White Ivy(62)

Ivy felt a scrunching sensation between her eyes, as if she were trying to squint at something far away.

“Should you really always be humoring Sylvia like that?”

“Like what?”

“It feels like she takes your attention for granted. She expects you to talk to her even when you’re busy with work or when we’re together. She says she wants to spend more time with you but you guys go off alone all the time. You’re basically at her beck and call.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Gideon, his hands finally stilling. “Sylvia and I have been through a lot together. It’s made us close.”

“So I’ve heard. It’s difficult being a senator’s kid.” This wasn’t fair, Ivy knew. Gideon had never complained.

“If Sylvia’s behavior has been bothering you,” Gideon said in measured tones, “I can talk to her—”

“I’m not the one who’s bothered, she…” For a split second, Ivy thought to tell him about catching Sylvia snooping around her room and stealing Roux’s drawing. But she caught herself. Was she stupid? Gideon had chosen a cat over her. He’d never believe her over his sister.

“Either way. It upsets me to see you two at odds,” said Gideon, sounding exactly like his father the time Ted had chastised Poppy on the beach: Now, now, Poppy.

Ivy stood up. “We’re not at odds. I’m sorry.” Roux’s voice echoed in her ears: clap, monkey, clap.

“I’ll be upstairs napping until dinner,” she said. Would he stop her? No. The clacking of the keyboard resumed before she even reached the stairs.



* * *




SHE VEERED TO the left into the laundry room. She didn’t want to run into Sylvia upstairs or, even worse, see Roux’s face leering at her in triumph, proven right in his assessment of her meek servitude, which hadn’t even made a difference at all, in the end. It was obvious to her now that Gideon was going to dump her. He didn’t love her, he didn’t desire her, he was only biding his time until the end of the trip. Soon she would become just another story the Speyers would tell around the dinner table next summer: Remember that Ivy Lin? Very nice girl. Then they would coolly tuck her away like a postcard of a forgettable town they’d once vacationed in. Ivy burned to remember how she’d felt she’d almost won Poppy to her side, especially in light of Sylvia’s obnoxious behavior. Poppy, prefer Ivy to her own daughter? Ridiculous. The Speyers’ graciousness had lured her into thinking she was making progress, when in reality she had made no more impact on these people than a ball bouncing off a foam pad. Ivy remembered a phrase Meifeng used to say: A gentleman’s friendship is insipid as water. Yes, that was the right word to describe the Speyers. Insipid. Wishy-washy. Without form. Things without form were, by definition, impossible to hurt or penetrate.

She slammed her fist onto the washer lid. The metallic sound rang through the room. She heard a furious snarl echo from the depths of the room and jumped back in fright.

Sitting in a pile of dirty clothes inside the laundry basket was Sylvia’s cat, his legs tucked underneath him. He raised his squashed head and blinked lazily at her.

“You scared me,” she said.

The cat widened his jaw into a large yawn, revealing teeth like blades, and jumped out of the hamper. He walked straight to the back door that led to the yard, turned his head, and fixed unblinking yellow eyes at Ivy.

“You want to leave?”

He rubbed his head on the door, then began walking toward her, ears flattened, tail low and swishing against the floor like a duster.

“Oh, shoo, shoo!” She kicked at him. He jumped aside, hissing.

She reached over and pushed the outer door open. He didn’t move. She picked up a broom from the corner of the closet and jabbed it toward him. The cat sprang out the door and onto the grass. He looked back at her once; when she made a threatening gesture with the broom again, he turned and streaked away down the sidewalk.



* * *




DINNER THAT EVENING was on the lawn. The table was set with Poppy’s decorator’s eye: freshly cut roses in Mason jars, starched white napkins, champagne flutes next to flowered placeholders. The smell of butter and herbs, sage, rosemary, thyme, wafted over from the charcoal grill. Poppy had spent the afternoon sticking mushrooms and peppers onto wooden skewers while Ted tended to the fire. Ivy wore the navy calf-length dress, the one she had deemed too revealing on her first day at Finn Oaks. A middle finger to giving a shit. Sylvia said she no longer cared what people thought of her. It struck Ivy now this wasn’t true. Sylvia cared that people thought she didn’t care.

Poppy, resplendent in a floor-length floral skirt with her gray-blond hair pulled back in a low ponytail, corralled everyone for a photo in front of the porch. Roux was the photographer, on Poppy’s request. He shrugged, the offense sliding off his shoulder. One—two—three— The flash went off, blinding.

They took their seats. Ivy was sandwiched between Roux and Gideon.

“You look nice,” said Gideon.

“Thank you.”

“Do you want a glass of wine?”

“God, yes. White, please.”

When he left, Roux turned to her. “Look. Sorry about this morning. I was out of line.”

His words caught her off guard. She’d thought he was going to say something clever and biting again. She opened her mouth to make a condescending retort; she couldn’t speak. Unexpected kindness often made her cry, whereas cruelty never did. “How are you going to make it up to me?” she asked after she’d regained her composure.