Beyond Eden (27 page)

“Such passion,” Sydney remarked in Holly's general direction. “And here I had thought the prince had sucked all of it out of my little sister.”

Lindsay dumped the two fat logs she was holding on the floor. She watched them roll over the beautiful golden oak. One log dented the oak badly when it struck. She said nothing more, merely walked out, shoulders straight, feeling like death herself. Nothing ever changed. Things just seemed to get worse, and now that Grandmother was dead, there was no one to put on the brakes.

She didn't see Mrs. Dreyfus.

She went to her bedroom, locked the door, and unpacked the few clothes she'd brought, putting them away, paying no heed, really, to what she was doing. Her brain was numb and she was grateful for it.

She wondered what her grandmother had been doing with her mother. There'd really been no love lost between the two women, as far as she knew. But she'd been gone a long time. And sometimes things did change. Just maybe her grandmother preferred the ex-daughter-in-law to the current one. Now Lindsay would never know.

Lindsay closed her eyes. She saw Taylor, laughing, pulling her against him and hugging her tight, nibbling her earlobe, whispering that she had abysmal taste in Persian carpets, that Bokaras were too flimsy and far too red for his taste, which was, of course, superb. Then he went on to her fresh-meadow air freshener. It clogged his sinuses, he said, and got under his fingernails. It smelled like
a brothel. It smelled like a cat box in a rich house. God, she missed him, his normalcy, his humor, his balance. She saw Taylor as he'd been last night, worry in his eyes, and helplessness, because he didn't know what to do, what to say to her.

Dear God, he was so dear to her.

At seven o'clock there was a knock on her door. Lindsay was dressed, sitting in front of her window, staring toward Alcatraz Island. Waiting for someone to fetch her. Knowing she'd have to see Sydney and Holly again. And her father.

She followed Mrs. Dreyfus downstairs to the drawing room. The first person she saw was her father, Judge Royce Foxe, standing in a stark black suit with white linen, looking handsome and elegant as always and laughing at something Sydney was saying to him. He looked up at Lindsay, and his laughter died.

Lindsay

 

“I see you came,” Royce Foxe said, nodding slightly toward her in acknowledgment. Whatever Sydney had said to make him laugh was dried up, gone, now that Lindsay had shown up on the scene. There was no welcoming smile for her, but she hadn't expected one. She wondered vaguely when a day would come that it wouldn't hurt her very core, this inevitable and inexplicable dislike he had for her.

“Hello, Father, Sydney,” she said, and turned toward Holly. She was holding a glass tightly in her hand, a whiskey glass. “Good evening, Holly.”

“You want something to drink?”

“A Perrier would be nice, thank you.”

Sydney smiled at her. “Yes, just so, Lindsay. Oh, I forgot to have my secretary send you a thank-you for Melissa's Christmas gift. Melissa is so spoiled she didn't pay that adorable bear much attention, but it was a nice thought on your part. The prince thought so as well. He told me to thank you.”

“I'm pleased she liked it for even the brief time she gave it her attention.”

Mrs. Dreyfus, red-eyed, head bowed, appeared in the doorway to announce dinner.

Royce thanked her, then turned to Lindsay. “You're so thin I can see your pelvic bones, and you're wearing those ridiculous high heels again. I told you before to take them off but you disobeyed me. You looked absurd then and you do now.” But he didn't demand that she take them off this time. She'd won again, this time by omission.

Lindsay smiled. It was odd, but this time, somehow, he didn't seem to touch her so closely. She said simply, “I'm sorry you feel that way, Father.”

Royce took Sydney's arm, and Holly and Lindsay followed them into the dining room. He didn't say another word. She felt his anger toward her, but again, it didn't come quite so close as it would have before. Lindsay felt a spurt of unaccustomed power. It felt good.

Holly said when they reached the dining room, “On Monday a decorator is coming, a friend of mine. I'm cleaning out this bloody officious room, every heavy dark corner of it.”

“Oh, dear, I do trust you won't go with chintz, Holly,” Sydney said, looking back at her stepmother.

Holly looked equal parts angry and hurt. She looked toward her husband for support, but he wasn't looking at her, but at Dorrey, the cook, who was placing a large rack of lamb before him on a huge silver serving tray. He was smiling at Dorrey and thanking her, telling her everything would be all right.

He turned to Sydney. “What is this about chintz?”

“I was just wondering aloud how Holly intended to decorate this room.”

“Decorate this room?” Royce repeated slowly. He turned to his wife, an eyebrow rising. “Why, she isn't going to touch a thing. Not without my
permission, in any case. Though it is rather dark and heavy in here, don't you think so, Sydney?”

“That's what your wife said.”

“Well, doubtless she misunderstands the concepts of shadow and light. No matter.”

Holly gasped, but father and daughter ignored her. “Tell me what you think should be done, Sydney,” Royce said.

