“Last night. It was a very long flight from Milan. You’re looking about the same, Lindsay. How was New York when you left?”
“Cold and sunny.”
“And Demos?”
“The same.”
“Really, Holly, dear, not another shot? Surely you’ve had more than enough. You’re much more in the open about your drinking than Lindsay’s mother ever was. You’re also fatter than her mother ever was. And this fixation you seem to have with mirrors—isn’t it a bit painful to look at yourself now?”
“Go fuck yourself, Sydney!”
Sydney laughed. “I doubt I’ll ever have to resort to that, unlike you. Poor Holly. All that fat you’re carrying around turns men off, don’t you know that? Particularly my father.”
“Just stop it, both of you!”
Sydney and Holly both stared at Lindsay. She was on her feet, pale, furious. She’d had enough. “Listen, no more sniping. Sydney, just keep your nasty comments to yourself. For God’s sake, Grandmother and my mother are dead. Just stop it, damn you both.”
“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.
16
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.