White Ivy(52)

“So you never finished your story yesterday,” said Sylvia, finally turning to Ivy. “About how you two know each other. Neighbors, was it?”

Ivy hesitated. Was Sylvia being facetious?

Roux said, “Good old Fox Hill. You ever go back and visit?”

“Never.”

“In New York?” said Sylvia.

“Right here in Massachusetts. In shitty West Maplebury.” He smirked at his girlfriend. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”

Sylvia made a face. “Childhood friendships are the sweetest,” she said, and began telling a story about her best friend from first grade. She really doesn’t know, Ivy thought, mostly in relief, but there was also a tiny prick of petty irritation that Roux hadn’t thought it, thought her, worth mentioning.

“I haven’t seen Natalie in more than twenty years,” Sylvia was saying, “but each time I see a pink bicycle, especially with those handlebar streamers, I think of her.”

“Every time I see a Kmart,” said Roux, “I think of Ivy. She used to be quite the—”

“How did you two meet?” Ivy interrupted, her breath catching.

Sylvia said something about an art institute and Italian painters but Ivy was barely listening. The word Kmart rang in her mind like a death toll, the shy optimism she’d felt for Roux only moments earlier skewered through the heart by his casual betrayal.

“Roux is the main patron of that exhibit,” said Sylvia. “He’s got brilliant tastes, and a killer instinct for undervalued art.”

“All I did was donate a carload of money,” Roux clarified. “They give you a certificate and a title, like ‘Friend of the Museum.’ But I get terrific tax deductions—”

“Roux curated the collection himself.” Sylvia spoke over him. “He even helped us borrow a piece from a notoriously stingy museum in Florence. I’ve been writing to them for months—”

“I know the director there. He comes by my pizza shop when he’s in New York. I renovated it to look like the one we used to eat at, remember?” He grinned at Ivy. “They’d give us free slices if we went after ten. You’d bring a Tupperware to bring some home for your brother. Boy, could that kid eat.”

Ivy said she didn’t remember the pizza shop. She could barely look at him.

Roux’s smile turned quizzical. “Really? What about Giovanni? His retarded son, Vincent? We’d go around selling pepperoni slices to the drunk people in the park. We wanted to save up for those inflatable boards to use in the pool.”

“Did we? Kids want the strangest things. I really can’t remember.”

His expression changed, a slight tightening. “I bet you can’t,” he said slowly.

“So you’re an art collector now,” said Ivy. “And you run a pizza shop? That’s an unusual combination.”

“Not only that,” said Roux, leaning forward. “I also own laundromats, dollar stores, ATMs, and vending machines. Big moneymakers, those ATMs. Especially in motel chains. The art thing is just a hobby. I enjoy procuring what everyone else wants.”

There was something about the way he said this that made Ivy cross her legs in self-defense. She’d been mistaken. He wasn’t poor at all. Somehow this didn’t surprise her. He’d always had a hard streak when it came to money. One of those ambitious hustlers destined to either succeed wildly or end up in jail. He might even have more money than Sylvia. Gideon’s sister would probably only date a man with a bigger bank account. And also she’d been wrong about the jeans: they were probably so expensive even the rips and tears were handcrafted to resemble the real working-class man, which Roux clearly wasn’t anymore.

Roux said he was also looking to get into the car industry. He asked Ivy if she liked cars.

“Not really.”

“That’s because you’ve never been in a good one. We’ll go for a drive in the Bugatti. Sylvia chose this one. She thought it was the color of my eyes. What do you think?”

Ivy had no answer.

He waved at the driveway. “Just look.”

“I really don’t care.”

“Don’t be rude.”

Ivy wanted to hit him.

“Roux, cut it out.” Sylvia frowned. She was speaking to him in a normal voice again.

Ivy stood up from the sofa and said she was going to find some breakfast. Sylvia invited her to join them for crab cakes at the Red Barn. “Can you believe Roux’s never had crab cakes before?”

“You’re kidding,” said Ivy.

Sylvia looked at her coldly.

“Next time,” said Ivy.

“See you later,” Roux called on his way out. “It was good running into an old… neighbor.”



* * *




IVY BROUGHT HER coffee and croissant to the beach. She couldn’t stand to be in the living room a second longer, trapped by the wooden walls expanding in the heat with occasional creaks and groans, and the outdated furniture, striped futons and round-legged consoles, giving the impression of a life lived in miniature. A dollhouse life. Or maybe it had only been Roux’s presence, unexpected and overwhelming, that had made her feel so constricted.

Poppy and Ted were sunbathing beside a large striped parasol. Gideon was a beige seal dipping in and out of the waves. A chirping chorus welcomed Ivy: Come, come! Sit. Join us! Did you sleep well? “They’re not as fresh as I’d like,” Poppy said about the croissant in Ivy’s napkin. “I got to the bakery a bit late this morning and those were the only ones left.” Ivy reassured her the croissants were delicious, she’d never slept better. She placed her towel next to Poppy and pulled off her dress, acutely conscious of her childish proportions, all rib bones and spine and a large bruise on one kneecap from banging it on the edge of the wooden chest in her room. Ted was wearing a Harvard T-shirt and gray swim trunks, the mellow backdrop to Poppy’s vibrant one-piece, her figure as firm and perky as a young banana. People said that Asian women aged well, but Ivy thought that past fifty, American women who went to the gym and cared for themselves looked much more youthful.