Beyond Eden (23 page)

“I have a friend who'll tell me what's best. Have you been throwing up all day?”

She nodded.

“You haven't tried to eat?”

“Gayle made some Jell-O but it didn't stay where it was supposed to.”

“Okay, just lie there and try to keep still.” Taylor called Dr. Metcalf, one of the New York City coroners. He had no intention of telling Eden that all the guy's patients were always dead.

He got hold of Metcalf after a five-minute wait.

“Damn, Taylor, I was in the middle of an autopsy.”

Taylor told him the problem and asked his advice. He got it, thanked Metcalf, and hung up the phone.

“Okay, here's what we do. First I trundle down to the market and pharmacy. Don't move.”

Thirty minutes later, Lindsay looked at him with some surprise. The saltine cracker appeared to be happy in her belly, the weak tea as well.

“You get a cracker every hour and a bit of tea. Then we'll see.”

“Thank you,” she said, and closed her eyes. “This is so embarrassing. Please go away. I can take care of myself.”

He said something very crude about her self-reliance, and her eyes flew open.

“But you shouldn't have to take care of me, that's crazy. You don't even know me and—”

“Just shut up. I'm staying. I'm sleeping here, next to you, and if you have any problems, then I'll handle them. Now, you're to take two of these pills, then go to sleep. Can I use your toothbrush?”

Taylor / Eden

 

She was asleep when Taylor came back into the bedroom. He quietly undressed, taking off his shirt, shoes, and socks and laying them neatly over the back of one of her rattan chairs, next to a pair of panty hose and a bra. He usually slept nude; but not here, not with Eden. He wasn't about to strip down to his skin and scare the daylights out of her.

He made sure there were crackers within reach, as well as nonaspirin, and Nugarin, a drug to help stop her vomiting.

He eased into bed beside her and pulled another blanket over her. He settled himself with a sheet. The apartment was quiet and warm. Her breathing was even and deep. He gently took her hand in his and lay there on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He could hear the soft ticking of her bedside clock and muted traffic from the window.

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.”

“Give Glen my apologies.”

Demos rang off after a few more comments about how light her schedule was, so no problem.

“She told me it was because models were people
too and there was simply too much tempting food around during the holidays.”

“True. Well, good luck, Taylor. Ah, listen. You take good care of her, all right? No moves on her, you got that? I'll call tomorrow.”

“No moves, Demos.”

He looked over at her as he lowered the phone. Who are you? he wondered silently.

On Sunday she still tired easily, but felt pretty much back to normal. He'd spent both Friday and Saturday nights with her. When she awoke Sunday morning lying against him, she didn't leap away. She stayed where she was, warm and content, because she knew he wouldn't hurt her.

They were on the point of going out because the Sunday afternoon was bright and clear and not too cold when the phone rang. Taylor motioned for her to sit down and answered it.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Taylor and I'm a friend of Eden's.”

“Er, Eden. Oh, I see. This is her grandmother. May I speak with her?”

He handed over the phone. Eden said nothing of consequence and he knew she didn't because he was there and she didn't want him to know anything about her grandmother. It angered him.

When she hung up, he said, “She sounds very nice.”

“She is.”

“Where does she live?”

She hesitated; then, “In San Francisco.”

“Is she old?”

“Very.”

“Let's go Christmas shopping.” They went to FAO Schwarz on Fifth Avenue because Eden said she had a niece.

“What's her name?”

“Melissa. She's three. She lives in Italy.”

“Your sister or your brother?”

“Half-sister.”

He accepted the withdrawal. They remained in the astonishing toy store to purchase presents for his two nephews and niece in Phoenix. When he picked up a kite with a dragon tail, she laughed. “It's wonderful. I had one just like it when I was about six years old.”

“Oh,” he said. “I thought I'd get it for myself.”

She laughed some more and he grinned like a besotted fool. They were examining teddy bears when Taylor said, “Do you want to have children?”

“Oh, yes.” Then she jerked back, striking a display. At least twenty teddy bears went flying. FAO Schwarz salespeople were known for being unflappable; this accident was nothing to them. The bears were quickly rearranged. Lindsay felt like an idiot. She saw Taylor looking at her, a clear question in his eyes, and heard herself say, “Children are wonderful, really, but all of us can't, that is, it's impossible, and I almost accept it, but sometimes, just sometimes it makes me sad and—”

Taylor said easily, as he carefully checked over a set of outdoor darts, “I want kids too. I didn't realize it until recently. Men must have a biological clock as well as women, because all of a sudden I could see myself washing a station wagon, a flea-bitten dog rushing around shaking off dirty water, and three kids all hollering and climbing over me.”

“It sounds nice.”

“I guess a wife would have to be lurking about in that picture somewhere.”

“Unless you're a biological wonder. Maybe she's the one hosing you down.”

He set the dart set back onto the shelf and moved to the toy army tanks. “You're still a young woman, Eden. What are you, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six.” She thought he knew that and frowned at him, wondering what he was thinking about now. He was fast and slippery as a snake, getting things out of her so effortlessly that it was terrifying.

“You've got lots of time. Come to think of it, I'm a young sprout myself, a mere thirty-two. Why don't we both wait two or three more years?”

And she said, staring at the 1885 A. E. Mecklin antique train set just to her right, “All right.”

He lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. He leaned over and kissed her lightly, in the middle of FAO Schwarz. “Good,” he said.

She was exhausted. He was content. Together they'd spent two hundred dollars on the children's toys, and both were delighted. On their way back to her apartment, Lindsay nearly in a stupor, Taylor, without too much difficulty got her to volunteer that she also had parents who lived in San Francisco. Progress, he thought, pleased, feeling not a bit guilty at taking advantage of her while she was still down.

She fell asleep during the Redskins–San Francisco 49ers game, once it was obvious that the Redskins would smash the 49ers. She slept, cuddled against his chest, his arms around her.

He left that night, not wanting to push her in any way. To his delight, she kissed him at the door. Not a passionate, soul-deep kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. “Thank you,” she said. “You're very kind.” He walked home whistling. Kindness was just fine for a while.

They became a couple after her bout with
stomach flu. It scared Lindsay when she thought about it, but she was so happy she refused to heed any inner warnings that he was still a man and he would want her and he was strong enough to do whatever he wanted to with her. They spent time with Enoch and Sheila. They even spent some evenings out with Demos and Glen and Demos and other women, all gorgeous, all beside him so that his reputation for being a ruthless playboy would be continued. Demos loved the “ruthless” part. A columnist had dubbed him that and he kept the clipping, now yellowing, on his desk, under glass.