice and still be free of him.”

“Thank God. It’s taken so long, Taylor, so long.”

She was right about that. Nearly nine months before he’d gone on trial and two more weeks before the case had gone to the jury. Lindsay had held up well on the witness stand, and he had as well. Taylor scratched his belly and felt relief flood through him. He was naked and still damp from his shower. He felt great. He looked at his wife, at her beautiful face and thick wavy hair. She wasn’t quite so thin now, but she was still modeling and it seemed to suit her.

He picked up the TV remote and switched it off. He said, “The media will have a ball for another couple of weeks, sweetheart, and then you and I, Lindsay Taylor, will become nothing more than one of the madding crowd.”

She snuggled next to him.

“I was thinking,” he said as he stroked his hand down her bare back to cup around her bottom. “How ’bout you and I flying to Hawaii for a week or two? We can hide out on the beach, let the press forget all about us, and make love until we can’t walk.”

“That sounds okay.” She sighed, moving closer. Her hand was flat on his belly. He wished her fingers would go lower and knew that they would. She always liked to take her time, and it drove him mad and then blissfully happy.

“What do you want if not Maui? It’s a long trip, but if you like, we could stop off for a few days in L.A.”

She rose on her elbow and looked down at him. “No, it’s not that.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to show me France.”

He stared at her. He couldn’t believe it. “France?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I gave it a chance to impress me.”

“France,” he said again. It had been over a year since his last trip there. He felt his blood stir. They’d ride his motorcycle through every inch of the Loire Valley. He’d take her to see the dolmans in Brittany, the Merchants’ Table at Locmariaquer, he’d show her the Knights’ Hall in the Abbey of Mont St. Michel, ah, so very very much to show her—

“How about next Tuesday?”

“France,” he said again, then, “Tuesday?”

“Yes, but first things first.” Her fingers wrapped around him and he sighed, pleasure flowing through him.

“I don’t have much packing to do. We want to travel real light, and—”

She squeezed just a bit, making him groan before he grinned up at her. “You’re a hard woman. Let’s do it.”

Lindsay felt soft and fluid as water. It was Taylor who was hard as a stone. She knew him well now, and if a fire chanced to start in the apartment, they’d both be in dire straits.

She remembered then and said, “Our wedding night has come and gone.”

“Sad but true. However, I’m not complaining.”

“You shouldn’t. Don’t you remember, Taylor? You promised you’d tell me what the S.C. meant on our wedding night.”

“Your memory is appalling.”

“Well? Come on, Taylor, you know all my secrets.”

That was certainly true, he thought. He also knew secrets she might never know, particularly the one about the man who wasn’t her father, the man to whom neither of them had spoken since that long-ago time in the hospital. Lindsay had signed over the Foxe mansion not to him, but to Holly. She’d grinned and chortled and rubbed her hands together as she’d done it, and Taylor had been very pleased, not that he thought Holly was such a fine human being, but that Royce Foxe would grind his teeth every time he walked into the mansion that never would belong to him, ever. Also, if he divorced Holly, or if she divorced him, why, then, he’d be out of the mansion on his ear. It was fitting retribution. It had a certain sweet justice to it. Taylor wondered if Royce Foxe still dared to screw around on his wife. Yes, it had a certain pleasant irony to it. The man had never said a word about Lindsay or her mother. Neither had Sydney. Ah, Sydney, she was more famous this year than last. She was seen everywhere with everyone important; she was feted; she was admired; paparazzi followed her. Taylor hoped she was miserable, regardless of all the outward trappings, but in objective moments, he doubted it. As for the prince, he was still in Italy and he was still what he was. Some justice there—he was dependent on his wife for every penny.

Taylor kissed his wife and said, “My real name, huh? All right. A promise is a promise. The S.C. stands for Samuel Clemens. As in Mark Twain.”

She didn’t say anything for the longest time.

Finally she said, her voice deep and soft, “That’s wonderful. Have I married a man whose mother wanted him to be a literary giant? Did you know that Clemens was in San Francisco for a while, way back in the beginning. I thought the S.C. was going to be something ridiculous like Santa Claus.”

She giggled against his shoulder. “Did you know his middle name was Langhorne? I learned that in a sophomore lit class.”

“So I could have been an S.L.C. Thank God my mom didn’t completely lose it.”

“What was your mom’s name?”

“Her maiden name was Rebecca Thatcher.”

“That’s grand, Taylor. And what did she name your sister?”

“Ann Marie Taylor.”

“After whom?”

“I was the only kid tortured. So you really want to give France a try?”

“Yep. Tuesday. You’ll show me everything?”

“Everything,” he said, and kissed her.