The Body in the Ivy (3 page)

 

“You'd better take my car, since you'll be dropping the dogs off.”

“No can do. No time.”

Phoebe James looked at her husband. Wes had been sitting in the kitchen leisurely reading both the
Times
and
Wall Street Journal
for over an hour while he ate his weekly three-minute boiled egg, accompanied by one unbuttered slice of wheat toast, half a grapefruit, and one cup of black coffee. Now he was slinging the strap of his laptop case over one shoulder and sprinting for the door.

“But if I have to take the dogs, I'll miss my plane! And the kennel is on your way!”

“Not on my way, Phebes, at least a mile
out
of my way. Have the twins do it.”

“You know the twins left for work at eight!” Phoebe felt the familiar rush of anger that seemed to accompany most of the conversations she had with her family these days. It mounted as she thought about what missing the plane would mean. All the arrangements had been made, the connections. It would mean missing the whole thing. Her week!

A week off. A week alone. Well, with some other
women, but she was sure she'd have plenty of time to herself. And she'd be out of the house. Away from everything—and everyone. She took a deep breath, a yoga cleansing breath learned during a brief try at salutations to the sun as a way to combat insomnia. It didn't work. Or rather, she didn't. Wait, “No judging”—that was what the teacher intoned several times a class. “Yoga is not about judging.” Phoebe was judging now. Judging the extremely well-preserved fifty-five-year-old corporate lawyer standing in front of her, poised in mid-flight, with a slight smile on his face. She wanted to smack it right off.

“You don't have to board the dogs. You can leave them here.” He turned away from her and put his hand on the doorknob.

“You know I can't do that. Molly and Piper would die of starvation, and poop all over the house because no one would walk them, and even if you did, they'd get away from you like that time last year. I thought we'd never see them again.”

He opened the door and stepped out into the garage. “Well, they're your dogs; do what you want.”

And he was gone.

She thought about calling the town recreation department and getting a message to the twins. They couldn't carry their cells at work. One was lifeguarding at the pool and the other coaching tennis in the day camp. Imagining the call that would follow—the reluctance displayed by whichever daughter had decided to respond—took Phoebe out of the house with the two Irish terriers and into her car. She certainly wouldn't have a good time if she had to spend it worrying about
the only creatures in her Short Hills, New Jersey, home who seemed to respond to her. Wait, her son, Josh, responded, but it wasn't the way a mother prays for, or a father, either, and that's why her son was at some wilderness camp in Colorado where they apparently had to hollow out logs, make their canoes, and carve their paddles before they could set off on a trip that cost as much as a year's tuition at college. Plus they had to cook all their meals, wash their clothes in streams while doing push-ups, and so forth. It was intended to make some kind of man out of him, but Phoebe's secret fear was that Josh would return angrier than before. Wes had arranged the whole thing and Josh was westward-bound before Phoebe had sewn one nametag on or seriously studied the brochure.

When the dogs saw where they were going, they weren't happy. Phoebe had to drag them in from the parking lot, and they complained vociferously as she left the kennel. It all took forever. She was several blocks from home when she faced the fact that there was no way she would make her flight. She was tempted to pull over and sob, but decided to wait until she reached the comfort of her own home before breaking down. She'd seen a woman crying alone in her car in the Short Hills Mall parking lot a few years ago and the image still haunted her, as well as the fact that Phoebe hadn't knocked on the window to offer help.

Pulling into her street, she was surprised to see a very shiny Lincoln Town Car parked in front of the house. Turning into the driveway, she was even more surprised to see a pleasant-looking young man in a chauffeur's
uniform get out and walk toward her. She stopped the car and rolled down the window, but didn't get out of her Mercedes wagon. He seemed an unlikely mugger or rapist, but you couldn't be too careful in this neighborhood, as the prominently displayed alarm system signs on every lawn—symbolic of the inhabitants' every worst nightmare—attested.

“Mrs. James?”

Phoebe nodded. That seemed safe enough.

“Ms. Bishop sent me. She thought it might be more convenient for you to fly from Morristown. A small plane is waiting. And she didn't want you to have to try to figure out how to get there on your own. I'll wait in the car while you finish your preparations.” He smiled.

