Beyond Eden

by Catherine Coulter

  “She and her husband will be flying to San Francisco sometime during the fall. We’ll have a dinner party for them, don’t you think, Mother? Small, perhaps only one hundred guests or so.”

  “Naturally, that would be appropriate. How is Sydney adapting to Italy and Italians?”

  Royce took his time chewing a bite of sirloin. He shrugged then, not looking at his mother directly. “She is happy, of course. She and Alessandro just returned from a month’s honeymoon in Turkey and some of the islands in the Aegean. She mentions that the Contini villa is very old and needs modernizing, which she will undertake very soon. She mentions also that her mother-in-law appears to be reasonable and that her sister-in-law is a slut.”

  Gates made appropriate noises as her son continued his panegyric on Sydney. She heard the word “slut” but wasn’t really interested. Gates chanced to look up to see Lindsay staring toward her father. There was hunger in the girl’s eyes and a strange sort of sad acceptance. Gates quickly turned away. It wasn’t right, but then again, she’d never found life particularly right or fair or just. The girls’ school was an excellent idea. Lindsay would make friends there. She’d finally belong. Remaining here would be disastrous for all of them. Sydney had always been the only child he’d loved. Yes, it was better that the girl leave San Francisco, at least until she’d grown enough armor to defend herself against her father—armor that she would need until the day he died.

  That evening Jennifer followed Lindsay to her bedroom and looked over the new wardrobe she’d bought her for her school, particularly warm things for the cold Connecticut winters.

  “Do you like this, Lindsay?” It was a beautiful cable-knit sweater in pale blue. Lindsay gave her that silent nod that aggravated Jennifer no end.

  “If you didn’t like it, then why did you let me buy it for you?”

  “I do like it, Mother. It’s just that it makes me look even taller and even skinnier.”

  “No it doesn’t.” She paused, knowing Lindsay wouldn’t argue with her. “Are you excited?” she asked finally.

  “I think so. I will like the school, I hope.”

  “Yes, you should. Your grandmother selected the school for you personally. You will be happy there.”

  Lindsay nodded at the ultimatum. Her mother was trying, Lindsay knew. But she was antsy; she wished her mother would leave her and just go to bed. Lindsay was fiddling with a particularly ugly ring on the third finger of her right hand, the kind of thing one would find in a cereal box. It drew her mother’s attention. “Where did you get that thing?”

  “A friend gave it to me.”

  “What friend? A boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what’s his name, this boy?”

  “Allen.”

  “Allen what?”

  “Carstairs. His family lives on Filbert. He’s in my class at school.”

  “The ring is cheap and disgusting.” Jennifer held out her hand. “Give it to me. I will dispose of it.”

  For the first time in all her sixteen years, Lindsay said, “No. It’s mine. It’s a gift and I’m going to keep it.” She whipped her hand behind her back.

  Jennifer felt like a fool with her hand stuck out, palm up, expecting to be obeyed. She knew Lindsay wouldn’t give up the foolish ring. God, she hoped the stupid girl hadn’t had sex with this Allen Carstairs. That would be all they’d need, a pregnant Lindsay who couldn’t even coordinate herself walking down the stairs.

  Irritated, she said, “Very well. Keep the junky thing, but it makes your knuckles look even bigger. Just see that you don’t allow this Allen Carstairs to get under your dress, any part of him. Your father wouldn’t stand for it if you got pregnant.”

  Lindsay stared at her mother, who had, strangely to Lindsay, lost at least five pounds since Sydney’s wedding. “I wouldn’t do that, Mom. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

  “See that you don’t.” Jennifer realized she was being a bitch and absurd. No boy could possibly be interested in Lindsay for sex. This Allen Carstairs was probably gay and saw Lindsay as a friend, nothing more. She felt guilty. She quickly hugged her daughter. “You’ll enjoy the school, Lindsay, I know you will. You’re a good girl.”

  February

  Lindsay loved the nose-biting cold. She loved the snow and the absolute silence and the white-laden branches of the pine-tree forests. She’d become an excellent skier and every weekend she and her friends were at Elk Mountain in Vermont. Strange, but she was no longer as awkward as she had been six months before. She moved smoothly and sleekly, particularly on skis. She felt graceful. She said as much to Gayle Werth, her very best friend, as they rode in the lift to the top of the advanced slope called Moron Mountain by the initiated.

