White Ivy(50)

“Sib got it for me in Majorca.” Gideon leaned over the island and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“Do you need help with dinner?” Ivy asked.

Poppy shook her head. “Not at all.” Everything she said was a grand proclamation, yet her voice was so girlish and warm it was hard to think her affected. “I’m going to roast some veggies and Ted will grill the steaks. We’ll eat around eight. Sylvia called to say she’ll be late and to start without her.”

Dismissed from the kitchen, Ivy and the men migrated to the family room. Ted picked up the newspaper and settled onto a woven rattan armchair. Gideon opened his laptop. He and Ted placed their beers on wooden coasters carved with the subway map of Boston. How unified and comfortable they looked, thought Ivy, in their clean-pressed clothes and large, American bodies—unlike whenever she saw her own father and brother together, like two bristling pit bulls forced into the cockpit. She tried to read the book Liana had lent her but she couldn’t concentrate. Perhaps it was a side effect of the nicotine patch she’d plastered onto her inner thigh after her shower. She’d never used one before but she’d never risk bringing cigarettes to the Speyers’ beach house. The patch left a metallic coating in her mouth, like the residue of cough medicine, and her right pinky finger spasmed every so often on the armrest of the sofa. Thoughts of the past also kept cropping up. Perhaps it was because Finn Oaks itself felt frozen in time, no sign whatsoever of technology, not even a television, and the faces of long-dead Speyers staring at her from every crooked picture frame. She half-believed she was fourteen years old again, fearful because she was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be, watching over her shoulder for Nan to show up and drag her back to Fox Hill. She checked her phone. A handful of texts from Andrea, four missed calls from home. Nan still treated cell phones like landlines—she simply kept calling until the person picked up. She probably wanted to verify that Ivy had received the money, that the check hadn’t gotten lost or stolen in the mail. Ivy turned off her cell and went back to her book, counting down the minutes until Poppy would call them over to dinner.



* * *




THE PLACE MATS were laid, the wine poured, and everyone minus Sylvia, who was further delayed due to car troubles, sat around the table. They closed their eyes and held hands while Ted said grace: “For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful.”

“Amen.”

Ivy added her own prayer: And please God let this week go well and I’ll be a better person and daughter in the future. Thank you, Amen.



* * *




JUST BEFORE THE clock chimed ten, the front door swung open and Sylvia’s voice called out, “I’m here,” accompanied by a light, silvery laugh.

“Sylvia’s here,” said Gideon. The voices downstairs grew louder. “Should we go down and say hi?”

“You go first, I’ll be right there,” said Ivy, having just changed into a rather revealing teddy pajama set. She was disappointed—she’d anticipated some precious alone time with Gideon to go over the day’s events: How’d you think it went? Did your parents like me? That sort of thing.

Ivy heard Poppy’s loving scolding, Sylvia’s apologetic tones. There was the sound of a man’s voice greeting Poppy and Ted. Gideon’s voice joined in the fray. The man’s voice came again—“Good meeting you finally”—and Gideon’s response: “It’s about time.” Ivy listened with renewed interest. It comforted her to know that there was another non–family member in the house. Sylvia must have brought her boyfriend.

“Did you call the dealership?” Poppy was saying indignantly. “Really, to have a new car stall on your first day!”

“It’s a refurbished car,” said the boyfriend, “from 1930. I think I can cut it some slack.”

Sylvia explained it was the faulty gauge system, but because the car was so old, the dealership couldn’t find the parts. “Roux loves cars almost as much Giddy loves boats. But Roux gets seasick. You and Gideon might just hate each other.”

Polite laughter.

“You’ll have to teach me to sail,” said the boyfriend. He went on, but Ivy’s heart had risen to her throat. She threw on her robe and floated to the top of the staircase, barefoot, one hand on the banister.

Everyone looked up. Amongst a sea of gold heads nestled a dark one, all too familiar under the chandelier’s glaring light. Roux Roman.





12


THAT NIGHT IVY DREAMED OF a lacquered red door with a gold handle, the ray of light from under the door a brilliant orange, as if a fire blazed on the other side. The handle was cool to the touch; it drifted open without sound. The room was dark, she could see nothing, yet she was sure something extraordinary was waiting for her inside, calling out her name. She woke hearing the echo of a man’s voice. The clock on the nightstand read five minutes to ten.

Her room was streaming with unfiltered sunshine. A gust must have blown in through the night and pushed open one of the terrace doors; there came the cheerful chirping of birds and the faint sound of waves, which had bled into her dreams and become part of the white noise, constant but no longer distinguishable. She lay there for a while until a clamor of shouts and laughter drew her outside onto the balcony. The Speyers were throwing around a Frisbee on the back lawn. Poppy was quite good, Ted atrocious. Sylvia caught the disc, then dropped it with a pained cry. Gideon went over to inspect her hand. Their foreheads touched, two fused flaxen heads, the flaxen of romantic oil paintings: Picnic on Summer Day. A flutter of black caught Ivy’s eye. It was Roux’s hair blowing in the breeze. He was directly beneath her balcony, staring up at her, unsmiling. Their eyes locked. How long had he been there?