Beyond Eden

by Catherine Coulter

  The next day, Taylor resigned from the New York Police Department. Enoch Sackett, longtime partner and equally longtime friend, also resigned.

  Lindsay

  A passing cab sent black slush up in a wide arc, splashing Lindsay’s new light brown suede boots. She stared down at them, cursing under her breath. They were splashed, stained, and now bloody ruined. She cursed a bit more. She’d bought them with her last paycheck from Hoffman and Meyers, a small privately owned publishing house where she’d been a fish out of water in the publicity department for the past five months. Frustrated and angry and feeling so down she wanted to bite something or somebody, she went into a discreet-looking bar at Sixty-fifth and Broadway, just up from Lincoln Center. It was an old-fashioned Irish bar called County Cork, all dark and comforting on the inside, an ancient bar worn and lovingly shined that curved around, and a smell that permeated the place—welcoming and old and mellow.

  She slid into a booth that was done in black leather, worn and soft and smelling of beer and whiskey with just a hint of salted peanuts. The large room was dim, nearly empty at this time of day. It was just before four o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Everyone was still at work. Except her. She’d just quit her job and felt relief and depression in equal amounts.

  She looked up at the bartender and called out for a white wine. She looked down at her beautiful new suede boots, the stains now drying and ugly as slash marks on the soft golden brown.

  She wanted to gulp down her wine when the bartender brought it, but she sipped it, slow and easy. She brooded, looking at the scarred, beautifully polished wooden table. She thought about her boss, the weak-chinned Nathan, and wished she had punched him out when she’d quit an hour before. But she’d been calm and very adult, she’d handled it well, telling him to find another poor soul with a psych degree to pimp for him. She’d left, only to wonder if he would see she was paid for the two days. Who cared? She was out of there. It had been part of her job to play escort and companion/guide to visiting authors, seeing that all nasty and inconvenient twigs were swept from their paths. She was the smoother-over. The last guy was a golfer who was writing a book about the scandals on the pro golf circuit. She’d removed every proverbial rock from the road, smiled at his stories, kept his spirits buoyed. And then he’d tried to get her up to his hotel suite. When she’d walked and reported what the jerk had wanted, her boss had told her to get back there and keep the man happy. She’d said that being a prostitute wasn’t part of her job description.

  Well, it was over. During the interview with her boss, the golfer had called in a snit, complaining about her uncooperativeness. She had gotten to laugh then in her erstwhile boss’s face. She could smile for real again. She was free for a while until she found another job. She looked around the bar. She nursed her wine, looking up to see a man at the bar, by himself, tossing off a Scotch, if she wasn’t mistaken. He was carrying on a desultory conversation with the barkeep, a big-gutted man with an apron wrapped around his middle and up under his armpits, and sporting a big brown mustache. The barkeep wiped beer mugs with a soft white cloth, his movements slow and hypnotic. His dark eyes looked dreamy and old. She wondered if he was really listening to the man or was off into space somewhere.

  The man was talking about his BMW and how the sucker hated the snow and slush and how it was rotting underneath from all the salt the city laid down after a snowstorm. The barkeep just nodded and kept wiping those beer mugs. The man drank down the rest of his whiskey and ordered another. He spoke again, but Lindsay couldn’t make out his words. He was mid-forties, olive-complexioned, a head thick with black curly hair, slender. He had boyish features and his smile held charm. His clothes were expensive. His voice was as soft and mellow as her white wine. She was distracted, and found herself listening without really intending to. Just to pass the time, she told herself, until her boots dried. No more walking on the sidewalks in this weather. She was going out to dinner with Gayle Werth, to her favorite Mexican restaurant on Seventy-first Street, and she still had a couple of hours to wipe out.

  A woman came sweeping into the bar—no other way to describe her entrance. Lindsay could only stare at her. She was swathed in black mink and high-heeled black leather boots. She wore a huge mink hat and carried a Sharif bag, which probably didn’t hold more than a lipstick. She was gorgeous and self-assured and obviously on a mission. The man turned when the woman came to him and lightly touched her gloved hand to his shoulder. “Ah, redhead,” he said, turning to smile up at her. “I’m glad you’re here. You want a drink?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Vinnie, a ginger ale. Then I want to talk to you. Glen told me you’d be here.”