A very pleasant face.

Phoebe got out of the car.

“I don't know what to say. You see, I'm running late and—”

“You're not running late now. Take your time. You have all the time in the world.”

She walked into the house, dazed. Her suitcases were by the door and the light raincoat she thought she'd better bring was draped across them. She'd been ready for days. Ready as soon as she got the phone call in February from a man named Owen who worked for Barbara Bailey Bishop. Phoebe was being invited to some kind of reader's focus group on the author's private island for a whole week. She didn't take in all the details, but assumed it must be because she'd graduated from Pelham. Although he hadn't mentioned Pelham. But how else would BeBe have gotten her name? Ms. Bishop was an
alum, although Phoebe didn't know which class. In the last reunion class record book—she'd never attended a reunion, but conscientiously wrote for the book every five years—Phoebe had listed the author as her favorite. Someone must have seen it and told Bishop about it. So what if it would have been more in keeping with Pelham English Department standards to list Joyce Carol Oates? Bishop might never win a National Book Award, but her words completely transported this reader from her own existence to another world, a much more interesting and ultimately satisfying one, with a frisson of danger along the way.

Phoebe picked up her bags, punched in the alarm code, and strode down the front steps. The driver immediately got out of the car and came to help her. Was this the mysterious Owen? Phoebe felt as if she were stepping into the pages of a Barbara Bailey Bishop novel, and as she leaned into the soft leather of the back seat of the car, a thought crossed her mind: how had Owen, BeBe, or whoever else was involved known Phoebe was going to miss her plane? As quickly as it came, she chased it away. Of course they would know. She was going to be taken care of this week,
her
needs anticipated and met. She sighed happily. She wouldn't need her yoga breathing—or her Zoloft—at all.

 

Christine Barker pressed the icy glass of ginger ale against her forehead. She thought these bouts were over. The first time she was sure it was some kind of food poisoning and let it go, happy to have survived. Then came the next—and the next. Then the doctors. No sign
of an ulcer, no allergies, nothing. Perhaps Ms. Barker might want to consult a different kind of doctor? Ms. Barker did not. If it were all in her head, she'd deal with it. Then the nausea, the relentless vomiting—never at the same time of day or night—stopped. Sometimes for years. Now it was back after one of those long hiatuses. Today was the third day. The day she was supposed to leave. She'd kept a few dry saltines down and this was her second glass of ginger ale. Oddly enough, she wasn't tired, although she'd slept little these last days. She felt light, cleansed—no, wrong word. Just light. “Cleansed” suggested what the doctors had intimated.

She really didn't see how she could go and was glad now she hadn't accepted all the arrangements the man Owen had proposed. She'd make her own way; she'd told him and let him know which flight she'd be on. So far she hadn't made the call. Not one way or the other.

The air inside her house was humid, heavy with the threat of summer. Although she was on the water here in the Chesapeake, it could still be brutally hot.

She stepped out onto the back porch. There was a slight breeze. She sat down in a wicker chair she'd rescued from the town dump, repaired, and painted bright blue. A soft cushion covered with a remnant of William Morris chintz from one of the fancy Georgetown decorating stores protected the backs of her legs from the uncomfortable and unattractive fretwork these chairs invariably produced.

Everything was packed. Her tools, slides, books, note cards—and a few clothes and toiletries. She
could
go if she decided to. She sipped her drink slowly, carefully. She closed her eyes and played her favorite game, “What
can I smell?” Over the years she had perfected her olfactory acumen and could sit for an hour or more isolating the fragrance of her flowers, the smell of her vegetables, herbs, the scent of the grass, the trees, the shrubs, the soil, even—occasionally—an animal. She'd turned over one of the raised beds before she got sick, and it beckoned like Odysseus' sirens with their irresistible song, “We know all things which shall be hereafter on the earth.” So apt. But the money beckoned with another chant that would have melted any wax.

