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
