Beyond Eden (21 page)

He returned to Eden's apartment two hours later.

Taylor / Eden

 

Even as he rang Eden's doorbell, Taylor knew he wasn't going to say anything to her about meeting Dr. Gruska at Columbia. Not yet. He was fairly certain that the young woman Dr. Gruska spoke briefly about was Eden. She was terrified of men, that was true, and she sure as hell didn't trust Gruska. As for that sod, the man was certifiable. Taylor didn't think Dr. Gruska could even be taken with a half-grain of salt. How, then, to unmuddy the waters?

Lindsay stared through her peephole, then unlatched, unfastened, and unbolted her front door. “Goodness, Taylor! You're early and I'm a mess.”

He hadn't realized he was early until that moment. “I'm sorry, but I was in the neighborhood and—”

“Oh, come in, no problem. I just need to jump into the shower.”

Taylor saw that she was wearing an ancient white terry-cloth bathrobe and nothing else. She'd tied her hair up in a rubber band. He smiled. “Again, forgive me. Why don't I grab a beer and watch the news?”

She waved him away and retreated into her
bedroom. He shook his head at himself as he moved several novels out of the way on the sofa. He didn't turn on the TV; instead, he thought more about Gruska and what he'd said and what he obviously believed. And he recalled Eden's words, seemingly a jumble: . . .
the way he thinks, what he's found out, what he now knows, what he threatens. . . .

His mind latched on to what had really scared her. What Gruska had found out about her. And that something he needed to discover himself if he was going to be of any help to her. Taylor stopped cold with that thought. He'd just made the quite conscious decision that he wanted Eden in his life, that he wanted her whole and healthy, that he wanted her in bed as well as out of bed, that he wanted, quite simply, all of her.

He felt slightly stunned with the realization. Jesus, he was the bugger who'd sworn off a second marriage. Now he wanted a woman he'd known for only four days, and he wanted her forever. He thought of tall lanky-legged girls in white karate outfits with her gorgeous eyes who would be their offspring. He shook his head. He was losing it.

Taylor rose and walked to the telephone. First things first. He dialed Valerie's number. It was Tuesday and he had promised to call her on Monday.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Hello, Valerie, it's Taylor. How are you?”

“I'm fine.” She didn't continue with her usual spiel. She paused, then said, “Look, Taylor, I'm sorry about the other night, really. I was just stressed out and flailed at you. Will you forgive me?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Are you busy tonight?”

“Yes, I am.”

There was another very long pause. “Are you still working on that same job?”

“No, it's been resolved.”

“Successfully, I hope.” He heard the strain in her voice, recognized her attempt at civilized behavior, and wondered why it was so difficult for her.

“Yes,” he said, “very successfully.”

He could picture her sitting on the plush silk chair beside the Louis XV table. The phone was pseudo-antique in an old-fashioned cradle. He wondered what she was thinking. He was on the point of softening his answer to her when she said, her voice sharp, “It's another woman, isn't it, Taylor?”

“We aren't married, Valerie,” he said mildly.

“But I wanted you to come over tonight.”

“Are you free tomorrow night?”

“No, damn you, I'm not.”

“Well, then, as I said, we're not married. How about Thursday night?”

“You just want to see me so you can screw me!”

“I take it the thought doesn't entice you in the least?”

“Eight o'clock. I'll have Carrousel send over dinner. Don't be late.”

She hung up on him. Tit for tat, he thought, slowly setting down the phone, since he'd hung up on her the last time they spoke.

When he saw her on Thursday, he'd break it off. He had to because the only person he could see in his present, in his future, was Eden.

Eden, who was terrified of men. When she came out of the bedroom, freshly scrubbed, dressed in a pale yellow silk dress, her long legs in panty hose and impossibly high heels, he laughed.

“You're going to look me straight in the eye now? You're going to put me in my place?”

“Intimidation,” she said, smiling at him. “I thought you could use a good dose. I should even be a bit taller than you.”

“Have at it, any abuse you like. You look beautiful. I like your hair up in an old-fashioned bun like that.”

She merely nodded. She stood next to him then quirked her eyebrow at him. “Maybe not just a little bit,” she said.

