Icing Ivy (5 page)

L
ater that afternoon, as Jane left her room to go downstairs for dinner, Ivy emerged from her and Johnny's room directly across the hall.

“Johnny's changing. He'll be along in a few minutes.” Ivy looked put out about something, her brow creased in a deep frown.

“Is something wrong, Ivy?”

Ivy sneezed.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks. It's that awful man, Brockman.”

“The caretaker? What about him?”

“He's impossible. Tell me something. Do you have wreaths in your room?”

“Wreaths? Yes, they're very pretty, aren't they? A nice holiday touch.”

“I suppose they're pretty, but I'm allergic to them. I started sneezing the minute I got into my room. So after lunch I called down to ask that they be removed.”

“And what happened?”

“Adam said he would send up this Brockman creature. About an hour later, he banged on the door. When I told him what I wanted, he said—I swear—that he was too busy to take them down and that I should do it myself. Can you believe that?”

They headed down the stairway to the left of Jane's door. “That is rather rude,” Jane said, surprised. “But not the end of the world, right?” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, they crossed the lounge and entered the conference room, where it seemed most of the others had already gathered.

“I mean,” Ivy went on, apparently unable to let go of this issue, “how much trouble is it to take down two wreaths?”

“True,” Jane said reasonably. “Which means it wouldn't have been a lot of trouble for you.”

“Jane, that is not the point, and you know it. I am
allergic,
first of all. Disturbing the wreaths would have set me off sneezing all over again. Second, guests shouldn't have to do things like that—at least, not in good hotels.”

“We're in Mt. Munsee Lodge, Ivy, not The Plaza. Why didn't you ask Johnny to take the wreaths down?”

Ivy didn't answer.

They were passing Tamara Henley at this point. She looked up. “Did you say wreaths?” she drawled. “Have you got those awful things in your room, too?”

“Yes,” Ivy burst out, clearly glad to have a sympathizer. “A red one on the closet door and a green one on the door to the bathroom. Stink to high heaven—I'm allergic to them. The green one has some of that smelly eucalyptus in it. What do I look like, a koala?”

“Well, to tell you the truth . . .” Jane said, and burst out laughing.

“Oh, Jane,” Ivy said. “You used to say that to me in school. Remember? You were always teasing me like that.” She pushed out her bottom lip. “I'm about to cry.”

“Me too,” Jane said with a sniff, remembering their carefree college days. They seemed a lifetime ago. The two women had been so full of hope then; it seemed they could have anything they put their minds to. Now, looking back, Jane reflected that she had achieved much of what she had wanted: a fulfilling career, a husband who loved her, a beautiful child. Ivy had none of that, none of her dreams. Tears came to Jane's eyes.

“You
are
crying,” Ivy said.

Tamara threw down her napkin in disgust. “Oh, really. Please, ladies, not at dinner.”

Jane laughed through her tears and nodded.

“My wreaths are both green,” Tamara said. “Tackiest things I've ever seen. Like some hideous Christmas card or something.”

Jane looked across the table and saw Adam, who had apparently overheard this exchange, frowning.

“I asked the caretaker to remove them,” Ivy told Tamara, “and he wouldn't. He was already at my door, but he refused to take them down. Can you believe such insolence?”

“I suppose I can live with mine, bad as they are,” Tamara said with a languid wave, but Ivy had turned away.

Johnny had entered the room. He looked extremely handsome in a charcoal sport jacket over black slacks and a black silk T-shirt. Ivy's face bloomed in an expectant smile as she watched him make his way around the table. When he reached Carla, he stopped and she looked up, the corners of her lips turned up in the tiniest of smirks. Ever so lightly, his hand brushed her shoulder. Then he moved on, heading for the side of the table where Ivy stood.

Ginny, bearing a platter of roast chicken, stopped and spoke softly to Jane: “Ivy had better watch out or she's going to lose him. If she hasn't already.”

