White Ivy(85)

They joined the others on the dance floor. Gideon took off his jacket. Underneath he wore a light gray vest with satiny black buttons. She placed her hands lightly around his neck. They swayed slowly, foreheads pressed together. The last time they’d been this intimate was in the rooftop bathroom at the Gonford. It was another one of those things, like her LSAT score or Ted Speyer’s first wife or Dave Finley’s philandering ways, that they would never speak of. People like Roux and Nan thought love was speaking your mind—in the most forceful, unrestrained manner, the more unrestrained, the more loving—but Ivy had been with Gideon long enough to understand how delicate silence and restraint, that careful distillation of one’s most unseemly thoughts, was the most loving and respectful gesture one could make toward one’s spouse. Once upon a time, she’d found his careful control unsettling; now she found it not only admirable but also heroic. Anyone can lash out from anger. But it takes a special kind of man to gently declare to his fiancée: “I like everything about you,” and devote his life to upholding the principle.

A group of Tom’s cousins came and pulled Gideon away for a photo. Ivy saw Marybeth’s aunt on the dance floor, twirling in circles. Ivy walked over, took the withered hands in her own, and began a jig. Through the terrace doors, she heard the chants of shot, shot, shot, shot and glimpsed Gideon’s blond head tipping back. She glanced around the tables. There was no one else she knew at the wedding besides the bride and groom. This old white-haired woman who smelled of almonds was her only friend here.

Gideon came back four songs later, decidedly less steady on his feet. He was holding two glasses of champagne and spilled a little when he gave her one.

“Gideon, you’re drunk!” She never thought she’d see the day.

Gideon rubbed his face. “I’ve had some shots. Tom made me. I can’t remember how many.”

A couple in matching purple and white leis danced over and tapped Gideon on the shoulder. Their names were Nettie and Hilton. They were from Ann Arbor. When Gideon introduced Ivy, they both shook her hand with two firm pumps and the same aw-shucks grins. It was something Ivy had noticed throughout the evening: how the couples at the Crosses’ wedding resembled each other, in their speech patterns, coloring, temperament, if not directly in looks.

Nan used to talk about qìzhì, as in: “That woman has the best qìzhì among her siblings,” or “You can’t buy good qìzhì no matter how rich you are.” Nan meant that this elusive quality was not something one could learn or imitate, but an aura you unconsciously emitted. Ivy didn’t know if couples could grow to have the same qìzhì—like developing a similar taste for exotic foods—or if they purposely found partners with similar qìzhì, like how the most attractive man and woman in a room will instinctively gravitate toward each other. Then Ivy wondered whether her and Gideon’s qìzhì matched—or did people see a couple who didn’t quite fit together?

An old Grove alumnus came and said goodbye to Gideon. Ivy was reminded of the girls of her youth. Like faces from a storybook, she saw once more the svelte daisy-haired Satterfield twins, creamy-skinned Liza Johnson with the wide lips and catlike eyes, only they didn’t seem like fourteen-year-old girls but fully formed women entirely capable of inflicting upon the present Ivy the loneliness and embarrassment she’d felt throughout her preteen years.

“Are you guys still friends with Nikki and Violet?” she asked Gideon. “And Liza Johnson. Didn’t she date Tom for a while?”

Gideon’s eyes went perfectly round. “That’s right—you don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“They’re dead.”

Ivy said stupidly, “Who’s dead?”

“Nikki and Liza.”

“What? How?”

Gideon stopped jiggling his legs. “It was right before high school graduation. A freight truck came out of nowhere and T-boned their car. Jordan—Jordy, he’s here somewhere—was driving. Chris was in the car, too. They were going to Panera. The guys were okay, but both the girls…” He gripped her shoulder. “Sorry, I thought everyone knew by now… The whole town came to the funeral. Nikki had an open casket but Liza’s face was too badly mangled… Nikki, you remember, had that long, blond hair? It was woven in braids around her head. Before they lowered her, Violet placed a flower crown on top of her hair. She looked like an angel… I’m sorry, that was morbid. Were you close friends with the girls?”

“No,” said Ivy, “I barely knew them… It’s so sad.” A sensation like little icy feet pattered across her heart. Just seconds ago, she’d been jealous of them, these imaginary rivals. But these girls were dead now. Had been dead for years, for no reason at all.

“What about Una Kim?” she said. “What happened to Una?”

“Who’s Una?”

Ivy shook her head. “Never mind.”

Gideon was watching her with his head cocked. “You’re a nice person. One of the nicest I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not nice at all,” she said, turning away.

“Well, I think you are.” He mussed the top of her hair. This gesture felt so tenderly protective, so brotherly, that she was struck with the impulse to tell him everything. Her strong, dignified Gideon who would never hurt or disappoint her, who would know exactly what to say, and whose benevolent dignity would perhaps atone for her own mistakes and depravity. She would tell him she loved him, had always loved him, he’d been her idol and our childhood idols are evergreen. She was lonely, and sorry, and she wanted—wanted—