White Ivy(31)

“Good old Grove,” Tom said after the introductions. “Man, those were the days. We just saw a movie—what’s it called, sweetheart… oh, never mind, you probably fell asleep. Anyway, it’s about two cops going undercover at their old high school. Think we could pull it off, Gideon?”

“Not with your hairline, sweetheart,” said Marybeth. Her voice was low and hoarse, almost as deep as a man’s. “Even with a toupee, you’d only be mistaken for the gym teacher.” Gideon laughed silently with shoulders quivering.

“I like being an adult better,” said Ivy. “More freedom.”

“Ah, lucky you then,” said Tom. “I have less freedom than ever, what with work and the damn parents badgering me all the time.” He splayed out his hands in aggravation. “My mom, you know. She calls me every weekend to play doubles, or to get brunch or follow her around holding her shopping bags.”

“What happened to Gwen?” said Gideon.

“Tore her meniscus riding last month. Anyway, she wanted me to go with her yesterday to pick out a new paint color—”

“She’s lonely,” said Marybeth, “and I don’t think—”

“—to pick out a new paint color for their bedroom”—Tom talked over his girlfriend—“but what the hell do I know about paint color? She’s already planned this entire Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday. Imagine the horror if Marybeth and I ever want to take a vacation on our own for Christmas. She requires more maintenance than Hunter. Our German shepherd,” he added, his eyes flickering toward Ivy, who smiled sympathetically.

“Last Christmas,” said Marybeth, “was almost the death of me.”

“Marybeth called me a derelict boyfriend that trip,” said Tom.

“There’s only so much Catholic gore I can stare at before losing my mind,” said Marybeth. “You know the paintings I’m talking about, Gideon.” She began counting on her fingers. “There’s Jesus bleeding on the cross. Some saint getting beheaded. Madonna with one breast. A cherub bleeding out in the eyes. A naked woman getting stabbed to death. All of it’s hanging in the dining room while we’re cutting into our lamb shanks… The more blood and gore the more Tom’s dad adores it. No wonder Tom grew up morbid.”

“Marybeth has a recurring dream,” said Tom placidly, “where she shoots me on a safari hunt and then sticks my head on the wall.”

“You can become one of those Catholic martyrs,” said Marybeth.

“People find Catholicism to escape women,” said Tom.

This continued for some time. Tom and Marybeth took turns speaking about each other—he in controlled rhetoric, she in quick derisive gestures. Their eyes slid back and forth between Ivy and Gideon, but never to each other. Was this a form of banter, Ivy wondered, or was it real disdain beneath their sardonic smiles? Perhaps walking the thin line between the two was what made it exciting.

The waiter finally came to take their drink orders: mimosas for the women, a Bloody Mary for Tom, coffee for Gideon.

“I know what you mean,” said Ivy, picking up the thread. “Our parents are becoming children, aren’t they, with their quirky ideas and tantrums?”

“I think Tom’s parents are beyond ‘quirky,’?” Marybeth said dryly.

“They sound very attached,” said Ivy.

“They’re monsters,” said Tom.

“You’re an only child, aren’t you?” said Ivy, imitating their droll tones.

Tom hooked his gaze on her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She laughed but no one followed. Gideon was no longer smiling.

“I’m just teasing,” she said. Clearly she’d misread the subtext. Tom and Marybeth hadn’t been subversively bragging about Tom’s high-maintenance parents. The irritation had been real.

As punishment, Tom began speaking to her in italics.

“Are you an only child, Ivy?”

“I have a younger brother.”

“And where is your family from?”

Ivy paused. “China.”

“But you grew up in West Maplebury, no?” Gideon said smoothly.

“South of Andover?” said Tom.

“It’s an hour west,” said Ivy. “West Maplebury.”

Marybeth snorted.

The waiter returned with their drinks. They fell silent, studying the menu. Ivy was grateful for the reset; had the conversation gone on any longer, her facade of being a good sport would have become visibly forced.

The second Tom finished ordering his entrée, Gideon asked about his and Marybeth’s recent vacation to Saint Bart’s. Tom appeared to be slightly diminished, slouching back in his seat with an air of distracted nervousness. At Gideon’s question, he sat up slowly and crossed his arms.

“Actually, something happened on the trip.”

“Uh-oh,” said Gideon.

“Well, the thing is—” Tom cleared his throat. “We asked you to brunch to tell you—Marybeth and I are engaged.”

Marybeth held up her hand that had been hidden in her lap for the drama of this moment: a fat, cushion-cut emerald sat on her ring finger in a heavy gold claw setting.

“Oh my God,” Ivy gasped.