And he was thinking there was so much of her to learn, to explore, to appreciate, finally, to savor. He thought about buying her some four-inch heels.

“Where are you taking me?”

“It's a surprise.”

He took her to meet Enoch and his mother, Sheila, 230 Maple Street, Fort Lee, New Jersey, for dinner that evening.

Sheila was going through her muumuu phase and she even served roasted pig in palm leaves in a grill in the backyard. She appreciated the fifty-degree weather, she said, or she and the pig could have been the same temperature. There were yams and poi, gray and thick and disgusting, and wonderful rolls. She gave Eden long looks, then turned on her charm, which she had in abundance. If she occasionally gushed or overwhelmed, they handled it, at least until dessert of scooped out papaya filled with vanilla ice cream. As for Enoch, he just stared at Eden as if trying to figure something out.

“Enoch's six-foot-four. You'll have to tilt your head just a bit.”

Lindsay laughed as she shook her head.

“It's nice not to have to crick my neck,” Enoch said.

“What's your last name, dear?” Sheila asked as she expertly sliced up her papaya. “I must have missed it. That damned pig required too much of my attention.”

Taylor's spoon paused on its journey to his mouth.

“Oh, I don't have one, Mrs. Sackett. Just Eden.”

“You entertainers, so coy and elusive.”

“I'm a model, ma'am, not an entertainer.”

“It's close enough, I'm sure,” Sheila said to the table at large. “More dessert, dear?”

“No, ma'am. This is wonderful.”

Too bad, Taylor thought. He'd already made up his mind he wasn't going to find out Eden's real name, no, she would have to tell him herself, when she was ready. He wasn't going to stoop to going through her mail to discover her real name. He wasn't going to muck about in things she evidently wanted kept hidden.

“Is Eden your real name, then?”

“Sheila,” Enoch said, waving his fork at her, “it really isn't any of your business. Leave Eden alone.”

Lindsay just smiled, but it was hard. The woman wasn't any nosier than others she'd met, but she was persistent and Lindsay was her prisoner for the evening. She slipped a glance toward Taylor and saw, to her surprise, that he understood, for he nodded. Not five minutes later, he said quite loudly, “Goodness, Sheila, would you look at the time.”

“What time? It's not even nine o'clock, Taylor.”

Enoch, no slouch, said, “Yeah, Sheila, it is late. I've got a meeting in the morning.”

“And Eden and I must leave. She's got to be up by five-thirty. She's got a photo session.”

Sheila Sackett regarded the three children with grave displeasure. Her son refused to meet her probing eye. She would deal with Enoch later. As for this Eden girl, she was certainly pretty enough for Taylor, and she seemed reasonably nice, but still—“I'd planned to have coffee now. Then I was going to play some jazz for you, Taylor, on my sax.”

Taylor looked disappointed, and he was. She was very talented. “Next time, Sheila,” he said, rising. He came around the table and kissed her cheek. “Great meal, thanks for inviting us. I love your muumuu and the roasted pig.”

“I'll bet you two are going out to do some love-making, aren't you?”

“Sheila, please.”

Lindsay wondered why he called his mother by her first name.

“That's a wonderful idea,” Taylor said as he kissed Sheila's cheek again.

“Oh, boy,” Lindsay said on their drive back into the city. “She's a real pusher, isn't she?”

“One of the front-runners. She's been after me for years to remarry. She somehow pictures herself as a grandmother to any kids I'd have.”

“Remarry?” Lindsay glanced over at him, her back suddenly straight as a witching stick.

“I was married to a very nice woman when we were both very young. It didn't work out. My fault as well as hers. It's been a long time since the divorce.”

He'd been married. He'd been intimate with a woman.

“How long were you married?”

“Two years and some.”

—intimate with one woman, for a long time.
Lindsay couldn't imagine such a thing. Sleeping with someone, eating every day with someone, sharing thoughts and troubles with another person—the same person always—being crabby and irritable and letting it show. Arguing about who would clean the bathroom or the freezer. She felt a yearning for that complete intimacy, for that incredible freedom to be as you really were without secrets, without mysteries or guile, without having to watch what you said because it might make the other person leave you in disgust. But still she couldn't imagine it, not for herself, not for Lindsay Foxe.

