Beyond Eden

by Catherine Coulter

  “Come on, pretty boy, one last time and then you’re gone. My new man is coming later.”

  He stared at her. “But why would you want to make love with me when there’s someone else you’re interested in? That’s crazy, Valerie.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve always liked comparisons and I do think this one would prove very interesting. Maybe you could go see one of your other girlfriends later and do the same.”

  “No, Valerie, not this time. I wish you luck. You’re beautiful and smart and it’s been fun.” Jesus, he sounded like a trite recording.

  Her face was set into a smile that left her eyes cold as a glacier. He hadn’t a clue to what she was thinking. Was she angry because he was refusing to go to bed with her, or was that all a game? Possibly.

  “Yes, it has been fun, hasn’t it, Taylor? Well, babe, I hope you also have fun with your new little cutie. You know, the one you started out protecting and ended up screwing? And don’t lie to me now. Does the bimbo have a brain? Or is she all tits and ass? Why don’t you call after you’ve taken her to bed and let me know who’s better.”

  “I don’t think so. Good-bye, Valerie.”

  She watched him go to the front closet, pull his camel coat off a padded hanger. He shrugged it on, then pulled on his brown leather gloves. She watched him, unmoving, as he walked toward the front door without turning back. She watched every move he made. She watched him stride out the door. He closed it quietly behind him. She felt such fury and pain she thought she’d choke on it. She went to the phone and dialed. A man answered.

  “Barry? This is Valerie. Yes, lover. Come on over. Who cares what you tell your wife? Tell her you’re constipated and need a constitutional. Yes. Thirty minutes, no longer.”

  Lindsay discovered on Thanksgiving that both of Taylor’s parents were dead. He had one older sister, Elaine, who was married with three children and lived with her accountant husband in Phoenix. It was too far to go, he told Lindsay, then asked her about her plans.

  She was predictably vague, which annoyed him, but he let it go. They ended up together again with Sheila and Enoch.

  Sheila played the saxophone for two hours, letting it wail and moan until Lindsay had gooseflesh with the power of it. Sheila wore a long black dress. She was incredibly good. There was no prodding, no questions of any kind, on Thanksgiving.

  That evening Taylor kissed her for the first time.

  They were standing in front of her apartment door, and she didn’t want him to go. But she was afraid to let him in.

  He simply leaned down, catching her chin in the palm of his hand, and kissed her. Lightly, nothing threatening, nothing to make her withdraw.

  “Oh.”

  He grinned at her, eyes warm, wanting trust from her, wanting warmth from her as well. “Did you like that maybe a little bit?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s honesty. Always be honest with me, Eden, all right?”

  “Sometimes,” Lindsay said very slowly, looking down at the buttons on his coat, “sometimes it’s just not possible.”

  “When you come to trust me, you’ll find it will be easy as chewing gum, at least I hope so. Good night, sweetheart. Happy Thanksgiving. Sleep well.”

  “I will, since I’m stuffed with more food than I usually eat in a week. Did you know that fashion photo sessions tend to slow down dramatically during the holiday season? It’s because models are people too and the temptations are just too great. I’ve got until December 1 to get rid of my turkey-and-stuffing lining.”

  He was pleased that she was lingering to talk, very pleased, probably more pleased than the situation warranted, but what the hell. She paused and he picked it up. “Tomorrow I’ve got to fly to Chicago. A meat packer, of all things, has brought himself and his company into the twentieth century with a computer that should scare every cow on the hoof in the U.S. Unfortunately, there’s a major screwup with a critical part of a specialized program and all the techs haven’t been able to straighten it out. He’s so teed off with the company that he called me. I’ll phone you from there tomorrow night and give you my number.”

  Before she could say anything, Taylor leaned down and kissed her again, just as lightly, his gloved fingers caressing her cheek. He loved touching her, even with gloves on. He cupped her chin in his palm. “Miss me, all right?”

  “I think I will,” Lindsay said, and knew it was true.

  Taylor didn’t have luck or an attack of genius on the meat packer’s job. It took him three long days of pure grunt work to diagnose the problem and figure out how to fix it. The man who’d hired him, Mr. Closse, was looking over his shoulder every minute, wringing his fat hands and cursing technology in general.