She was stunned when the author Barbara Bailey Bishop's assistant had called in February and asked her to present a weeklong series of lectures on topics of her own choosing to a group of dedicated gardeners on Bishop's private island, noted for both its cultivated and wild landscapes. She had not known that Bishop, an avid gardener, was a fan of the column Christine wrote for a small gardening magazine. Yes, she'd had articles in
H&G
and some other publications, but was best known by the cognoscenti for this column, “Young Herbaceous” (no longer as appropriate as it was when she'd started it). Bishop's assistant had named a fee that instantly became a new greenhouse with all the bells and whistles. She'd said yes right away and had spent the intervening months planning the greenhouse and the talks, happily going through her slides. One would focus on Lady Salisbury, Britain's preeminent historic garden designer, who had labored for over thirty years on those of her former home, Hatfield House, a Jacobean palace. Christine had corresponded with the Dowager Marchioness for many years, and whenever Chris was in England they chatted in person, spending many golden hours
lauding organic insect control, despising pesticides, and above all, extolling the importance of talking to one's plants—
really
talking to them. Another session would focus on dirt, a marvelously complex topic dear to every true gardener's heart. Another, a full day of walking around the island, a kind of “what would you do if you were head gardener/landscaper?” day. A challenging, fun day.

The panic hadn't set in until last week when she realized that she was actually going to have to do it all. Go to a new place. Be with strangers. Talk to them. It was one thing to give a single lecture to a garden club. That was bad enough. Quite another to be the captive star attraction for an entire week.

Besides, she wasn't used to talking to that many people. Plants, yes, people, no. She took a deep breath. Her mouth and nose were filled with the scent of the garden. She picked Perdita to concentrate on, a fragrant apricot-colored rose from the British rosarian David Austin. It would continue to bloom all summer. “Rosarian,” a funny word—was Austin a Rotarian, as well? Her glass was almost empty. She stood up and stretched. Her friend Emily would keep a close eye on the garden. There, she did, too, have people to talk to besides plants.

As quickly as it came, her mysterious illness would leave her. She could feel it ebbing away now as she drained the glass of ginger ale. She would be tired for several days, but she'd be able to control the nausea by eating lightly, virtually not at all. She could pass the whole thing off as a new diet she was trying. It was a group of women. They'd understand. Probably too well.

It was almost eight o'clock. She'd be able to make the noon flight. Christine went into the house to make her call. She
had
to have that greenhouse.

 

Margaret Howard was ecstatic. At last, one of her major goals as Pelham's president was about to be fulfilled: she was going to meet Barbara Bailey Bishop and she was going to accept the author's most generous donation to date—an endowed chair plus funds for the renovation of the library's writing center, a place students went for both help and enrichment. The new center would publish a journal of student writings, accepting submissions from sister schools, as well. She glanced down at the speedometer. Whoa! She hadn't realized her little Mini-Cooper could go this fast. A meeting with the Art History Department chair, who was leaving with a group of students for a tour of Tuscany, had taken more time than Margaret had planned. She couldn't wait to get to the island. “A small house party,” Bishop's assistant, Owen, had said when he called with the news in February. He also asked that the president not make the announcement public until June, when Ms. Bishop would join her in releasing it to the press. Margaret had not even told Charles, her husband, which had not been that difficult since they tended to be like ships in the night, a commuter marriage since the beginning.

When she thought back, it seemed as if she had wanted to be president of Pelham from the moment she had stepped on campus for her admissions interview in 1964. Subconsciously at first, then with each passing year, the goal emerged from hiding until it dominated
her thoughts. Margaret had used her Pelham time as training: class president for three years, student body president her fourth, and a visibly active presence on campus continuously. Then came the period of exile as she earned her credentials and polished her C.V., each job a step higher, a step closer to the prize. When the call had come seven years ago, she was more than ready. Charles was used to being “Mr. Howard” at the various campuses along the way, showing up for photo op events and holidays. They owned a small town house near Dupont Circle; D.C. had been the base of Charles's operations since law school. Governments came and went, but both parties relied on his nonpartisan expertise in the area of international trade agreements. It wasn't a loveless marriage. They cared about each other, enjoying each spouse's successes. It was a marriage of equal partners—at least that was how Margaret viewed it—and if she sometimes smelled perfume that she knew wasn't hers in their D.C. bedroom, she never mentioned it. The arrangement suited her. She needed a consort and it wouldn't do to rock the boat.