Taking her seat, Jane found herself deeply troubled by what she had seen and by Ginny's remark. Poor Ivy had been hurt or disappointed by men all her life, beginning with her father, who had walked out on her mother when Ivy was thirteen. Ira, Ivy's ex-husband, had had affair after affair during their marriage and then abandoned her as well, leaving Ivy to raise their daughter, Marlene, alone. Jane didn't want Ivy to be hurt again.

But Jane saw no way to prevent it if it was going to happen, especially when she saw Ivy watching Johnny make his way toward her, a hurt expression on her face.

Later, as dinner was ending, Tom Brockman appeared in the doorway from the lounge. He wore a bulky down parka that appeared soaked through. The room grew quiet.

“Snow's stopped,” he droned. “But the bridge collapsed under the weight.” There was a quick collective intake of breath. “Was tryin' to drive down into town for supplies. Nearly drove into the gorge.”

Everyone broke into animated chatter.

“What are we going to do?” Arliss said in her droning voice that was not unlike Brockman's.

“Yes,” Paul Kavanagh chimed in, “this is terrifying.”

Adam rose from his chair. “People, people—please. There's nothing to worry about. There's another road. It's old and hasn't been used in a while, but it's there, and it goes down the other side of the mountain. I'll arrange for it to be plowed, but it will take a while. In the meantime, we've got plenty of food and supplies. So let's just enjoy our retreat, shall we?” He shot Tom Brockman a withering look.

“This is unacceptable,” Ivy said to Jane a few minutes later in the lounge, where they sat side by side on a sofa.

Jane laughed. “Why, have you got someplace to go?”

“No, you know I haven't. It's just that we're . . .
stranded
here. What if there's an emergency and one of us needs to get down the mountain?” Ivy's eyes widened. “What if
you
need to get home because something has happened to Nick, heaven forbid.”

“Calm down, all will be fine. Have a seat. The group reading is starting soon.”

Ivy sat, twisting her fingers in her lap.

“Ivy,” Jane said in a low voice, unsure how to begin. “Is Johnny . . . I mean, do you think he's really right for you?”

Ivy turned and looked at Jane as if she'd gone mad. “What are you talking about?”

“I don't know. It's just that he seems, well, interested in other women. Do you think he's really committed to you?”

“Oh, Jane,” Ivy said solemnly, “absolutely. Johnny loves me as much as I love him. I know I haven't always had very good judgment in men, but of this I am sure. Johnny adores me. I do intend to have a heart-to-heart with him, though. I mean, he is a man,” she said with a little laugh, rolling her eyes skyward. “I don't expect him to ignore a beautiful woman when he sees one, but he's got to be more discreet about it. Keep it to himself, you know?”

Jane nodded uneasily, her lower lip between her teeth. Looking around the lounge, she noted that Johnny was absent.

She directed her attention to Ellyn Bass, who stood at the front of the room, having bravely volunteered to be the first to read from her work-in-progress.

It was a historical romance set in eighteenth-century Scotland. In this scene, the hero was about to make love to a woman other than the book's heroine.

“Oh, no,” Bertha suddenly blurted out, standing. “Cut. Unh-unh. No can do.”

Ellyn gaped at her.

“You see,” Bertha said, addressing the entire group, “in a historical romance, once the hero and heroine meet, they will fight, come together, be thrust apart—the natural rhythm of love—but the hero must
never
,
never
sleep with another woman.”

“That's a crock,” Jennifer Castaneda, sitting at the other end of the room, said matter-of-factly, and everyone grew very still. “Maybe in your books, Berth—”

“Rhonda,” Bertha corrected her quickly. She never used her real name in public.

“
Rhon
da,” Jennifer said, rolling her eyes. “But that's all so . . . eighties.”

“Eighties!” Bertha's face grew red beneath its streaked blond crown. “I'll have you know that I am a bigger name now than I was in the eighties. To what do you attribute that?”

“People are ridiculously loyal to the oldies. I don't follow any of those silly rules in my books, and I think you'll find they're outselling yours.”

Jane looked on, horrified, as if she were watching a car wreck.

“I think
you'll
find you're wrong,” Bertha said viciously. “Besides, your books aren't even historicals, they're contemporaries—Hispanic contemporaries.”