  “Glen’s got a big mouth. Dickie, make it a Perrier for the redhead. No calories. Look at those thighs, Janine. I can see the fat dimples through the coat. No more nothing for you today, sweetie, you got that?”

  It was then that Lindsay recognized the woman. She was a model. Lindsay had just seen her on the cover of a woman’s magazine at her dentist’s office a couple of days before. She wasn’t quite so beautiful right now. She was fighting mad at the man. She was speaking angrily at the man, her voice rising with each word.

  “. . . No more, Vinnie, no more, you hear me? Damn you, it was enough!”

  No more what? Lindsay wondered, her hearing tuned to high. Then the man cut her off with a wave of his hand, saying quite clearly to her, “Look, babe, you play by the rules, or you fade into obscurity.”

  The barkeep handed the glass of Perrier to the woman. The man said now, “You’re getting lines around your mouth with all your tantrums and whining. Cut it out. No more frowns today, you got that?”

  The woman threw the Perrier into the man’s face. The twist of lemon fell onto his lap. “Another thing, Demos, I’m marrying Arthur Penderley III and I’ll be able to buy and sell you, you no-cock little pansy bastard.” She pulled her gorgeous mink coat around her, tossed her head back in a magnificent gesture, nearly losing her mink hat, and walked from the bar.

  “Wow,” the barkeep said. “That’s some lady. She must be wearing ten thou on her back.”

  “She’s a lot of things,” the man Vinnie said as he wiped off his face, “but a lady she ain’t. At least this stuff doesn’t stain. Ah, hell, Dickie, I’m glad she’s getting out of the business. She’s tired of it, burned down to her wick, and it’s starting to show in her work. I’ve even gotten a couple complaints about her attitude, you know? When a director or a photographer starts to notice a model’s attitude, you know you’re in trouble. Usually they’re so wrapped up in themselves, they wouldn’t even notice God if he arrived on a set. Well, that’s that. Give me another towel, will you? Thanks.”

  He was wiping at his pants when the bartender called out, “Hey, lady, you want another glass of wine?”

  Lindsay, fascinated, and not wanting to leave just yet, called back, “Yeah, make it a double.”

  The man slowly looked up. He paused in his wiping. He looked at her for a very long time, then nodded, raising his whiskey glass in a silent salute.

  Lindsay smiled at him. Nothing like a little drama to make one forget one’s woes, she thought, delighted at what life unexpectedly dished up on rare occasions, and gave him an unconscious wide smile.

  Vincent Rafael Demos couldn’t believe his eyes. It was too much whiskey, he thought. That was it. That smile of hers was something else. Electric, yeah, that was it. And that damp mop on her head—unruly as Medusa’s hair, but thick and filled with colors from the lightest ash to dark brown, colors that seemed to absorb all light, made more intense with deep natural waves. As for her eyes, well, he’d soon see. “I’ll take her wine to her. Oh, Dickie, put it on my tab.”

  Lindsay watched the man approach, her wine in his right hand, his whiskey in his left. He was looking at her, no longer smiling, and up came a rush of fear. She quashed it. No more fear. At least no more unreasonable fear. If the man wanted to buy her a glass of wine, who cared? She was the one out o
f a job. It didn’t mean he wanted to attack her. Besides, she was depressed.

  “My name’s Vincent Demos, or just Vinnie if you heard Janine yelling at me. Or just Demos, which I prefer. Here’s your wine. I bought it for you. Can I join you for a few minutes?”

  “As long as you don’t talk about your BMW, sure.”

  He grinned and slid into the booth opposite her. He raised his glass and she clicked hers to his.

  “You a student?”

  “Not anymore. I’m a full-fledged professional, newly-out-of-a-job adult. I just quit my first job this afternoon and a taxi ruined my new suede boots. My name’s Lindsay Foxe.”

  They shook hands. His were dry and narrow, his grip firm.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  She nodded.

  “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Sexy as hell and intelligent, a new combination.”

