Icing Ivy (3 page)

F
lorence was right. The next day, Christmas Day, Winky gave birth to six kittens. She did so in a nest box that Jane (at the advice of Winky's veterinarian, Dr. Singh) had made for her in a corner of the laundry room by filling the bottom of a cardboard carton with old clean towels.

“A trouble-free birth,” Florence, emerging from the laundry room, proclaimed to Jane, Ivy, and Nick. “I saw many cats give birth when I was growing up in Trinidad, and I can tell you, Winky is a natural.”

“That's nice,” Jane said, “but her birthing days are over. As soon as the kittens are weaned, I'm having her spayed.”

“Oh, Mom,” Nick whined. “I want Winky to have more kittens.”

“Sorry. This is as large as her family gets. We have to find homes for these six, so start asking around.”

“Will do, missus. I think my friend Noni would like one.”

“What about you, Ivy? Know anyone who'd like a kitten?”

But Ivy, apparently having lost interest, was gone.

 

 

Early the next day, Jane and Ivy drove to the north end of town and, after passing through rutted fields of gray-brown stubble, entered the forest that covered Mt. Munsee and started upward.

Heavy snow had begun to fall. Jane switched on the windshield wipers, but they did little good. The road was steep and narrow, and the snowflakes that seemed to be falling straight at them made driving even more difficult.

Ivy seemed not to have noticed. “This is so exciting. Come on, Jane, step on it. We'll never get there at this rate.”

Jane remained silent, concentrating on the road. Soon its angle became less acute, though the tree branches hung lower, nearly touching the car.

Then the woods cleared and they found themselves on a delicate suspension bridge. Glancing out the window and down, Jane saw a deep gorge filled with a dizzying swirl of snow.

“How beautiful,” Ivy said.

“And scary. I hate that grinding noise the tires make on the bridge.”

They made it safely to the other side and continued upward. Finally a sign appeared at the side of the road—MT. MUNSEE LODGE—and they emerged onto a narrow parking lot that ran the length of the lodge, a long, two-story rustic structure of dark wood.

The parking lot was nearly full. Jane had no sooner pulled into a space than she saw Adam in her rearview mirror, coatless, hurrying toward them from the lodge's entrance.

Jane rolled down her window.

“Welcome, welcome,” Adam said, hopping from one foot to the other and rubbing his hands together. “You're just in time. We're all in the lounge having a get-acquainted breakfast.”

Insisting on carrying their bags, he led the way into the lodge's reception area, a small room with a Formica counter. At each end of the wall behind the counter was a doorway leading into what must have been the lounge, for through them came the sounds of talk and laughter.

“I'll show you your rooms,” Adam said.

“I can wait,” Jane said, feeling she should join the group as soon as possible. “Though I can't speak for Ivy.”

“I'll wait too,” Ivy said eagerly, and Adam, clearly pleased with this response, led them into the lounge, in which small groups of people chatted. Against the back wall stood a table bearing bagels, Danish, juice, coffee, and tea.

Jane was aware of someone standing beside her and turned to see Daniel. He had been the first person she'd asked to serve as an instructor. “You made it,” he said. “Looks pretty bad out there.”

“Not so bad,” Ivy answered for Jane, looking around. At that moment Ginny appeared at Daniel's arm. Ivy looked confused to see her. “Don't I . . . ?”

“Know me?” Ginny laughed. “I waited on you at lunch last week. I'm also”—she put her arm lovingly around Daniel's waist—“this handsome man's girlfriend.”

“Ah,” Ivy said. “Will you be teaching too?”

“No,” Ginny scoffed. “I'm just along for the ride.”

“Like my Johnny,” Ivy said.

Ginny looked surprised. “Your boyfriend? He's coming here?”

“Mm-hm,” Ivy responded smugly. “Should be here anytime now.”

“I'd better say hello to the others,” Jane said. She spotted another of her instructors, Arliss Krauss, standing nearby, chatting with an older man. Jane approached them.

