White Ivy(112)

She idled over to the little garden some yards away from the chapel, wearing only her robe and hotel slippers, thinking she wouldn’t run into anyone, when she heard familiar voices coming from underneath the weeping willow. Gideon and his groomsmen were supposed to be playing a round of golf before getting ready at the church by three o’clock. Instead, she saw Gideon and Tom deep in conversation, heads nearly touching.

“Hello,” she called out.

They looked up in unison, blinking at her emerging figure silhouetted against the noonday sun. As she walked across the lawn, the stench of alcohol oxidizing on sun-baked skin grew presently stronger. She soon confirmed the source of the smell to be Tom, blotchy and pale, clutching a wineglass in one hand with a sheen of sweat covering his upper lip. Gideon wasn’t holding a glass but he, too, was pale; he stood leaning against the tree with an alert stillness that struck Ivy as somehow unnatural.

She pretended to check her watch. “Christ, Tom, it’s not even lunch yet.”

Tom blinked woodenly.

“Where’s Roland?” she asked.

“He’s fetching the golf cart,” said Gideon. “Someone took it out this morning without knowing we had a reservation.”

“You’re not supposed to see me yet,” Ivy said suddenly, taking a step back as if to curb the damage. “It’s bad luck.”

“Should I cover my eyes?” said Gideon.

“Too late.”

“Care to share?” said Tom. He was looking at the pack of Camels clutched in her other hand. Her robe didn’t have pockets.

“They’re not mine,” said Ivy. They weren’t. They were Roux’s.

“Do you smoke often?” Gideon asked politely.

Ivy blinked in surprise. “No. Not often.” She tossed Tom the entire pack. He barely managed to catch it.

“Go on,” said Tom, flicking the lighter at her.

Ivy hesitated. She glanced at Gideon but he seemed mesmerized by the fountain across the lawn. What the hell. She took one. A breeze tickled the back of her neck. She listened to the faraway sound of a lawn mower, the chirping of birds, the gurgle from the two stone Cupids pouring weak streams of water out of fat Roman jugs. Polite, orderly sounds for the polite, orderly life awaiting her.

“That noise makes me want to piss,” said Tom listlessly. No one bothered with a response.

Ivy shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The silence dragged on. She felt as if she were at the end of a sloppy party in which she, Tom, and Gideon were the only ones remaining, all of them dispirited and tired of one another yet unwilling to be the first one to leave.

“I really have to piss,” Tom repeated. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on the tree and flung it into the grass. He took a long while to pull himself upright. “Well—Giddy. It was a good run. See you lovebirds on the other side.” He gripped Gideon’s upper arm in that forceful gesture macho men use in lieu of hugs.

Gideon said, “Wait, T-T-T-Tom.” Tom turned around. “Sober up, pal,” said Gideon.

Tom made a jaunty salute, his benevolent smile almost rendering his once-handsome face boyish again. Ivy watched him saunter into the chapel. She turned to Gideon with a sympathetic smile, as if they shared the same relief in being rid of a burdensome friend, but whatever words she’d been about to say died on her lips. Gideon’s eyes were still on Tom’s back. He was panting lightly, his mouth contorted, his brow so furrowed he appeared either in pain or in rage. She had never before seen such a look on Gideon’s face.

When he realized she was watching him, his features artfully rearranged themselves, as if an invisible hand had smoothed over his face. “How are your parents liking Cattahasset?” He smiled with obvious effort.

She must have managed to formulate a response because he was nodding and smiling and she was smiling back—or else they were both so lost in their own charade they might as well have been two deaf-mute people miming to each other.

She kept hearing Gideon’s infinitesimal pauses between the soft T’s when he’d said Tom’s name. She couldn’t unsee the frightening look on Gideon’s face as he watched Tom walk away, nor Tom’s hands gripping Gideon’s arm, the comic bravado of a tragic farewell. But why was there need for such a tragic farewell? Gideon was only getting married… yet he was in agony—the look on his face could only be called agony—because he didn’t want Tom to leave. He wanted Tom to stay, because… because Gideon was in love with Tom.

And Tom… and Gideon—!

Her breath stopped. A million images filtered through her mind—there must have been clues. Yes, she remembered many instances now. Breadcrumbs become obvious when one sees through the eyes of a bird. But she hadn’t known… she hadn’t bothered to look! She’d believed in Gideon’s integrity, in his noble character, his fine, dashing manners and courage, which had felt a little heartbreaking when it came to his impotence—but even that flaw had only served to reinforce his innocence, that he should lack the animal desire that’d led so many others astray.

She’d been wrong about everything. The shadowy figure she’d sensed between them hadn’t been Roux but Tom. It’d always been Tom.

What to do. What to do.

“There’s Roland,” Gideon said, nodding toward the green golf cart slowly making its way up the hill.