He awoke with a start at three o’clock. She wasn’t there. He lurched up in bed; then he heard her. She was vomiting in the bathroom.
Jesus, he hadn’t heard a thing. He discounted the fact he hadn’t slept well in Chicago as he ran into the bathroom. He helped her stand up, gain her balance, then wiped her face with a warm damp cloth. “You want to rinse out your mouth?”
She did but it made her stomach cramp. She dropped to her knees again by the toilet and the cramp stopped suddenly. “Oh, Lord,” she said, and let him help her back to bed. She rolled onto her side, her knees drawn up with another cramp.
The cramp eased and she lay panting, looking up at him. Surprisingly, she smiled. Not much of a smile, but a good effort. “This is awful. You shouldn’t see anyone like this. It’s enough to put you off people forever.”
“You’d have to be an ax murderer to put me off. No more cramping?”
“No. Not yet anyway.”
He fed her another cracker, took her temperature, and was reassured at the low 101 degrees.
“A sip of tea? No, well, I don’t blame you. You want to try to sleep some more?”
“Could we just talk?”
“Sure.”
They lay side by side in the dark, holding hands.
“You start,” she said, and Taylor obliged, hearing the weakness in her voice.
“Did I ever tell you that I’m a Francophile?”
“A what?”
“I love France, always have. I think I must have lived a past life there, maybe as a worker in a vineyard or something. Anyway, I rent a Harley and cruise around wherever the spirit takes me. I was there for two weeks in September, covering every square foot of Brittany, after most of the tourists had gone home. It was beautiful and warm and…”
He realized that something had changed. She was quiet, no problem there, but her hand felt stiff and cold. She’d withdrawn from him.
“Eden? What’s wrong? Your stomach cramping again? You need to throw up?”
“No. Oh, God, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I hate France.”
“Good Lord, why?”
“I was there once, a long time ago, and it was horrible.” It was easier than she thought, to say the words aloud. It was dark, she realized, she was protected in that darkness, she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his reaction to the words that had just spilled out of her mouth.
“What happened?”
Silence. Painful silence. Complete withdrawal.
He said after a while, easily, mildly, “When were you there?”
“Nine years ago.”
“Not really all a coincidence, since I’m there every year. I was there nine years ago as well. When during the year?”
“In the spring. In April.”
“I remember it was beautiful, glorious then. But I mainly remember that trip because I was in Paris at the end of it and got myself banged up in an accident. Didn’t do me or my Harley any good. Hospital, broken arm, concussion, the whole bit. Were you in some sort of accident?”
He was aware that this was dangerous territory, even prohibited territory, but he kept on. He’d spoken quietly, soothingly, and now he waited, hoping she would answer him, hoping she’d give him more information, hoping for anything.
“Yes, sort of. I’m tired now. Good night.”
“Good night, sweetheart.”
Her hand relaxed in his again, her flesh becoming warm and soft. A start was a start even though he had no idea if the start would lead anywhere.
The next morning he awoke before she did. He didn’t move, just lay there thinking that she was here beside him, that he still held her hand, that he wanted her here beside him forever. Slowly, very slowly, he turned on his side to face her. Gently he eased his hand beneath her back and turned her to face him. She muttered something but didn’t awaken. He pulled her into his arms, then turned again to lie on his back, Eden pressed against his chest.
He smiled. This was more like it. He wished they didn’t have any clothes on. He would like to feel her naked against him. Instead, her cheek was against his undershirt.
Another start.
He fell back to sleep.
Lindsay awoke slowly. She didn’t move because she was focused inward, on her body and what its mood was. No cramping, no nausea, no headache. Then she realized she was nearly lying on top of Taylor, her head pressed against his shoulder, one thigh sprawled over his.
His head was turned toward her, his chin resting against her hair. She felt his warm breath. She felt too the warmth of his body. She knew instant and overwhelming terror.
She slid away from him, running clumsily toward the bathroom. Let him think she was sick. Yes, that was it. Let him think she was sick rather than crazy. She shut and locked the bathroom door.
She heard him in her bedroom, stumbling over a chair. He knocked on the door, calling her name. No, not her name, that made-up name that she was beginning to hate because Dr. Gruska had been right. It was a shield, a barrier; it was a lie.
She forced herself to calm. “I’m all right, Taylor. I’m going to take a shower and clean up. I’ll be out in ten minutes. Don’t worry about me.”
He retreated and she breathed a sigh of relief and disappointment. As she showered and washed her hair, she thought of the intimacy again. Looking at them, a stranger would have believed them intimate, would have believed them lovers or even husband and wife. But they weren’t any of those things. She was a sham.
She felt so weak she could barely stand when she came out of the bathroom wearing her terry-cloth robe. She went to the dresser and pulled out a clean flannel nightgown, one she had bought the previous winter that covered every centimeter of her, and returned to the bathroom. She heard Taylor moving around in the kitchen.
She made her way slowly to the kitchen, her hair thick and wet around her face, her skin white and pasty, and she tried for a smile.
He was completely dressed, thank God. He was whistling and looked right at home.
“Good morning,” he said, looking up from the coffeepot. He studied her, then motioned to the chair. “Sit down before you collapse. I don’t know if I could pick you up. I’m pretty weak before I’ve had my morning injection of caffeine.”
She sat down and almost immediately listed to the left.
Taylor said, very slowly, very calmly, “You wore yourself out in the shower. I’m going to help you back to bed, all right?”
“The bed’s a mess and—”
“No, I changed the sheets while you were in the bathroom. I hope you don’t mind me poking around, but I had to find your linen closet. Everything’s pristine again.”
She looked up at him, the weakness, the fear, the pain of what she was all on her face. Oh, Jesus, he couldn’t bear it. It took everything in him not to pull her into his arms and hold her. But she’d probably freak. Not yet, not yet.
Once in bed, he said, “I don’t like you having wet hair. Where’s your blow drier?”
She fell deeply asleep with the warmth of the hot air in her ear.
When the phone rang ten minutes later, she didn’t stir. Taylor caught it on the second ring.
It was Demos, demanding to know where the hell Eden was and who the hell this was.
“This is Taylor and she’s in bed, sick with a stomach flu. Cancel whatever it is she’s supposed to do, and call back tomorrow for a progress check.”
There was silence. “Taylor? You’re really there with her? She let you stay? In her apartment?”
How truthful should he be? Demos evidently knew something. Hell, he had to know what her real name was. Maybe that was all he knew.
“Yeah, I’m really here. I’ll be here until she can take care of herself.”
“That’s a surprise,” Demos said, and Taylor could picture the incredulity on the man’s face. “It really is. So you and Eden got along, huh? I’ll tell Glen, he’ll be furious with her. He fancies you himself.”