  Gayle, a knockout blonde, was fiddling with her braces, which had just been tightened and would hurt her for at least another week. “Of course you’re not clumsy, Lindsay, not anymore. Your hair still looks a fright, but if you’ll just come home with me next weekend, my mom will know what to do with it.”

  Lindsay was wearing a red ski cap. She pulled it off and turned to face Gayle. “Stiff friz,” she said, trying to make light of the bane of her life. “She’ll know what to do with this?”

  “Yeah, she’ll know. Just come, okay?”

  “I don’t have anything else to do. Why not? I’d like to meet your mom, The Wizard.”

  “You know, Lind, it isn’t all that frizzy anymore. And all those waves are really nice, and so thick. You don’t know how to tame it down. Mom will fix it.”

  “Race you down!” Lindsay yelled as they slipped off the lift chair.

  It was that downhill run that ended Lindsay’s skiing for the season. She broke her leg halfway down the slope, a clean break that left her white and shaking and nauseated. The guy who had slammed into her was a beginner who’d lost control. He was quite unhurt, which Gayle said was par for the course. It never occurred to Lindsay to call her parents until the doctor, a young woman with bright turquoise contact lenses, mentioned it.

  “Why don’t I do it for you, Lindsay? You’re a bit woozy on the painkiller I gave you, and it might scare them even more. You know how parents are.”

  “Nothing scares my father,” Lindsay said.

  “Well, then, your mother.”

  “Nothing scares my mother either. Don’t bother, Doctor, all right? It isn’t important, really. I’m here and they’re in San Francisco, and I don’t want them told.”

  “Nonsense,” Dr. Baines said.

  To Lindsay’s astonishment, it was her grandmother, seventy-seven years old and vital, stylishly dressed in a Givenchy pink wool suit with matching cloche hat, who came to see her in her dormitory some three days after her accident.

  “You didn’t come home for Christmas,” Gates said as she came to a halt beside Lindsay’s bed. Her casted leg was up on a chair and she’d been laughing with three girlfriends. Gates looked around at the wadded-up Fritos bag, two empty tortilla-chip bags, and more empty soda cans than she could count at a glance. The place was a mess, and after Lindsay had quickly introduced Gates to her friends, the girls were out of the room within fifteen seconds. Gayle grabbed the empty bag of Fritos on her way, her contribution, Gates supposed, to lessening the chaos. She tried to remember if she’d ever acted this way. She couldn’t imagine it. No, she’d always worn a girdle and a slip and nylons. She’d always worn gloves. She’d rarely cursed, but the good Lord knew she’d swallowed many curses in her lifetime.

  “Please sit down, Grandmother.”

  Gates leaned over and allowed Lindsay to kiss her cheek. As she straightened, she smiled, saying, “I suppose I must have done this once upon a time. My mouth has just started watering. Are there any tortilla chips left in either of those bags?”

  “I think so, but they’re kind of old now and ground down to crumbs. I don’t think you’d like them. Let me call Gayle. She can get some more.”

  Gates declined the treat, though she gave a little sigh. She consoled hers
elf with the thought that her delicate stomach would probably have heaved and cramped. “I’m here first of all to see that you’re all right. You are, that’s obvious. I’m also here to tell you that your parents are getting a divorce, Lindsay. Your mother is feeling poorly or she would have come to see you herself. I didn’t think something like that should be left to a phone call.”

  Lindsay’s heart pounded slow deep strokes. It wasn’t a surprise, not really. She could remember the screaming matches, the hideous things they yelled at each other. She could remember her father saying cutting things about her, always comparing her to Sydney, and Jennifer defending, always defending, but still—“A divorce? But why?”

  Gates shrugged. “They’re fools, what else?”

  “But I’m not there anymore!”

