White Ivy(30)

When she returned to the living room, the gold clock over the mantel read three thirty-five. Sylvia was curled up on the sofa like a sleek golden lynx, enshrined by the light of her blazing candlesticks. Two knitting needles flashed between her hands with incredible speed, like pincers. Whatever Sylvia was making was gray and shapeless. She paused from her knitting to gesture Ivy and Gideon over. “Did you two have a good evening?” she asked, as if they had been the honored guests, the only people whose opinions mattered to her. It would have touched Ivy if she hadn’t seen Sylvia speak in the exact same way at some point to everyone else at the dinner.

“It was a lovely dinner,” said Ivy.

“And that lamb,” said Gideon, squeezing his sister’s shoulders. “I never get a home-cooked meal otherwise.” He grinned at Ivy as if they shared an inside joke. Then he checked his watch. “I should get going—I have brunch with Tom tomorrow.”

“Tommy Tom Tom,” said Sylvia idly, pincers flashing. “Is he still dating that girl from Michigan?”

“Yes—Marybeth. I haven’t seen them since Thanksgiving.” Gideon glanced at his watch again.

His imminent departure melted Ivy’s resolve to appear aloof. “Is this Tom from Grove?” she asked. Gideon’s childhood best friend, Tom Cross, was the most frequent sighting in Gideon’s Facebook photos. She knew it was a stretch that the name Tom should make her think of Tom Cross—all the world’s Toms probably lived in Boston—but it was late, she was drunk, her inhibitions were precariously close to nil.

“You remember him?” Gideon said in surprise.

“Sure.” Ivy picked at the lint on the sofa armrest. “You guys played soccer together. All the girls had huge crushes on him.”

“That’s the one.” Gideon smiled briefly. “Yeah. He hasn’t changed much.”

It was Sylvia who said, “Oh for goodness sake, Giddy. Must I do everything for you?” She puckered her lips. “Ivy, please go to brunch with my brother and Tom tomorrow. He’s not stupid, I promise, just slow on the uptake.”

“Oh!” said Ivy, heat radiating up her neck. “I didn’t mean—”

“If you’re free tomorrow,” said Gideon pleasantly, not looking at his sister, “you should come for brunch tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to third-wheel,” Ivy said, unable to help her nervous giggle at the end. She felt a visceral sensation of spilling out and tried desperately to gather herself in again.

“You’re saving me from third-wheeling,” said Gideon. “Tom’s bringing Marybeth.”

“Well, if I’m saving you…” said Ivy.

They exchanged phone numbers; Gideon said he’d come pick her up, waving away her suggestion that she could meet them there.

“It was fun as always, Sib.” Gideon kissed his sister on the cheek. After a slight hesitation, he leaned over and kissed Ivy, too, his lips warm and dry.

Watching the door swing shut, Ivy couldn’t help the feline-like smile that turned up the corners of her lips. She noticed Sylvia staring at her with an odd look on her face. Ivy burst out laughing. The sound was artificial even to her own ears. “What are you making?” she asked.

“A sweater. For my boyfriend.”

Ivy tried to recall which of the reed-thin, leather-clad men had been at Sylvia’s side all night, but she’d been too distracted by Gideon to notice anyone else. “Was he here tonight?”

“He’s in Vegas this week. And he hates my dinner parties. It’s like dragging a cat into a bathtub. He hates anything civilized, really.” Sylvia fretted over losing her stitch count. “Here, can you hold this for me?”

Ivy took the ball of yarn and released the thread inch by inch, mesmerized by the neat rows of delicate stitches… Sylvia’s silvery voice seemed to blend with the fibers of the yarn into one harmonious gray tapestry…

The next thing Ivy knew, she was walking down a narrow staircase, which smelled of cinnamon and five-spice, and then she was on the pavement, her coat draped over one arm, her purse over the other arm, stumbling to the corner deli to buy a pack of cigarettes. It was just past four in the morning. She flagged down a cab and rode the thirty minutes across the city, her foolish smirking face pressed against the streaky car window.





8


TOM CROSS WAS NOT AGING well. Watery rays of sun gleamed off his carefully combed hair and pallid face, bloated from too many happy hours, giving him the appearance of some kind of brown sea anemone in a pink dress shirt and cuffed chinos, boat shoes on his sockless feet. Next to Tom sat Marybeth Hamill, a woman who radiated such vigorous health—the auburn curls bounced out of a half ponytail, a ruddy blush glowed under a deep tan, which hinted at outdoor sports—that Ivy wondered how Tom could ever keep up in bed. Marybeth’s hazel eyes flicked over Ivy’s frame with a quick snap of estimation, and sensing in her a kindred spirit, an expression of congenial welcome opened on her face like curtains rising in a theater.

Gideon introduced Ivy as an old friend from Grove who had moved away before graduation. Ivy saw that Tom did not remember her at all. Tom, Sylvia—people like that flaunted their inability to recall names and faces. Gideon wasn’t like that. He’d come up to her and said, Do you remember me, Ivy? As if she’d been the important one.