  “And that’s a new line.”

  “No line. Fact. They aren’t colored contacts, are they? No, I didn’t think so. How much do you weigh?”

  “My fighting weight or in my Reeboks with thick socks?”

  “Fighting weight.”

  “One hundred and thirty pounds. What kind of prize do I win if I answer all the questions right?”

  “You’re how tall?”

  She cocked her head at him. “Just about five-foot-eleven.”

  “I didn’t think you looked overweight. You got long legs?”

  “To Mars.”

  “Well, you’ve also got a smart mouth. I like that. My name’s Demos, like I said. I own the Demos Modeling Agency on Madison at Fifty-third. I’m legit, just ask Dickie over there, not some sort of punk who hits on women. I’d like to do some layouts on you. Won’t cost you a dime. I’ll provide the photographer and the outfits. You interested?”

  “You don’t look like a punk.”

  “I’m not, scout’s honor. And no, you don’t have to strip to your skin for these shots. I don’t do calendars or provide fodder for the skin magazines. I do fashion stuff, all legit, as I said. If you’re good, you’ll make a lot of money and so will I. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two, just graduated last spring from Columbia, degree in psychology. I know, worthless, but it’s something at least.”

  “You ever done any modeling before?”

  She shook her head, then said, “That woman who was in here. She’s a model. I recognized her. She was in my dentist’s office.”

  “That was the Cosmo cover for last month. ‘Was’ is the operative word here. Yeah, Janine just retired. I still smell like Perrier and lemon.”

  “You want a replacement Janine?”

  He looked at her closely, silent for too long a time. Finally, “No, I want something entirely new and you just might be it.” He sat back, brooding now, and tossed down the rest of his whiskey.

  “Actually, you’ve got ageless bones. That’s the key in most cases. Well? Do you want to give it a shot, Lindsay Foxe?”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, say at one o’clock?”

  “Why not? As of two hours ago, I’m no longer a publicist.”

  “Are you tied up with any guy?”

  She was instantly still. “No.”

  “Good. Boyfriends can be a real pain in the ass when it comes to scheduling shoots at weird hours.”

  “No boyfriends.”

  “You sound like that’s permanent.”

  “It is, Mr. Demos. It is.”

  “You’re into women?”

  “No. I’m not into anything.”

  “Good. If things turn out, you’re going to have to knock off about ten pounds, maybe fifteen. The camera adds it on, you know.”

  “I’ve heard. Ten pounds is a lot. Fifteen pounds sounds impossible. I’m not a featherweight. In fact, I’m on the light side right now. I don’t know if I could do it or if I’d even want to starve myself like that.”

  “Well, I’m getting ahead of myself anyway. You might look like a geek on film. Those gorgeous cheekbones of yours just might fade away into the sunset. That jaw of yours might look like a ballbuster’s on film. Too, you’re a little old to be starting all this. You think about it, Lindsay. Call me in the morning and let me know. Don’t let those gorgeous eyes get bloodshot tonight, will you?”

  “It’s hard to believe all this is for real, that you’re for real. It’s like a B movie.”

  “I know,” Demos said, and grinned, showing a slight space between his front teeth. “But then again, I’ve always thought life was based on a B movie. But the thing is, Lindsay, successful models don’t just magically appear in my office. It’s the dogs that usually come to an office. I found Janine at a party down in the Village. She had crooked teeth and bleached-out hair, but I saw the possibilities. Two of my very successful models I found just like you—in bars. One of them had to have an ear job. One model I spotted at my aunt’s funeral, another one my mom had picked out for a blind date. You never know. If an agency is going to be successful—like mine is—why, then, the eyes are always searching. So, call me, all right?”

  As Lindsay said later that evening to Gayle Werth over margaritas, chips, and hot sauce at Los Panchos, “Maybe I’ll be on the cover of Vogue by next year.”

  “Sure, sweetie. And maybe you’ll get elected to the United Nations.”

  “They don’t do elections, Gayle.”

  “I’m just saying don’t get your hopes up, Lindsay. The man could be a real slime bucket, he could be a pervert, a wanted criminal. You’ll check him out before you head over there, won’t you?”