  Gates wasn’t surprised that the girl automatically blamed herself. Children were so vulnerable to adult tantrums. “You aren’t the reason they’re divorcing.” Gates looked briefly away, knowing she was lying in a way, but forging ahead. “You never could be the reason,” she said, her voice very firm. “Listen to me. You’re seventeen now, Lindsay, and not a child anymore. You know your father isn’t a faithful man. He wasn’t faithful to his first wife either. It was her convenient death that kept her from being divorced from him.” She shrugged, thinking of her dead husband, the philandering sod, and said her thought aloud, surprising herself at her candor. “Some men are like that. Your grandfather was the same way. He kept more mistresses than your father could ever dream of. I was just of another generation. I closed my eyes to it. I ignored it. But things are different now. Wives aren’t forced to accept things like that. Your mother just got tired of it, at least that’s what she says. Incidentally, she’s thin now, too thin. Isn’t that strange?”

  “She isn’t ill, is she?”

  “I don’t know, child. I’m tired, Lindsay, much too old for all this foolishness, but I felt you deserved to hear this in person and not on a telephone. You’ve changed somewhat, I think, you seem more mature, and I’m pleased. I’ve asked your father to leave the mansion. It seems strange to have only him there and not your mother. It’s a pity, really, but I always liked your mother. It’s just that she had no chance with your father, particularly after—But that’s something that doesn’t concern you. Well, anyway, he’s bought an elegant old Victorian up on Broadway, near Steiner, and has imported a gaggle of decorators. Your mother has bought a penthouse condominium on Nob Hill.”

  “You’re all alone, Grandmother?”

  “Yes, and it feels wonderful. So don’t go thinking I’ll die of loneliness. Your parents were really quite exhausting. I’d like to spend my golden years in blissful quiet.” Gates fell silent, looking out the dorm window at the snow-blanketed landscape. She’d forgotten about snow and cold and frigid winds. God, who could stand it?

  Lindsay said abruptly, not meeting her grandmother’s eyes, “Father was here just three weeks ago.”

  Gates looked clearly startled. “He came to see you?”

  “No, he didn’t see me at all. I saw him quite by accident. I don’t know why he was here, maybe just to check that I wasn’t shaming the Foxe family with failing grades or doing drugs or something.”

  “Or something,” Gates said. “He never told me he was coming here, but then again, he’s well over twenty-one and can go where he pleases. Of course, he did buy into a partnership with the academy owners, so perhaps he was simply here to check on his investment. Yes, that makes sense. He would want to discuss the business aspects with his new partners. That’s another reason I’m here as well.”

  “I see.” Why hadn’t he at least come to say hello? If only she’d been Sydney, he would have been here in a flash, ready to take her to the best restaurants, ready to give her an expensive gift, ready to laugh at anything she said, ready to hug her. Why had he bought into the academy? She’d overheard one of the secretaries say something about it, but she’d dismissed it. So it was true after all. Was he afraid that she would flunk out and this was his way of protecting the Foxe name? It was embarrassing; she hoped none of the other girls ever found out. Why hadn’t he at least called her? “Mother hasn’t called since Christmas.”

  “No, I imagine not. As I said, she’s not well. She will call you soon. Oh, yes, Lindsay, Sydney had a miscarriage. She’s all right, but the prince is desolated. His mother and sister are quite concerned about him. Actually, it wasn’t really a miscarriage, I guess. Sydney was driving somewhere and there was an accident of some kind that brought on premature labor. It was a male child, but it weighed just over a pound. There was no chance to save it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Your father flew over to be with her. He’s returning again very soon. He says she’s going back to the law firm. You knew she was trying to be a traditional wife, to fit in with all the di Contini social obligations in Milan. Who knows if she was succeeding. After she lost the child, it was over. We’ll see what happens. Alessandro isn’t happy about her decision, but what can he do? Sydney goes her own way. She’s strong, always has been, so you needn’t worry about her.”

  Just to hear his name made Lindsay feel terribly exposed, somehow defenseless, made her ache deep inside. Poor Alessandro. She wondered how fast Sydney had been driving, she wondered if it had really been an accident. Sydney was probably driving very fast and it was all her own fault. The poor prince, wanting to be a father, wanting to have his own son, but Sydney had denied him. Lindsay knew, knew deep in her gut, that Sydney was responsible for the baby’s death. And now she would leave him and deny her duty to him as his wife.