Arliss, a senior editor at Millennium House, a publisher with which Jane had done a good bit of business, seemed pleased to see Jane, though with the habitually dour, deadpan Arliss, that wasn't saying much. She actually smiled a little as she greeted Jane, who noticed that Arliss was dressed for the lodge in brown wool slacks and a pretty tan corduroy shirt with the tails out.

“Good to see you, Arliss. Thanks so much for agreeing to do this at such short notice.”

“No problem,” Arliss said in her monotone voice. She turned to the man with whom she'd been chatting. He looked about sixty. He was tall and slim, with neatly trimmed graying brown hair. Jane saw kindness in the brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Jane Stuart,” Arliss said, “I'd like you to meet Brad Franklin.”

So this was Brad Franklin. When Jane recruited Arliss, Arliss had recommended Brad, one of her authors, as an instructor. Brad, she told Jane, had written several novels under his own name but now made a handsome living ghostwriting novels for celebrities.

Brad said, “A pleasure, Jane,” and shook her hand warmly. “Thanks for having me.”

“Thank
you
for coming,” Jane said, and excused herself to say hello to the others.

She decided to grab a bagel and a cup of coffee first, and made her way to the refreshment table, where Rhoda was straightening up.

“Morning, Jane darling. Glad you made it. Did you have any problems with the snow?”

“Nah. Piece of cake, ” Jane replied, smearing her bagel with cream cheese.

“Uh-uh-uh,” came a whiny voice behind her, and forcing a smile, Jane turned.

“Hello, Bertha.”

“Good to see you too, Jane.” Chubby Bertha Stumpf pursed her lips and lightly fluffed her hair, which instead of its usual wrong shade of blond was now an odd assortment of blond and brown streaks. “How do you like the do?”

“Love it, ” Jane said. “How've you been, Bertha?”

Bertha tilted her head to one side and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Okay, I suppose. You know I finally persuaded that girl to accept
Shady Lady
.”

“Oh? When was this?”

“Late Friday. She'll be calling you.”

Jane guessed Bertha had done more bullying than persuading to get Harriet Green to accept her manuscript.

“Be a doll and see if you can get her to put a rush on my acceptance check, would you?” Bertha said.

Jane gave her a tight smile. “I'll see what I can do.”

“We're going to have to have a serious talk about her, Jane. I can't go on with Bantam if they make me work with this girl.”

“Stop calling her a girl, Bertha. She's a woman. She's also a very fine editor. And I'm afraid I won't be able to discuss your work here. We're here for the retreat, remember?”

Bertha clamped her mouth shut, as if a fury were building. “Of course I remember, Jane, I'm here because you asked me to be here. And let me tell you, getting out here from New York City was no easy game. Anyway, what I meant was that we could maybe discuss my career in our down moments—you know, when we're not teaching. Surely we won't be teaching every minute.”

My career
. . . If Bertha had used those words once since Jane had begun representing her five years earlier, she'd used them a hundred times. “You're right,” Jane said placatingly. “I'm sure we'll find time to talk in our down moments. Oh,” she said, pointing across the room. “There's Vick Halleran. Excuse me, I have to say hello to him.”

“Okay,” Bertha said, though her tone made it clear she felt it was not okay at all.

Tough,
Jane thought, making her way toward Vick.

Though Jane had never represented V. Sam Halleran, they traveled in the same circles and she had known him for years. Kenneth had also known and liked Vick, as his friends called him. Soft-spoken and self-effacing, short and plump, he was considered a guru of fiction writing. He traveled around the country almost constantly, presenting seminars and workshops, and had also published several best-selling books for writers.

“Jane,” he cried, smiling sweetly, and they embraced. “You're looking wonderful, as beautiful as always.” He took in her flowing mane. “Love that red hair,” he said with gusto.

“Thanks, but it's auburn,” she replied with a laugh. “Where's Jennifer?”

“Not sure,” he said, and he and Jane scanned the crowd.

To Jane's surprise, Vick's wife, Jennifer Castaneda, had also agreed to serve as an instructor. Jennifer was a writer of Latina romance novels. She was, in fact, the leading writer of these novels, with four back-to-back
New York Times
best-sellers to her credit.