  Chicago was cold and raining. The wind was loud, even through the double windows in his hotel room. Taylor was tired, impatient, and he missed Eden. Missed her more than he’d thought he would. He looked forward to their long talks each night.

  When the job was finally done and the five thousand dollars in his wallet, Taylor flew back to New York.

  He was at Eden’s apartment by six o’clock that evening.

  To his surprise, a young woman he’d never seen before opened the door. She stared at him and he stared back.

  “Are you selling something? Why didn’t the super ring you up?”

  “I’m Taylor and I’m a regular. The super and I drink beer together on Thursday afternoons at Clancy’s. Who are you? Where’s Eden? Is something wrong?”

  “You’re a friend of Lin . . . Eden’s?”

  She sounded shocked and plainly disbelieving. “Yes,” he said easily, “I’m a very good friend. I even spent Thanksgiving with her. Who are you?”

  “I’m Gayle Werth. Please come in. I’m sorry for grilling you, but it’s just that Eden didn’t say anything about a man or a friend who was a man. Oh, dear, let me take your coat.”

  “Where’s Eden?”

  “In the bedroom. She’s got a great case of the flu and is at very low ebb right now.” Gayle studied him for a minute, still not believing that this hunk, this man who was every inch a man and not a gay, was a friend of Lindsay’s, that Lindsay would allow such a man to come within ten miles of her. How much of a friend? “I’ll see if she’s awake. It’s been a very long day for her.”

  “I’m here now. I’ll take care of her.”

  Again the young woman looked incredulous. At his offer? At his very presence? Taylor had the feeling it was the latter.

  “You’ve known Eden long?”

  “We went to boarding school together in Connecticut. The Stamford Girls’ Academy. Doesn’t that sound great? Anyway, we go all the way back to first ear piercings and exchanging formulas to cover zits. Sit down, Taylor, and I’ll see what Eden—”

  “No, don’t bother.” Taylor walked past her, aware that she was on his heels, uncertain what she should do.

  He walked quietly into Eden’s bedroom and stopped short. She was lying on her back, blankets up to her chin, and her face was white as rice paper. Her hair was in a lank dull braid. She was just opening her eyes. “Oh,” she said and moaned. “I had hoped you would call so I could tell you to keep your distance. Don’t come any closer, Taylor, I’m sicker than a pig.”

  “I never get sick,” he said, and sat down on the bed beside her. He laid his palm on her forehead. “Fever. How long have you felt this bad? What have you taken and when?”

  “Dr. Taylor, I presume?”

  “Eden, what do you want me to do?”

  “Oh, Gayle—”

  Taylor turned to the woman who was standing there, nearly en pointe, looking worried, amazed, and uncertain. He said easily, as nonthreatening a smile as he could muster on his face, “It’s been a pleasure to meet a friend of Eden’s. You can leave her with me now, Gayle.”

  If Lindsay hadn’t felt like garbage that had already been completely squashed in a compactor, she would have smiled at the utterly bewildered look on Gayle’s face. “He’s a friend, Gayle. It�
��s okay. I’ll call you tomorrow if I’m still alive. Thanks for letting me boss you around and for being such a wonderful slave.”

  “You’re sure, Eden?”

  “Very. Taylor will be leaving soon too.”

  Taylor didn’t say anything. He nodded to Gayle and remained silent until he heard the front door close.

  “Now, why the hell didn’t you tell me you were sick last night when I called you?”

  “I wasn’t all that sick. It hit me during the night. I even swore along about two A.M. that I’d become a missionary, but it didn’t matter. God must have known I was lying because it just got worse.”

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she stared at him, turning whiter than a moment before, and leapt from the bed. He saw long bare legs from beneath a sleep shirt saying Don’t Hit Psychiatrists or They’ll Shrink You on the back.

  He followed her into the bathroom, waited until she was shuddering from dry heaves, then lifted her beneath the arms and helped her back into bed.

  “You’re sick and it’s time to call the doctor.”

  She fluttered her hand but didn’t argue. She felt too awful. Then, when he was reaching for the phone, she said, “I wish you wouldn’t. It’s just a stomach flu.”

  “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?”

  14

  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.”