“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 silk shell over the pants, topped with a black leather vest with gold chains clipping the vest over her breasts. She looked exquisite, slender, elegant, perfect as usual.
“I called but you weren’t here, obviously. I wondered, that’s all. You never go out with men and I was concerned. You have so few friends and I knew you were out with Gayle just last Monday, so she was a doubtful candidate. I just wanted to tell you I’m flying to Milan this weekend.”
“You want me to water your plants?”
Sydney laughed. “Oh, no. I just wanted to be able to tell everyone that I’d seen you and that you were in fine form.”
“I’m in fine form.”
“Excellent. You haven’t put on any weight, have you? No? Well, perhaps you should lose just a bit more, a couple of pounds should do it. Who’s the man, Lindsay?”
“No one you know.”
“Well, considering your taste, which I imagine has remained frozen in time since you were sixteen—why then, this charmer is probably slender, handsome, and suave as hell.”
Lindsay forced a smile. “Yes, all of those things.”
“Ah, an aristocratic New Yorker. Is he in the business? Perhaps he’s gay and you’re just too inexperienced to recognize it. Or perhaps he’s gay and you feel safer that way. His voice sounded pretty deep to me.”
“No, he’s not gay. Look, Sydney, I’ve got an early shoot tomorrow. I’m bushed.”
“All right, I’ll go. I’ve canceled the shoots my agent had scheduled. Nothing all that important, I told him. I also keep telling him it’s time to become more hard-assed, more discriminating. After all, it’s my face and my body, and my time. Maybe you’d better let me meet this guy. I could make sure he won’t try anything with you.”
“That’s a beautiful photo of you in Self. Demos commented on it last week. It’s certainly discriminating.”
“Yes, it turned out nicely. I’m pleased. Drake Otis did the shoot. Too bad he’s gay. Well, no matter. I’ll see you when I get back from Italy. Oh, yes, just in case you’re interested, Father is doing well. He was embroiled in a very high-profile drug case and the defense attorneys were confident he would throw out the major evidence because supposedly the cops obtained it illegally. Father did throw it out, but he allowed great latitude to the prosecutor, with the result that the three men, Colombians all, got a guilty verdict. Father sentenced them all to twenty years, no chance of parole. He told me he threw out the evidence because if he hadn’t, he knew the defense attorneys would appeal and the case would probably be overturned. He’s laughing his head off, having the time of his life. You know he hates the liberal judges in California. He pulled the rug out from under the defense lawyers. They’re screaming to the media, and of course, since the media are all liberal idiots, they’re all over Father’s back. He’s enjoying it all. As for Holly, the poor thing is now as fat as your mother was just before Father kicked her out. He’s got a new mistress, a woman about my age. Her name is Cynthia—Cyn for short. Isn’t that precious? As for Grandmother, she’s just the same. Father thinks she’ll outlive us all.”