“Well,” Sydney began, “I should give the room a lightness and spaciousness that the heavy dark pieces preclude. But there's a consideration of effect, Father, and of period.” And she continued with a discussion of fabrics and “looks” and methods of changing lighting and tone and the feel of a room. “It takes time and thought and, of course, good taste. I think you should consider taking it on yourself, Father.”

Royce nodded to her as he continued to carve the rack of lamb. “I just might, in time,” he said.

“Do pass the vegetables, Holly dear,” Sydney said. “That's right, pile up your plate with the green beans, not the potatoes.”

“What do you mean, Royce, that you'll do the decorating?”

“Why, there was no ambiguity, was there?” Royce said to his wife.

Lindsay said aloud, “I would like to propose a toast. To Grandmother and to my mother. We will miss them.”

Royce smiled at that and raised his wineglass. “How very pious that sounds. But as you wish, Lindsay, not that you ever really knew either of them. Of course, you didn't even bother coming home at Christmas, and your grandmother was very disappointed. She mentioned your absence once or twice, didn't she, Holly? As for your mother, I
doubt she noticed your truancy, but one never knows with a drunk, does one?” He then sent a toast toward Holly.

It was as if a curtain had come down in a final call. It was as if the past was behind that curtain and wouldn't come into view again. It wouldn't reach her again. It was gone. Lindsay rose slowly, gently pushing her chair back from the table. She was no longer a child. She was an adult and she could do what she wished to do, and what she wished to do was leave this room with all its pain and ugliness. She said to the table at large, “What time is the funeral tomorrow?”

“At ten o'clock in the morning. Sit down, Lindsay.”

“I think not, Father. At St. Mary's?”

“Yes. Sit down, my girl. You may put on your airs in New York, but I won't put up with your bad manners and ill breeding here in my home. God, you're so much like your mother.”

“Thank you, Father,” Lindsay said. “Good night,” she added to Sydney and Holly. A sedate walk, she said over and over to herself as she walked from the dining room. Keep it slow. You're an adult, not a child for him to intimidate or order around. Not anymore. She realized once she'd reached her room that she was quite hungry. Thank God for back stairs. She walked down to the kitchen, pausing as she heard Mrs. Dreyfus saying to Dorrey, “The disrespect floors me, Dorrey, absolutely floors me. I won't stay here now that Mrs. Gates is gone, dear lady. I'm giving the current Mrs. Foxe my notice after the funeral on Friday.”

“She'll not like that,” Dorrey said with satisfaction. “That'll leave the weekend for her to do for herself. No, she'll not like that at all.”

Good, Lindsay thought. She wouldn't be here for Holly to fire her.

“Our Lindsay is better off in New York, I do know that,” Dorrey continued.

Since when had she become
our
Lindsay? she wondered. Dorrey had never shared home-baked cookies with her when she was a child, the way they described in novels or showed in movies. Anytime she'd come to the kitchen she had promptly been ordered out.

“Probably so. Ah, but it's nice to see Sydney,” Mrs. Dreyfus said. “So beautiful, so perfect, and she's in all the magazines, so lovely she is.”

“So is our Lindsay,” Dorrey said.

“Yes, I know, and she's a sweet girl. But Sydney is different, you know that.”

“Sometimes different as in plain old nasty,” Dorrey said.

Lindsay came into the kitchen. It wasn't that she was necessarily averse to eavesdropping, she was simply afraid if she continued to listen, she'd hate what she heard.

“Hi,” she said, dredging up a smile. “I left the table because it's a sniper's paradise in there. Is there something I can eat for supper?”

She became the young lady of the house, deferred to, seated at the butcher-block table, served, not allowed to do anything except lift her fork. No, she thought as she ate a goodly portion of Waldorf salad, she was no longer
our
Lindsay. She was one of
them
.

“You would like New York, Mrs. Dreyfus,” Lindsay said, biting into one of Dorrey's homemade rolls that were better than anything Lindsay had ever had at home.

“Ha! That place of crime and sin? Ha!”

Lindsay grinned. “You can avoid crime if you're careful, and sin is fun.”

“Miss Lindsay, don't talk like that. You're not sophisticated like Miss Sydney.”

“No, that's true.”

Once back in her bedroom, Lindsay called Taylor. He answered on the second ring and she was smiling even before he spoke.

“Is this that wonderful fiancée of mine who'd better be all right?”

“Yes, I'm okay.”

Pause. “You hanging in there, sweetheart? Really?”

“Yes. My family—they snipe and carp and butcher each other verbally, me included, but you know something? It wasn't as important this time as it always has been. I'm coming home tomorrow night.”

“The midnight flight?”

“Yes. You don't have to come for me, Taylor,” she said, not meaning it and knowing she didn't sound like she meant it.

“Okay, I won't.”

She sputtered into the phone. “You jerk!”

He laughed. “Of course I'll be there, grinning like a fool at your gate. Now, tell me what's happening there.”

