White Ivy(74)

“How much it cost to buy?” said Nan.

Poppy blinked. “Oh, um, the house? Rent for our place is around four thousand.” She tittered at Ted. “It’s very affordable for what we’re getting.”

“We sold our place back in Andover,” Ted explained to Shen. Ted seemed incapable of keeping his gaze on Nan, smiling at her with a kind of diffident trepidation, mingled with little nods, before looking back at Shen. “It was too big once the kids moved out. We wanted to be in the city and we liked the freedom of renting. We can pick up and go whenever we want.”

“Like homeless people,” sniffed Meifeng in Chinese, her understanding of English having vastly improved since she’d started watching reality television. Her head swiveled around the Speyers’ living room until Poppy said, “Ivy, would your family like a tour?”

“Yes,” said Meifeng loudly, pushing herself up on her cane. Ivy, despairing, stood up as well.

Poppy led the four Lins plus Gideon from room to room. Ted had elected to remain on the couch with Austin. Nan’s sharp eyes took in every detail—the two modest but tasteful bedrooms, the corner library, the solemn parlor with russet curtains—and made humming sounds of approval in her throat, but Meifeng would point to a table or lamp and ask abstract, one-worded adjectives, like “Old?” or “Real?” Poppy would rush to answer with a detailed explanation about the origins of each piece and Ivy or Shen would translate. “Everything is falling apart,” Meifeng said to Ivy in Chinese. “Their wealth is made of dung. Not useful even when spread.” She flicked a knob of plaster off the wall, then sniffed it. “It’s an old house,” Ivy hissed back, wishing Meifeng had stayed back in Clarksville. She noticed Poppy glancing over at them in nervous anticipation, listening so hard her neck was strained forward. Ivy smiled weakly. “My grandmother said she loves your—paint color.”

“It’s called Sherwood Green.” Poppy lit up. “I can write down the color number for you. When we first moved in, we went to Benjamin Moore…”

Ivy felt as if her heart were anchored by an arrow to Poppy’s every movement. If Poppy’s brows rose in incredulity, Ivy felt her heart jerk up, and if Poppy’s eyes widened with interest, so, too, did Ivy’s. She quivered whenever Poppy looked confused or agitated and then rushed to make Gideon’s mother feel at ease. When Nan or Meifeng spoke too long in Chinese, she would tell them in sweetly venomous tones to speak English. By the time they returned to the living room, Ivy felt as if she’d just come from teaching an enormous group of illiterate, rambunctious first-graders. She longed to hide in the bathroom but was too afraid of what might happen in her absence.

Things calmed down slightly once the Lins began munching on Poppy’s nibblers. Austin ate one cheese cube, then another. He ate them so fast that soon there was only one cube left, and as he reached out for the last one, Meifeng hit his hand smartly with the back of her cane.

Poppy said in a high voice, “There’s more in the fridge. Please, eat up!” and practically flew to the kitchen. Ivy shot her grandmother a black look of death, to which Meifeng, interpreting her look correctly, simply said, “The doctor told us your brother has high cholesterol. No fatty foods.”

“We were friends in middle school,” Gideon was saying to Shen, who was sitting on the sofa with his hands clenched into fists, resting atop his knees. “Ivy used to be my little cousin’s teacher. My sister, Sylvia, recognized her and got us back in touch.”

“Men who grow up with sisters,” said Shen, “know how to treat women. Like my son here. He has the softest heart.” He patted Austin’s knee and began telling a story about how Austin used to follow Ivy around everywhere—he even used to cry in stores because he wanted to go to the ladies’ room with Ivy instead of with Shen to the men’s room.

Poppy came back with three times the amount of cheese on her platter, setting the plate directly in front of Austin. “Here you go, sweetheart,” she said brightly. Austin blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Ivy and Gideon’s love story is very romantic,” Poppy told Nan after she’d settled back down. “Of course, I was surprised by how much of a—whirlwind—it’s been. But considering they were childhood friends, I feel there’s a trust there you don’t have with someone you just met.”

“In Chinese—we call it—mìngyùn…” Nan looked at her husband.

“Fate,” Shen supplied. “My wife says Gideon and Ivy have a shared fate. They are destined. When we were still living in Massachusetts, I remember coming to get Ivy from your house once.”

“That’s right,” said Ted, as if he’d also just remembered. His eyes darted to and away from Nan. He cleared his throat.

“She didn’t tell us about Gideon back then,” said Shen. “My wife was very strict—more studying, less boyfriends. But Ivy snuck out and went to your house. She was so angry when we showed up!” He glanced fondly at Ivy, who was burning in humiliation at her father’s revisionist history.

“Gideon and I were only friends back then,” she said pleasantly.

“Well,” said Poppy, her eyes misty with emotion. “I don’t know about destiny, but I would call it God’s will that you two found each other again.”