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.