She didn't tell him. She couldn't.

After giving her plenty of empty air and encouraging sounds, Taylor gave up. “I had Chinese this evening with Enoch. He loves the apartment, says it's too high-brow for me, but suits you perfectly. He thought the new Persian rug in the living room showed my good taste. Oh, yeah, I thought my fortune cookie was particularly apt: ‘You are an angel. Beware of those who collect feathers.”'

She laughed and he grinned into the phone, loving the sound, hearing the tension in her voice lighten. “Enoch and Sheila send their love.”

They spoke of the weather, of things that weren't really important to either of them.

“I have a new case,” Taylor said, so frustrated with the conversation or lack thereof that he was willing to try anything.

“What is it? Computer or P.I. stuff?”

“The latter. A man wants me to pin his wife. He's convinced she staged a robbery of their house, lifting everything valuable, including all her jewelry. It's weird, but hey, I thrive on weird. Anyway, I meet the lady tomorrow. I understand she's something of a
femme fatale
. Her husband also said straight out that she's got two lovers, not just the requisite one.”

“Don't you become number three. Good luck.” There was another long pause; then Lindsay said very quietly, “I really do miss you, Taylor, I really do.”

“Same here,” he said.

 

The following morning Lindsay didn't go downstairs until it was time to leave for the church.

She didn't own a black dress and decided in any case that her grandmother would have hated black. Unfortunately, she had no idea what her mother would have preferred. She wore pure white. She wore three-inch heels.

For once Sydney didn't say anything.

The service was elegant, discreet, and St. Mary's was crowded. Lindsay's father did, however, point out the young man who had been her mother's latest lover. “At least he put in an appearance.
Shows respect. I trust the little bastard won't try for any of her money.”

A society columnist from the
Chronicle
, Paula Kettering, came up to Lindsay after the service.

She said without preamble, “Your grandmother was a wonderful woman, Miss Foxe. I wanted to tell you that. She also believed you had what it took to succeed in anything you chose to do, and you have succeeded. She was very proud of you. And of your half-sister too, of course. As I recall, she said, ‘Sydney, La Principessa, will always land where her mink will soften her fall. Lindsay will abide. She's good at that.' Last year she consented to an interview with me and that's what she said. I wanted to tell you that.”

Lindsay was stunned and pleased. Abide. Yes, that's what she seemed to be good at. She suddenly pictured her grandmother, very clearly, saying that. To her chagrin, she began to cry. Paula Kettering patted her shoulder. “I didn't mean to upset you, Miss Foxe, just to tell you—”

Lindsay got hold of herself and thanked the woman. Finally, aeons later, the family arrived back at the mansion. The only addition to their party was Mr. Grayson Delmartin, Gates Foxe's lawyer since 1959 when a drunk had run into the beautiful rhododendron bushes in front of the mansion and then sued her. Grayson Delmartin had proved to be a crackerjack, Gates said, forcing the drunk man to pay restitution for the destroyed plants.

Lindsay was on the point of going upstairs to pack her few things when Mr. Delmartin called after her, “Just a moment, Lindsay. I know you wish to be alone, my dear, but there's the reading
of the will. All family members are required to be present. Please come into the library.”

Who cared? But she went and seated herself behind her father and Holly and Sydney.

There were bequests to Mrs. Dreyfus, to Dorrey, and to Lansford, the retired butler. There were bequests to the organizations Gates Foxe had belonged to and helped run over the years. There were charitable foundations, environmental gifts. When the list had finally ended, Mr. Delmartin raised his thin face and removed his glasses. He looked at each of them in turn. He spoke slowly, as if measuring each word, as he probably was, Lindsay thought. “I don't know if even you, Judge Foxe, know the extent of your mother's holdings. They were, in a word, vast. She has always had the knack of choosing good financial advisers over the years and has prospered, adding to the fortune left her by her late husband.”

Royce said in his best unctuous voice, “She was a bright old woman. She was also renowned for her luck. Get to the point, Grayson.”

Mr. Delmartin didn't look at all affronted. He put his glasses back on, picked up the thick sheaf of bound papers, and read:

“‘I leave one million dollars to my son, Royce Chandliss Foxe. I leave one million dollars to my ex-daughter-in-law, Jennifer Foxe. I leave one million dollars to my current daughter-in-law, Holly Foxe. I leave one million dollars to my eldest granddaughter, Sydney Foxe di Contini. I leave five million dollars to my great-granddaughter, Melissa di Contini. Finally, I leave my home, located at 358 Bayberry Street, to my granddaughter, Lindsay Foxe. Also I leave to her, free and clear, the remainder of my holdings,
both financial and real, to do with as she pleases. She has kindness, and perhaps in the years to come she will gain wisdom and perspective and understanding of those around her. I hope that her inheritance will aid her in achieving happiness and the security she deserves.”