White Ivy(72)

A month into their affair, she began to pilfer money from Roux’s manila envelopes—twenty dollars at first, then hundreds, then thousands. If he ever asked her about it, she planned to say she only wanted to buy nice clothes for herself. He, himself, took great pleasure in dressing the part of the millionaire bum: low-collared sweaters, ripped jeans, white T-shirts, tan leather boots. But he liked to indulge her with presents. It made him happy when she squealed over a beautiful pair of earrings or a necklace, although she never wore any of it outside of Astor Towers. She didn’t want Gideon noticing her sudden extravagance.

It was impossible that Roux did not know she was stealing from him—once a person knows hunger, he’ll count every grain of rice, as Meifeng would say—but he never said a word. This was because Ivy was the one with leverage now. She could stop coming to him any time she wished, but he could not stop himself from desiring her. And desire, Ivy knew, was the strongest form of leverage. Roux would always be willing to do what she said. She enjoyed his admiration for her, which she knew to be genuine, and she liked the way he looked at her, his eyes soft pools of gray, like the sea before a storm, and his mouth curved into a smile that seemed to sing Beautiful, beautiful! At times like those, she felt benevolence well up within her, and she was extra gentle with him those nights, extra affectionate, to give back a little of what she’d taken from him.





16


TWO HOURS AFTER SHE LEFT Roux, Ivy arrived at Ted and Poppy’s town house in Beacon Hill. The entire street was a row of navy oak panel doors with gold knockers, like a line of schoolgirls in uniform. Poppy greeted them from the kitchen, dressed in a blue cashmere sweater and fitted khakis that grazed her bony ankles. Ivy wore an almost identical outfit except that her sweater was polka-dotted and her khakis were black. Both women wore pearls around their necks and enormous jewels on their ring fingers.

“You’re shrinking a little more each time I see you!” Poppy said, rubbing Ivy’s spine and eyeing her son. “Has Gideon not been feeding you?”

“Excuse me, I am a wonderful cook,” said Gideon, placing his hands on his hips. “I take out the pizza from the box, put it on a plate, and spin it in the microwave for three minutes. Very arduous. Ivy loves my cooking.”

“I caught a cold last week,” said Ivy after the chuckles died down. “Plus, I had to make room for tonight, knowing how good your cooking is, Poppy.”

“I wish I’d had your foresight,” said Ted, patting his slightly protruding belly. He walked around the kitchen island to hug Ivy. “How are you, kiddo?” he said warmly.

“I’m great,” Ivy responded, just as warmly. “Thank you for having us tonight.”

They were all standing around the kitchen island, rosy-cheeked and jocular; this prolonged ritual of greetings that Ivy had once found affected in its unnecessary exuberance—they’d only just seen one another at lunch a few days ago—now felt as natural and automatic to her as a handshake. Though she and Ted never had much more to say to each other than these stock phrases, her affection for him increased each time he called her kiddo and asked how she was doing. That sheer repetition of superficial interactions could breed intimacy, in a different but no less meaningful way than did deep vulnerability, was a lesson the genteel had learned early.

The men shortly went to the living room to watch the football game. Ivy rolled up her sleeves to help Poppy assemble the cranberry goat cheese salad. It felt like stepping back into Finn Oaks. The kitchen was thick with the smells of butter and roasting meats; a sports announcer, the same announcer, it seemed, for every sports game ever broadcasted, was shouting from the TV.

“I’m so happy we decided to do this,” Poppy said as she piled the butter lettuce into the salad spinner. “With Sylvia in Belize with Jeremy, Ted and I felt so abandoned. We thought we were going to have to accept my sister Ellen’s invitation last-minute… We’d love to see darling Arabella, of course, but Ellen gets so out of hand during the holidays. Her husband, John, you know, is…” She kept up a steady stream of talk about her various family members—Ivy was not sure if she was expected to follow along—interspersed with questions concerning the Lins’ food preferences, like if Nan liked butter on her corn.

Ivy had never known Nan to like anything other than Chinese food. “Whichever way you like is fine,” she said. She checked her watch. Ten minutes to seven. She prayed the Lins hadn’t run into traffic. She had warned Shen, no less than three times, to leave before noon.

“With an extra pat of butter then,” said Poppy. After finishing with the corn, she opened the ovens, releasing a blast of fragrant heat, and Ivy saw the twenty-pound turkey basting in its juices, the green bean casserole warming in the lower shelf.

“This looks amazing, Poppy,” Ivy remarked as she shredded mint leaves into tiny sections. She checked her watch again. “My brother will worship you. He’s a huge foodie.”

“Thank you, darling. Ted and I used to dine out all the time but I’ve come to love cooking so much since he retired. There’s something about your husband eating your food that feels very special.” She winked at Ivy. “You’ll know soon enough.” She began to help Ivy with the mint. “How many years apart are you and your brother?”

“Four.”

“He’s just out of college then.”