“There she is,” Vick said, spotting her by one of the doorways to the reception room. “Jen—”

Jennifer looked up and smiled at them both. Some said the olive-skinned beauty was worthy of Hollywood, perhaps to star in a film version of one of her own novels, and looking at her now, Jane had to agree. Jennifer's rich brown hair was pulled back from her flawless brow, accentuating her large dark eyes, slightly tip-tilted nose, and over-full pink lips. A snug linen jumpsuit in a becoming shade of celery accentuated her ample curves.

“Jane,” she said in her breathy little-girl voice, approaching them. She kissed Jane on the cheek and embraced her. She smelled of jasmine.

“You're looking as gorgeous as ever,” Jane said.

“You too,” Jennifer said with a modest laugh. She pointed toward the doorway where Vick had spotted her. “I was just talking to one of the students. Come on, I'll introduce you.”

Jane followed Jennifer, who Jane realized hadn't involved her husband at all in the conversation. Glancing behind her, Jane saw him trailing along. Jennifer approached a good-looking black-haired man in his mid-twenties. Of medium height, he was exceptionally slight, with effete, almost feminine features.

“Jane Stuart,” Jennifer said, “this is Paul Kavanagh.”

Paul's face lit up at the mention of Jane's name. He took Jane's hand and brought it to his lips. “It is an honor.”

“Oh, my,” Jane said with an embarrassed giggle. “Thanks very much.”

“No, I must thank you.” He came closer—too close for Jane's comfort. “When Adam told our group you had agreed to run this retreat,” he said softly, “I couldn't believe my good fortune. You know, I've submitted my work to you a number of times, only to have you reject it.” He lowered his gaze in desolation.

Jane felt herself flush. “I'm terribly sorry . . .”

“No, no,” he said, putting up his hand. “You were absolutely right in your assessment. This week, however, I think you'll be quite impressed with what I've got to offer.”

Already Jane couldn't stand this little twerp. “I'm sure I will,” she said, hating herself for being such a phony, “though I must warn you, as I'll warn all the others, I'm not currently taking on any new clients.” A lie, but a necessary one if she was to avoid awkward situations like this one.

Paul gave her a conspiratorial wink. “You have to say that; I understand. But wait until you see my work.”

Jane told him it was nice to have met him, and couldn't get away quickly enough.

Vick came close to speak to her. “You did the right thing, telling him you're not taking on new clients. Otherwise every one of these people would be after you at the end of the retreat.”

“I think this one will be after me anyway.”

“Don't worry,” Vick said. “I'll make sure he understands.”

She thanked him and, turning away, caught Jennifer rolling her eyes at what Vick had just said. Jane, pretending she hadn't seen this, looked briskly about her. “Now, who else should I meet?”

“You can meet me,” came a husky, rather coarse female voice from behind her. Jane spun around.

A tall, willowy woman with long ash-blond hair parted in the middle and a large beak of a nose walked straight up to Jane and put out her hand. “I'm your next million-dollar client.”

Before Jane could react, the woman burst into raucous laughter. “I'm kidding. I'll be some other agent's first million-dollar client. I just heard you say you're not taking on anybody new.”

“Right,” Jane said. “And you are ... ?”

“Carla Santino.” She put out her hand and held Jane's in a viselike grip. “Waitress by day, future best-selling novelist by night.”

“Waitress . . . Don't you—”

“Look familiar? Probably. I work at the Shady Hills Diner on Route Forty-six. I've probably waited on the whole town as some point or another. But I don't intend to be there much longer.”

“Well, good for you,” Jane said, eager to get away from Carla. Carla herself provided the getaway, pointing to a petite, mousy-looking woman who stood a couple of yards away, her hands clasped demurely in front of her, watching them. “Ellyn, get over here.”

The mousy woman walked in tiny steps toward them and stopped. She wore a plain black skirt and a pink stretch blouse. Her curly dark hair looked as if it hadn't had the benefit of a good haircut in years. She looked, it occurred to Jane, not unlike a brunette Harpo Marx.