She turned her back and watched the steam rise out of a manhole cover, venting thermals from beneath the earth. This was not working. Despite her physical problems and her wild mood swings, hurting Baldwin had become a source of satisfaction for her, and that didn’t bode well for their life together. She twisted her engagement ring around her finger, the Asscher-cut diamonds catching the sun and sparkling onto the dirty gray pavement, a symbol of hope. If she’d just let it be. Get the hell out of her own way and allow things to get back to normal.
Taylor had never been in this situation before. Probably because anytime a relationship started to head south, she’d just ended it cleanly and walked away. No sense in struggling to make it work. But this, this was different. Baldwin was different. She needed to decide what she wanted from him. He needed to do the same. They couldn’t keep dancing around like this, cutting each other from different angles. One of the cuts was going to bleed too much, and then it would be over. And she didn’t think that was what she wanted.
Baldwin handed her a Coke, and she took the opportunity to down a Percocet. Her head was starting to pulse, and she had the whole day in front of her. It would be the first pill of many, she could tell that already.
They ate in silence, then got back in the car and headed home. There was nothing for her to do downtown anyway; her appointment wasn’t until 1:00. He pulled into the drive way, into the garage, entered the house, all without saying a word. Inside, he excused himself to go to his office to get some work done. Taylor was left adrift, feeling annoyed with herself for digging at him, sorry that he wasn’t near her, glad he wasn’t, and confused about what all that meant.
At this rate, she was going to drive herself mad.
She needed to kill some time. She could read, but that would make the headache worse. Exercise, but she’d already done that this morning, before the doctor. She decided to check her email, and was immediately glad that she did.
There was a note from Memphis. Generally a highly diverting event.
James “Memphis” Highsmythe, so dubbed by his classmates at Eton after a trip to Graceland in Tennessee when he was a child, was a friend, a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police in London. He was also the Viscount Dulsie, and a confirmed rake. He’d worked a case with Baldwin and ended up in Nashville, made a play for Taylor’s affections in Italy, and was a source of annoyance, amusement, and lately, comfort to Taylor. Undeniably a friend who wanted to be more. Much, much more.
The email’s subject line was blank, as usual. Memphis wasn’t one for pith when it wasn’t needed. She clicked it open.
Francesco Stradivari just had a birthday. Can you imagine what it must have been like to have a father whose work was respected the world over? Did you know he forged his father’s signature on a few of the pieces in late 1730’s? Today is also my father’s birthday, and I’ve promised him a night out. I’m catching the train to Edinburgh at four. What sort of brilliance lies ahead for you?
Taylor calculated the time difference. Memphis was six hours ahead of her. He would probably be on the train now. He often wrote to her while traveling. It helped him pass the time.
She hit Reply.
I went to the doctor this morning. Everything is a-okay, just still don’t have any voice to speak of. Pun intended. He offered me a deaclass="underline" if I see Victoria Willig, the department’s psychologist, then he’ll approve me going back to work on limited duty in a few weeks. I have an appointment with her this afternoon. Where are you taking your father to dinner?
His message came back quickly. She was right, he was on the train.
Open your chat.
She did, and Memphis was there, a default smiley face waiting on her.
Dinner is at The Witchery, of course. The finest meal in Edinburgh. It’s divine. I’d love to take you sometime. We’ll have Beef Wellington and burnt custard for pudding.
That does sound good. But what, no haggis?
Would YOU eat sheep’s stomach stuffed with oats? It’s actually not bad. I simply prefer a more refined meal.
Ugh. No thanks. What else will you do tonight?
That’s it. Father is taking the car back to the estate, and I’m heading back to London on the late train. This case is getting ready to blow up, I can just feel it. I’ll be pulled in by the morning.
Memphis had mentioned the case to her before. Two girls missing, now three, from their London homes. He’d been watching it from afar, wondering what sort of escalation was coming. Taylor knew that feeling. An investigator is only as good as their instincts, and she respected the idea of a hunch.
At least you’ll be calling the shots. Your mother won’t be joining you for dinner?
The Countess? No, she’s in South Africa with my brother. His vineyard is having a wee bit of difficulty, and she offered to go and help.
The Countess is a vintner too?
Her talents know no bounds. Like someone else I’m acquainted with.
Taylor let that slide. She wasn’t feeling terribly talented these days. Not having her own case to work, her own show to run, she just wasn’t herself.
Memphis wrote again.
I’ve been thinking: If you have to see a therapist to get clearance to return to work, why don’t you make plans to visit? One of my dearest friends is a celebrated psychologist. You can stay at the estate, she can drop in for your visits, and you can get a break. Do some outdoors stuff. I know it’s a bit chilly now, but with the proper gear it would be lovely. The house is all done up for Christmas, it’s quite beautiful. My father will be joining my mother in South Africa for the holidays, so there’s no one around. You can have the run of the place. Get away from those pesky reporters who’ve been nagging you. What do you think?
Taylor sat back in her chair, the mouse forgotten in her hand. Scotland. For Christmas. An escape from Nashville, from the condemnation of her loved ones, away from the silence that bound her. She wouldn’t be expected to speak if she were alone. No one to look over her shoulder, check on her every movement, look at her with doubt. No one to talk about her behind her back. She wouldn’t have to keep pretending that she didn’t notice that everyone was acting like she was some ticking time bomb.
And she’d been fodder for the Nashville media yet again. They’d done story after story, broadcast her condition, delved into her past and speculated about her future. She didn’t go a day without at least one interview request. They filled her email box and took up space on her answering machine. What was she supposed to do, go on air and mime what had happened? No thanks.
Taylor? Are you still here?
She wouldn’t be cleared to go back to work for a few weeks anyway. What harm could come of her sneaking away for a bit? If Memphis’s doctor friend would check in with Benedict for her, maybe that would suffice to get him to clear her to go back to work.
But what would that mean to Memphis, if she agreed to come stay on his estate? Memphis was forever pushing, purposefully misinterpreting her intentions. Fending him off wasn’t always as easy as it should be. The constant attention was flattering. Memphis was different than Baldwin. Baldwin loved her, Memphis wanted her. She had no illusions about the difference.
Things with Memphis would be…simpler. Lust was always easier than love.
She realized he was waiting for an answer.
I’m here. Sorry about that. I don’t know, Memphis. I’ve just promised to see the department shrink. Maybe this isn’t the best timing, you know?
Dearest Taylor, you’ll go mad being around the office and not allowed to work. It’s a travesty that they’ve even suggested you suffer this indignity. Why don’t you wait until you can return fully, unencumbered by this little glitch? We can fix you. Heal you. I know it.