“
Latina
.
La-ti-na
contemporaries. That's the whole point. I'm writing what readers want today—a good story, without those foolish category rules.”

“Category!”

Adam jumped up. “Now, now, ladies,” he said with a laugh, his face an even deeper red than Bertha's, “I think everyone here agrees that you are both giant names in your field.”

“Oh, she's a giant all right,” Jennifer said.

Brad Franklin let out a guffaw, and Bertha turned livid eyes on him. His face grew instantly serious.

Adam cleared his throat loudly and addressed Ellyn with a wan smile. “You should be very proud that your book has been able to arouse such controversy already.”

“That's right, Ellyn,” Jennifer said, “you write 'em how you want. Your readers will love you for it. Before you know it, you'll be the next . . . Bertha Stumpf!”

William Ives, looking shrunken in the corner, said, “Who's Bertha Stumpf?”

Bertha surveyed the group in horror. “Well, I— I'm certainly not—” And she stomped out of the room.

“Good,” Jennifer cried triumphantly. “Now we can continue without any more interruptions.”

Ellyn chose not to read any further. Paul Kavanagh read next from his novel, an artsy coming-of-age story about a boy who, fearing he might be gay, went to see his priest.

“Ha,” Ivy burst out.

“Ivy,” Jane whispered fiercely.

“I'm sorry,” Ivy called to Paul. “It just strikes me as funny.”

Paul glared at her, openmouthed. “What's funny about it?”

“It's so obvious the boy is you.”

Without a word, Paul turned and left the room.

Rhoda jumped up from her chair. “People, people, listen to me. We can't do this. We have to be considerate of one another's feelings or this isn't going to work. Constructive criticism only, please. Delivered . . . sensitively.”

“Excu-u-use
me,”
Ivy said.

Tom Brockman appeared at the side of the room and motioned to Adam, who got up and followed Tom into the reception room. As Carla Santino read from her mainstream women's novel, the sounds of Tom and Adam arguing heatedly could be clearly heard.

Forty-five minutes later, Jane, utterly exhausted, rose at the end of the group reading. Daniel and Ginny approached her.

“That was . . . interesting,” Daniel said with a wicked grin. “Do you think Bertha will be all right?”

“Of course,” Jane blustered. “She throws hissy fits like that all the time and forgets about them the next day. You two want to come up to my room for some coffee?”

“Sure,” Ginny and Daniel said, and so did Ivy, suddenly standing at Jane's elbow. Jane would rather have taken a break from Ivy, but she saw no way to exclude her, so the four of them went to Jane's room, where she made coffee in the Mr. Coffee machine on the dresser.

Ivy took the chair behind the desk in the corner of the room, Jane dropped into the armchair, and Ginny and Daniel sat on the bed.

“This is all turning out pretty awful, isn't it?” Ivy said, and they all turned to look at her. “I mean, first the bridge collapsing, then that horrible reading just now. And then that repulsive Red Pearson made not one but two passes at me. What would ever make him think I'd be interested in
him?
Bald as a cue ball,” she muttered.

Jane thought of suggesting that perhaps Red had noticed Johnny's interest in Carla and therefore deduced that Ivy was available, but of course Jane restrained herself.

“You know who's awfully sweet, though?” Ivy went on. “That little William Ives. Isn't he the cutest thing?”

Ginny looked aghast. “You mean that shriveled-up man with the skinny head?” She shuddered.

“Oh, come on, Ginny. Make believe he's your grandfather.”

“My grandfather happens to be an exceptionally handsome man.”

“You're being very . . . superficial—yes, that's the word. I think he's sweet, that's all. I also,” Ivy went on, leaning forward a little, “had a very interesting chat with that Brad Franklin, the ghostwriter.
Very
interesting.”

“How so?” Jane asked. “What did he say?”

“Never you mind,” Ivy replied smugly.

Jane was about to object to Ivy's sudden discretion when there was a violent knock on the door. Jane hurried to open it and found Rhoda standing in the corridor. She bustled in, obviously disturbed about something.