She didn’t know what to do. What she did do, finally, was get a post-office box. It would be a real pain in the rear but she could see no alternative. Except to tell the truth. No, not yet. If Taylor noticed she didn’t get a scrap of mail anymore, he didn’t say anything.
He noticed, all right, because he’d been wondering if he should initiate a change of address. He wanted to confront her with it, but he decided to wait.
Damnation. Who was she? Why did it matter about her name? When was she going to trust him?
They both admitted to the other on the eighth of January that the apartment was too small for the two of them.
Lindsay was afraid to speak of it, but Taylor wasn’t and he got the ball rolling.
“Let’s either move to my place—it is bigger, but probably still not big enough—or let’s go looking. What are you doing Saturday?”
It was a commitment that appalled her. It was even more real than the diamond that winked brilliantly up at her. It felt very heavy on her hand. She thought suddenly of the look on Demos’ face when he’d seen it. Shock, incredulity, and finally, pleasure. Glen had acted wounded, tossing his head, but he’d given her a big hug. Now Taylor wanted to move. It wasn’t a do-or-die decision, but to her it was close, very close.
“Well?”
She just looked at him, that look that used to drive him nuts, it was so wary and uncertain.
“Question, Eden. We’ve been together for two weeks. Do you realize that last night while I was taking off my clothes you were sitting up in bed, your arms around your knees, and you didn’t miss a beat in what you were saying?”
“I was concentrating on what I was telling you.”
“I was hard as a rock and you didn’t blink.”
“Oh, all right. So I’m getting used to you—to all parts of you. So what?”
“Two days ago, I woke up early. You were lying all over me. When you woke up, I pretended to be asleep. You got up, went to the bathroom, came back, and sprawled all over me again. What do you think of that?”
“I was too groggy to know what I was doing.”
“Right.”
“I was cold and you’re like a furnace.”
“Right. Do you remember only last night, you were talking to me through the bathroom door? Normal as could be.”
“I was creaming my face. Surely you should be grateful I spared you that.”
“Was that all you were doing?” He flicked his fingertips over her flushed cheek. “No, please don’t resort to violence. Regardless, it’s time to go the next step. Let’s look in the paper and see what’s available to rent.”
She threw the newspaper at him. “All right, just do it and shut up.”
“Okay,” he said mildly, smoothing it out. “How much can you afford for your half?”
She laughed, flinging her arms out. “Let’s splurge. I make lots and lots of money. I want one of those big old apartments with high ceilings and lots of molding and old marble fireplaces and views that make you cry, but, of course, modern kitchen and bathrooms.”
They found just what she wanted on Fifth Avenue between Eightieth and Eighty-first streets in the elegant 1926 Bishop Building. It hadn’t been advertised, of course. Taylor and Lindsay both had put the word out and it had been Demos who’d called with the lead. The apartment was one thousand, eight hundred square feet, with lots of shining old wood, both on the walls as wainscoting and on the floors. It cost three arms and a dozen legs, Taylor thought, but what the hell. He turned to see her mesmerized, just standing in the middle of the immense living room, staring out the big bay windows to Central Park and the museum.
“How much do you earn?”
Lindsay knew what the rent was. She also realized he was a man, and men, in general, simply couldn’t comprehend a woman earning a whopping lot of money. She said, her chin up, “I can afford more than half, with no strain on my budget, if that’s what worries you. I can even afford the security deposit, all by myself. I can even afford the whole thing.”
“Good. Half will be just fine. I don’t want to miss my trip to France in the spring or have to eat onion soup at the end of the month. Shall we sign the lease?”
Lindsay found that when she signed her name, her real name, on the line beneath Taylor’s, to the one-year lease, she didn’t even hesitate. But she did notice his signature. He hadn’t crowded her. He hadn’t looked down to see what she’d written. He’d even walked away while she was signing the lease. When she folded their copy of the lease and stuffed it into her purse, he still remained quiet. She’d tell him when she was ready. Evidently that wasn’t just yet. He was surprised when she said, “You signed S. C. Taylor. What does the S.C. stand for?”
“I’ll tell you on our wedding night.” Didn’t she realize he could play a tit-for-tat game? Evidently not. He saw the shock on her face at his words and tried very much to disregard it.
* * *
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.”