White Ivy(54)

“Don’t get too close,” Poppy said, hovering by the door. “Not until we get him checked for diseases.”

“I’ve already decided to keep him,” said Sylvia. “I’m going to call him Pepper.”

Poppy pressed a hand to her cheek. “Are you sure you have time for a pet, Sylvia? Getting your doctorate is challenging enough without the added responsibility of a cat.”

“It’s maybe too much for you,” said Sylvia, “but thankfully I take after Daddy.”

Ted said, “You’d better think this through, Sib. Mom’s right, you do travel constantly. Who’s going to look after it when you’re gone?”

“But—”

“She’ll handle it,” said Gideon, exchanging a look with his sister. Countless times, they must have tag-teamed Ted and Poppy in this fashion, thought Ivy, maneuvering through their parents like two acrobats whose mutual trust was implicit and uncompromising.

Sylvia brought the cat to the living room, where Roux was nursing a scotch and flipping through one of Poppy’s coffee-table books about historic landmark homes, and began to tease it with one of the wooden mobiles. Gideon jingled the shells together and the cat swiveled toward him, both the normal ear and the shriveled one flattened on its football-shaped head, its tail switching low on the ground like a ratty mop. “I’ve always liked cats,” said Gideon. “I was quite fond of Tom’s old cat, Beaver. He used to drink water straight out of the faucet. Miriam even taught him how to pee in the toilet. Quite smart, cats.”

“Do you want to take Pepper?” Sylvia asked.

“Should I?”

“Your place is quite small—” Ivy began just as Sylvia said, “Oh, you should!”

“Are you sure you have time for a pet?” Ivy asked, realizing, too late, that she’d used the exact line as Poppy only minutes ago. Gideon and Sylvia exchanged another look.

“I hate cats,” said Roux, snapping his book shut with a bang. “And this one’s ugly as hell. I don’t know that it’s actually tame. It looks like it could take a swipe at an eyeball when you’re asleep.”

Ivy couldn’t help it—she laughed.

“You’re heartless,” said Sylvia. “How on earth your parents raised you.”

Roux said, “Like a stray dog.”

When it didn’t look like Sylvia or Gideon were going to do anything else other than lie on the ikat rug and pet the cat, Ivy suggested that they head back down to the beach.

“I actually need to finish up an email,” said Gideon. “I’m going to go grab my laptop.” He got up and left.

Shortly after, Roux finished his drink and got up as well. He looked at Sylvia as if expecting her to follow him, but she stayed put on the rug. Their earlier lascivious affection seemed all but a figment of Ivy’s imagination. She wondered if something had happened over crab cakes. But then again, maybe this was just the norm for Sylvia and Roux, who both seemed like the sort of people who’d be attracted to volatility.

“Can you please hang up your clothes?” Sylvia called out to Roux’s retreating back. She frowned at Ivy. “You’re lucky Gideon’s relatively tidy. Roux’s barely unpacked anything yet somehow our bed is covered with his shit.”

“You guys are sharing a bedroom?” said Ivy.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“It’s just—I thought your mom didn’t like it…”

Sylvia actually laughed out loud, dimples flashing. “Ivy! You’re such a duck. Mom’s looked the other way since I snuck Tucker McDermott through my window in tenth grade. What a proper upbringing you must have had. No wonder Giddy loves you.”



* * *




STARING AT GIDEON across the table, Ivy thought: Either Sylvia’s lying or Poppy does mind, but Sylvia doesn’t care about her mother’s feelings while Gideon is more considerate. He would never sneak some slut through his window. This explanation was plausible, yet it did nothing to mollify the sting of rejection. Ivy could not bear to contemplate the third idea, which was that Gideon simply had grown tired of her but was too much of a gentleman to say so outright. Since arriving at the cottage, they’d barely had any alone time and even amongst others, he didn’t stay by her side like a protective boyfriend nor did he seem overly concerned about making her feel comfortable. She’d thought this was a sign of their bond, from the man who’d said Sorry, were we supposed to have the talk?, and that he trusted her to hold her own among his family, the same way she had with the Crosses and Finleys. But perhaps the distance she felt between them was just that—distance.

Lost in her own thoughts, she was quiet throughout dinner and ate very little. She felt she might be coming down with a cold. The spasms in her little finger had spread to her face, which felt stiff and tingled as if she were on the verge of sneezing. Halfway through the entrée, interrupting Poppy’s summary of her volunteer work at the local museum, Roux glanced over at her and exclaimed: “Ivy—your eyes.”

“What about them?”

“Oh my,” said Poppy, covering her mouth. Everyone turned, forks pausing in midair.

“They look really red and—puffy,” said Gideon.

Ivy got up and fast-walked to the restroom; Gideon and Poppy were on her heels. When she looked in the mirror, she let out a squeak. Her eyelids were so thick they looked like two angry blisters on top of her black pupils. “What’s happening?” she lamented, closing her lids and rubbing them to clear the watering. This made it worse and the skin around her eyes began to tingle, then to itch.