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.