  “I already did. He’s very well-known. He’s big-time. He’s in the phone book and his address is fancy and quite real. I even called Cosmo and asked about him.” She sat back in her cane chair and stared at the depleted basket of tortilla chips. “I’ve got big boobs. Don’t all models have to look anorexic and be flat-chested?”

  Gayle shrugged. “I’m going with you tomorrow. I’m not taking any chances that you’ll be too trusting and sign away the farm.”

  “Me, trusting?” That was truly a surprise to Lindsay. “You’re joking.”

  “No. You’re naive as hell, Lindsay. Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. I saw that psychology creep of yours, Dr. Gruska, this morning when I was on campus checking on gymnastics courses. He nearly ran to catch up with me. Can’t you just see him with his tweeds flapping? He wanted to know how you were. He wanted your phone number.”

  Lindsay choked on a tortilla chip and grabbed for her glass of water. “You didn’t—”

  “Don’t worry. I gave him a number, all right, made it up right then and there. He walked away a happy creep.”

  “I wonder what he wants?”

  “He probably wants what every man wants. He wants inside your jeans.”

  “I don’t think so. His father wouldn’t allow it.”

  Gayle waved a tortilla chip at her. “You’re an odd duck, Lindsay. I go along thinking you’re so unworldly, but then I see this other side of you. All cynical and funny, at least on the surface. Sometimes I just don’t understand you at all.”

  “Nothing to understand,” Lindsay said, and called to Ernesto for two more margaritas, frozen, with salt.

  8

  Lindsay / Eden

  It was a hot day in mid-July, not even noon yet, and already in the low nineties. Lindsay was regret-ting her long walk to the Demos Agency, but she’d gained two pounds, and walking and sweating was the easiest way to get it off. She came around Fifty-third Street and looked up, half-expecting to see Glen waving from the eleventh floor of the pre-World War II building, a solid brick, dark and dirty, needing a good hosing down, like most of the other buildings on the block. She didn’t see Glen. Still, she smiled, knowing that today would be as much fun as she could expect from the modeling grind. She was doing a makeup layout for Lancôme and the ad-agency people in charge of the shoot were funny and bright, and practical jokers. Well, today she’d be the one to get the laugh—she looked
like dog meat and when they saw her they were going to scream.

  Lindsay bent down to pull up her baggy army socks, a nice touch she’d thought, especially with the puke-green stretched-out cotton sweatshirt pulled over the tops of her ragged jeans. When she straightened, she saw a beautifully dressed woman emerge from a taxi, a vision really, in cool pink silk that should have clashed with her shining auburn tapered bob, but didn’t. Lindsay could only stare at her. Inside, she jolted, recognition warring with deep, deep pain. She shook her head, as if to deny what she saw, then said very quietly, “Sydney, is that you? Sydney?” Her half-sister turned and stared at her, taking in the moussed-backed ponytail held with a rubber band, the shiny face devoid of makeup, and the hideous green sweatshirt.

  She said nothing, merely stood there looking beautiful and slender and perfect, as always, now looking at Lindsay’s face, her hair, the dangling Coke-bottle earrings.

  “Sydney? It is you, isn’t it?”

  “Hello, Lindsay. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  Lindsay didn’t know what to say. There’d been no warning of any sort, no one had bothered to tell her Sydney would be here. Pain and anger and hurt rolled through her. She just stood there staring at her half-sister. This cool exquisite creature was very different from the hysterical woman of five years before in Paris. Then that woman of five years before had become vicious, siding with her father.

  “Yes,” Lindsay said, still not moving, “it’s been quite a long time. You look beautiful, Sydney.”

  “And you, well, you’re still Lindsay, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose one doesn’t change all that much.” Lindsay was surprised at another feeling that crept through her at her half-sister’s words. Inferiority, that was it, she felt sudden and utter inferiority. She felt ugly and worthless, no more than a clumsy lump. She straightened her shoulders, towering over Sydney, who was only five-foot-seven in her stylish heels.

  “It appears you have changed quite a bit. At least in those glossy photos you certainly look different. How do they do it—with smoke and mirrors and doubles?”