* * *
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.”
