White Ivy(59)

“I’ve always wished my parents had higher standards for me and my brother. We don’t agree at all on what makes a good life… and I don’t think Poppy and Ted are narrow-minded. They have—tradition—” Sylvia rolled her eyes. Ivy said, “I’m serious! Meaning comes from the importance we attach to the small things. If there are no standards, then there’s no culture or—even society!”

“That’s one way to look at it,” said Sylvia with a curious smile. “It’s so nice sometimes to talk everything over with an outsider. Oh, I don’t mean it that way,” she added. “I just mean you’re such a good listener. You give us all—perspective.” She brushed her fingers over Ivy’s wrist to undercut the implied insult of her words. Physicality, Ivy was beginning to understand, was Sylvia’s power and one that seemed to work on men and women alike.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you a favor,” Sylvia went on, lowering her voice. “My parents will want to usher us all along to St. Stephen’s on Sunday, and I know Roux won’t come. He says he’ll never step foot inside a church. Can you talk some sense into him?”

Ivy’s eyes darted over to Roux. He hadn’t budged from his limp-doll position and was sleeping with his mouth slightly open. “Why would he listen to me?”

“You’re the other significant other here and I presume you’re not religious. He’ll see you’re willing to play along. If we all just corral him… make it seem like a group activity…”

For all of Sylvia’s talk, she was surprisingly compliant with her parents’ wishes. “Does your family usually attend church?” asked Ivy. Ted said grace before dinner but that was the extent of any religious displays Ivy had seen so far.

“Oh, yes,” said Sylvia. “Our faith is very important to us.”

“I’ll try and talk to him.” To say no was a power, too, one Ivy had learned long ago but seemed incapable of using on any Speyer.

Sylvia clapped her hands with childish delight. “Have I told you already how happy I am you’re here? You made Mom so happy. You two looked as thick as thieves the other day, laughing over Giddy’s baby photos. She absolutely adores you.”

Ivy laughed with the bashful gratitude expected of her. When she flattered Sylvia, she felt like an ingratiating panderer, yet when Sylvia flattered her, she felt beholden and vaguely patronized. She couldn’t win.

A gull was circling overhead and they watched it for a while as it dove into the water, dipped back up, dove back in, trying to catch the fish that kept flopping and squirming out of its large yellow beak. I’m the fish, Ivy thought, and Sylvia’s trying to peck me to death. Death by a thousand pecks.

“You know,” said Sylvia, still observing the bird. “Roux didn’t want to come on this trip at first. But when he heard you were coming, he changed his mind.”

“I didn’t know that.” Why?

The boat cut a wake too quickly and water lapped the sides of the boat.

“Giddy’s such a speed demon,” said Sylvia, standing up. “I’ll tell him to slow down.”



* * *




THEY ANCHORED IN a tiny pebbled beach, surrounded on three sides by rocky cliffs and wild grasses. Gideon and Sylvia immediately undressed and dove in, swimming in a diagonal to the shoreline, arms dipping in and out in synchronized lines. Ivy buried her toes into the sand and waded in slowly; the waves crashing up to her chest were so cold her ribs shuddered in protest and her breath came out in shallow gasps. Gideon’s and Sylvia’s dark blond heads bobbed up and down in the waves. Ivy watched the siblings talk and splash each other, their carefree laughter carrying in the wind but the words themselves unintelligible. Gideon gestured at her to swim closer. He and Sylvia were both treading water, the ocean around them black and endless. Ivy shook her head with a laugh, hoping he’d swim over to her. When he didn’t, she thought she must look stupid just standing there, neither swimming nor playing, and so she made her way back up the beach where Roux was sitting on their picnic blanket, still fully dressed with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He offered her one, but she declined. She could hardly sit still. Sylvia said Roux had known she would be on the trip. But he had seemed equally surprised to see her that first night. He’d kept secrets from both her and his girlfriend. That made him risky, if not just a bit compelling. Ivy felt painfully anxious, like a girl about to go on a first date, but also primed for disgust, as if she expected nothing good to come from an honest conversation. She decided silence was the best option, as it was for most delicate situations.

They gazed out at Gideon and Sylvia in the water.

“Creepy, isn’t it?” said Roux. “How lovey-dovey they are?”

“You have a filthy mind.”

“There’s an aphorism somewhere here: something about a kettle…”

She left him. She hadn’t thought to reach for a cigarette since she’d arrived in Cattahasset—she even managed to convince herself she’d really quit this time—but breathing in the secondhand smoke made her realize her indifference had been a pretense to fool the ragged beast in her that craved a smoke so violently her hands shook. She even fantasized, walking away on the beach, about stealing a few cigs when Roux wasn’t looking; she would keep them dry in her sunglasses case, smoke them all at once later in the night.