White Ivy(28)

“I won’t be coming home next week either,” said Ivy.

“Why?”

“I’m going to a New Year’s party. Maybe I’ll convince someone there to impregnate me.”



* * *




SYLVIA’S APARTMENT WAS on a wide, noisy street with an eclectic mix of brownstones, brick walk-ups, hipster boutiques selling handcrafted furniture next to Wisconsin cheese, Irish pubs, and graffitied walls with profound messages about God and guns and ganja. Ivy passed by several old churches and government municipals with beautiful stained-glass doors. She headed up a narrow staircase next to a kosher delicatessen and rang the bell.

Sylvia opened the door in a wraparound black silk shirt, leather miniskirt, bare legs, and purple velvet slippers with gold tassels. Few women could get away with not looking like a hooker in such an outfit, and Sylvia was one of them. Ivy handed her the bottle of red the sommelier at the wine bar down the street had recommended. “Gorgeous apartment,” she said, looking around at the dark-paneled room, which appeared, at first, to be unlit, before her eyes adjusted and she realized that floating atop the wall-to-wall bookshelves were hundreds of candlesticks, flickering between various trailing plants whose tendrils pooled on the floor like a carpet of grass. She was the first to arrive. She’d thought Sylvia had said eight, but when she discreetly checked the text again, it said eight thirty, and now she felt foolish for showing up early.

Sylvia made it a point to tell her that Gideon was running late, which irked Ivy in its presumption that she was eagerly awaiting Gideon’s arrival, even if it was true. She offered to help in the kitchen but Sylvia said there was nothing to do; she showed Ivy to the bar cart with an assured remark to “help yourself,” before disappearing down the hall without explanation.

Ivy passed the time flipping through a photography book on the coffee table. Classical music swelled from an old record player sitting on top of a heavy mahogany desk. The surface was cluttered with an odd assortment of objects: a figure drawing of an old man, dried paintbrushes, half-used oils, an encyclopedic textbook flipped open to a page about rococo art, a brass hand sculpture, stacks of thank-you cards, dried yellow roses in a fat blue vase with carvings of Siamese cats. She took one of the floral-patterned thank-you cards and placed it in the pocket of her coat.

The armchair in the corner had rose-patterned upholstery and looked straight out of an English castle, the small discolorations set just so, the color gradation of wood—from maple to a chestnut grain—impossible to copy. Out of curiosity, she peeked under the drop-leaf corner stand next to the sofa. A paper label attached in the back read: Style no 35; shade no 14. Bendt Jessen co inc. She pulled out her phone and typed Bendt Jessen. The first result that popped up was a listing for a nondescript wooden chair—$3,950.

“What are you doing?” said Sylvia, reemerging.

“I thought I dropped my earring,” said Ivy.

At five to nine, there came a loud knock on the door and Sylvia’s voice came calling from the bathroom, where she was applying her makeup, asking Ivy if she could get that.

Ivy smoothed down her hair, fixed a smile on her face, and opened the door with an exuberant Hello! A crowd of people streamed past her in a flurry of noise and laughter. A quick sweep revealed Gideon wasn’t among them. Ivy Lin, she said over and over, squeezing limp fingers, kissing velveteen cheeks. The guests all seemed to know each other in some capacity, although not always by name. Someone changed the classical symphony piece to a rock record. The noise swelled. Sylvia floated out of the kitchen with a platter of olives and cheese. Everyone made the rounds greeting their hostess; Ivy joined in as if she’d also just arrived. A man in a bowler hat handed her a tall-stemmed glass. She gulped the wine thirstily. The arrival of so many people seemed to raise the temperature in the room; sweat sprang along her hairline. She poured herself another glass and squeezed herself down on an empty square of sofa beside a Frenchman named Mathéo. From over Mathéo’s shoulder, she had a clear view of the front door. Each time the door swung open, her heart would leap, then sink again, when a stranger entered. She both feared and anticipated Gideon’s arrival. Fear and excitement—were they not two sides of the same coin?

When Gideon finally arrived, he let himself in without knocking and headed directly to find Sylvia. Ivy only caught the back of his head as he disappeared into the crowd, but she knew with certainty that she’d just seen Gideon Speyer for the first time in twelve years.

She turned to Mathéo and looked upon him with soft, shimmering eyes. The shift was instantaneous. Mathéo realized that he was talking with a beautiful girl. Ivy shook her head to move the strands of hair curled around her chin and neck; she kept tapping her bottom lip, drawing attention to her carefully outlined Cupid’s bow. She spoke quickly, with lively gestures, leaning in to form an upside-down V with Mathéo’s body. Someone tapped Ivy on the shoulder. She looked up in the middle of a sentence, her lips still formed in a half smile at something Mathéo had said.

“Sorry to interrupt. Do you remember me, Ivy?”

She held the expression for a puzzled second before letting the recognition sweep across her face. “Of course I remember you! You’ve gotten so tall, Gideon!” She stood up and they exchanged warm hugs. When he pulled back and she looked full into his face, she experienced an almost painful pleasure of seeing how much he was the same, yet better than she remembered. The same mischievous smile, the intelligent eyes on a firm, thoughtful face, the straight nose, the slight hollow of his cheekbones. She’d been horribly intimidated by what she imagined to be a successful young man who’d perhaps let his successes go to his head, but this flesh-and-blood version made it impossible for her to think he had turned cold or snobby. If anything, he seemed softer.