  Lindsay looked toward her desk. Wrapped carefully inside a silk-screen envelope were the three postcards the prince had sent her over the past six months, each one from a different place, each one precious to her, the first one from Santorini, where he and Sydney had spent several days on their honeymoon. He’d thought of her even then, even when he’d been with Sydney. Everything he’d written had been warm and interesting and he had signed them with love. Not from her brother-in-law, with best wishes, but from Alessandro. With love.

  Lindsay swallowed. Sydney hadn’t deserved him, and now look what she’d done to him. She’d cheated him out of being a father. She’d killed his baby. Lindsay was suddenly aware that her grandmother was looking at her curiously, so she asked her about the hospital committee, asked her about Dorrey and about Lansford, the Foxe butler for thirty years.

  The next morning Gates met with Mrs. Anglethorpe, the school’s headmistress, a woman in her early forties, black-haired, with a thick streak of silver running over her left temple, all smoothed into a thick chignon. She was deep-bosomed, long-legged, well-dressed, soft in her speech, and direct in her words and manner. After greeting Gates with great deference, as was her due, Candice Anglethorpe gave her tea and the best scones Gates had ever tasted outside Edinburgh.

  She studied Candice Anglethorpe. Yes, she could see it, very clearly. The woman was lovely, bright, graceful, assertive, yet sensitive. She would take very good care of Lindsay. “I wish to know how my granddaughter is doing.”

  “Ah, well, we were all concerned when she broke her leg skiing. I do understand that the accident would have been difficult to avoid, the other skier a man of uncertain skill, you understand.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of her broken leg. How has she adapted? How are her studies progressing?”

  Candice Anglethorpe pretended to count off on her fingers. “She’s quiet, but not shy. She’s bright, but not brilliant. She has two or three friends but only one close friend, Gayle Werth, whose parents are, incidentally, in politics. Gayle’s father is Senator George Werth from Vermont and her mother is a state legislator.

  “Lindsay has no interest in boys yet, but of course all the girls giggle and fantasize and dish up tall tales. As for how Lindsay’s fitting in here, let me say, Mrs. Foxe, it is my feeling that this was the best thing for her. She’s very happy here. She belongs.”

  “I knew she would be hap
py. Her parents are divorcing, as I imagine you already know.” Gates paused for just a moment, but Mrs. Anglethorpe remained carefully and studiously silent. Gates’s right eyebrow raised just a bit. “No, you didn’t know? Well, I just told Lindsay. She seemed not to care overly, but who knows about young girls? She might blame herself, which is absurd, as I told her already. I wanted to tell you just so if there were any odd behavior, you would be on the alert.”

  “I understand. I was also told that you were here on behalf of your son, who is now one of the new partners of the Stamford Girls’ Academy. You have only to ask and I will see that you have whatever records you desire to examine. I will put my secretary at your disposal, Mrs. Foxe.”

  Gates merely nodded and took another bite of the heavenly scone. The Cornish clotted cream was beyond anything imaginable. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Send me the recipe for the scones and the cream.”

  Candice Anglethorpe laughed. Inwardly she was so relieved she nearly choked with it. The old lady didn’t know anything, and if she did, she was apparently going to mind her own business.

  Candice had been at the academy for only four years, and in her opinion, her performance had been grand, bordering on phenomenal. But one never knew, though, particularly when a new partner was a federal judge from three thousand miles away. She would have to find out why he’d bought into the ownership of the academy. To him it really didn’t seem at all important; to her, it was critical, and it was baffling, this seemingly indifferent attitude of the very rich. Now she was witnessing it in his mother.

  “I will, of course, be speaking to the trustees and the school’s accountants while I’m here. That’s merely business and has nothing to do with you, Mrs. Anglethorpe. Incidentally, you use the Mrs. for the girls’ benefit?”

  Candice Anglethorpe felt a jolt but quickly suppressed it. The old lady wanted candor—very well, she’d give her just a taste. If she wanted something more, she would have to ask point-blank, because Candice knew never to volunteer anything. “Yes, Mrs. Foxe, I do. It gives me more credibility, both with the girls and with their parents. I’m also a widow.”