To Taylor's surprise, she dropped the subject entirely, saying, “Sheila truly plays the saxophone? Jazz?”

“She truly does and she's quite good. Blues is her thing. She loves to go to Atlanta and perform in the clubs there. Next time, maybe we can have her play. With her mouth full of reed she won't be able to keep chipping away at you. Also, the thought of her playing a sax in a muumuu boggles the mind. Enoch told me she wears long black gowns when she plays professionally, kind of like Kate Smith.”

Lindsay laughed. “She and Enoch look so unlike each other. Sheila's short and plump and he's so tall and skinny. Why isn't she after him to marry or remarry?”

“That's entirely different,” Taylor said, turning into the underground parking garage beneath his building. “Enoch's off-limits when it comes to a wife. Sheila doesn't mind him having free-lance associations, as she calls them, but no wife.”

“Strange.”

“Oh, yeah, very.” He paused, then added easily, “Of course a Freudian type would think it's classic
Oedipal complex. Have I got that right? You're the psych major.”

“Yes, you've got that perfectly correct.”

He heard the withdrawal in her voice. She said, “Would you like to come up for a cup of coffee or tea before I walk you home?”

He wanted to, but he shook his head. She didn't really want him to. She was just being polite, hoping he'd say no. She didn't trust him yet. It was that simple. Her fear won out.

He left her at her door, lightly touching his knuckles to her cheek.

He'd wanted to kiss her very much. In fact, it had been difficult not to stare at her mouth. Lindsay stood in the corridor, watching him until he disappeared around the corner. She sighed and went into her apartment, shutting and locking the door behind her, sliding each of the chains, clicking the deadbolt. She heard a noise and whipped around terrified, her stomach heaving up into her throat. There, seated in her living room, a glass of white wine in her left hand, a magazine with a full-length photo of her in the other, was her half-sister.

Lindsay's hand was over her galloping heart. “Oh, my God, you scared me, Sydney. However did you get in here?”

“Oh, hello, sister dear. Your super let me in. I've been here before and the dear man hadn't forgotten me. I've only been waiting fifteen minutes. Your date left quickly enough. I assume it was a date. I could hear you saying good night from in here. I must admit surprise at hearing a man's voice. Who is he? Some guy I should meet? Check out for you?”

Lindsay shook her head, saying nothing.

“Ah, well, maybe it was Demos?”

“No. What do you want, Sydney?”

Sydney Foxe di Contini—La Principessa—rose slowly, smoothing her black leather pants. She wore a hot-pink silk shell over the pants, topped with a black leather vest with gold chains clipping the vest over her breasts. She looked exquisite, slender, elegant, perfect as usual.

“I called but you weren't here, obviously. I wondered, that's all. You never go out with men and I was concerned. You have so few friends and I knew you were out with Gayle just last Monday, so she was a doubtful candidate. I just wanted to tell you I'm flying to Milan this weekend.”

“You want me to water your plants?”

Sydney laughed. “Oh, no. I just wanted to be able to tell everyone that I'd seen you and that you were in fine form.”

“I'm in fine form.”

“Excellent. You haven't put on any weight, have you? No? Well, perhaps you should lose just a bit more, a couple of pounds should do it. Who's the man, Lindsay?”

“No one you know.”

“Well, considering your taste, which I imagine has remained frozen in time since you were sixteen—why then, this charmer is probably slender, handsome, and suave as hell.”

Lindsay forced a smile. “Yes, all of those things.”

“Ah, an aristocratic New Yorker. Is he in the business? Perhaps he's gay and you're just too inexperienced to recognize it. Or perhaps he's gay and you feel safer that way. His voice sounded pretty deep to me.”

“No, he's not gay. Look, Sydney, I've got an early shoot tomorrow. I'm bushed.”

“All right, I'll go. I've canceled the shoots my
agent had scheduled. Nothing all that important, I told him. I also keep telling him it's time to become more hard-assed, more discriminating. After all, it's my face and my body, and my time. Maybe you'd better let me meet this guy. I could make sure he won't try anything with you.”