White Ivy(49)

“They bought this for Sylvia so she could pick up an instrument,” said Gideon, “but then they found out she was tone-deaf. So they had me take lessons instead. No one really comes in here except Dad when he has to take calls.” He switched to playing a sonata in the minor key. There was no sheet music but his fingers moved swiftly across the keys without hesitation. He’d never mentioned he played the piano. Each day they were together, Ivy learned something new about him. It was marvelous, really. Perhaps this was the secret to a lasting marriage: to always uphold a veil of mystery between each other, like a silk screen dividing a bedroom chamber. If Shen had an ounce of mystery about him, maybe Nan wouldn’t look down on him so much.

“This is the best room in the house,” said Gideon, bringing her to the first bedroom upstairs. There was a four-poster bed with a crinkly linen duvet, a drop-leaf writing desk, two slender maple nightstands, and a heavy wooden chest at the foot of the bed, the lid open, displaying matching towels. Fresh flowers were abundantly displayed, green-tinged carnations in jugs, various bouquets, lavender pots, and on the nightstand, a water bowl floating with a cluster of peonies. Ivy walked over to the bowl and dipped her hand into the water. One petal broke free at her touch and floated away from the others. She had the urge to bring her fingers to her mouth and lick the peony-flavored droplets.

“Mom loves coordinating flowers with the furniture,” said Gideon. He noticed her funny expression. “What’s wrong?”

“The peonies. I thought they were fake. They looked so perfect.” In the vanity mirror, she caught their reflection: light head, dark head. We would have beautiful babies, she thought. She went over and kissed the tip of his nose.

“Sometimes I wish I could bottle up the way you look at me,” he said. “When I’m old and amnesic, I can take it back out and relive the look on your face.”

She reached down and found the cold metal buckle of his belt, and in one motion, pulled the end tip through the loop. His fingers moved to rest on top of hers. “They’ll be back soon.”

She withdrew her hand and went to stand by the window. Outside was a terrace overlooking a sloping lawn; beyond that was the surf lapping the sand.

“Do you like your room?” Gideon asked.

She turned around. “My room?”

“It’s tradition. I’m down the hall.”

She waited to see if he was teasing. He wasn’t. She toyed with a tassel on the curtain. “Are you going to sneak in at night?”

“Unfortunately, Mom has ears like a bat’s.” He gazed at her very seriously. “Are you upset?”

“I’ll miss you,” she said, shaking her head but smiling nevertheless. “Your mom is very sweet and old-fashioned. We’ll have a great week.” Her eyes drifted back to the peonies. “I can feel it.”



* * *




IVY STEPPED OUT of the shower to hear a woman’s clear soprano calling out Gideon’s name. Gideon shouted that they’d be right down. He turned to Ivy and asked if she was ready. She was changing into yet another outfit, a calf-length dress of a clingy jersey material. When she’d tried it on at the department store, surrounded by their three-paneled mirrors with soft overhead lighting, it’d seemed perfect for an evening dinner. But here in Poppy’s guest bedroom, the somber textiles sucking the light from other fabrics, the dress looked cheap. She could see the outline of her underwear through the thin material. The zipper snagged on her hair as she pulled it off. “Goddamn it.”

Gideon waited. Under his polite silence, she sensed a growing irritation. He’d already been sitting on the edge of her bed for fifteen minutes, but for once she couldn’t appease him. Vanity took priority. Sometimes she had nightmares, true, sweat-inducing nightmares, of being late to some important event, a first day of work or a job interview, while trapped in the vicious cycle of choosing the right thing to wear, but unable to make up her mind, panic pressing her every which way.

“The dress isn’t very comfortable,” she explained breathlessly to Gideon, shimmying into a pair of cropped khaki trousers and a sky-blue top with a more modest neckline. It wasn’t perfect but it would have to do. She plastered a smile on her face and wiped an eyelash from the corner of her mouth. Her fingers were cold and clammy.

Gideon’s parents were unloading groceries in the kitchen when they came down. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen seemed to belong to a different era. The cabinets, the refrigerator, even the microwave were painted the same muted teal, giving it the kitschy feel of an old movie set. Poppy said, “Hellll-oo, Ivy, it’s wonderful to have you here.” She kissed Ivy twice, smelling of rosewater and talcum powder. Ted Speyer shook Ivy’s hand over the countertop. His skin was pink and pale, like ham, his hair had gone mostly gray, and the outline of a small belly protruded through his striped polo. A faint aura of charisma clung to the crevices where vitality had once resided. “I remember you, kiddo,” he said. “I never forget a friend of Gideon’s. You came over to our house once. How’re your parents doing?”

Ivy lowered her gaze and murmured that her parents were fine. She resisted the urge to add “sir” or “Mr. Speyer.” It was agonizing that Ted still remembered the sleepover incident; even Gideon had never brought it up with her.

“Is that a new shirt, darling?” Poppy asked Gideon.