The Man Plan (14 page)

Ivy parked the car and studied the house and the two acres that surrounded it. Heirloom trees and mature bushes graced the grounds. Leather-leafed hydrangeas festooned with dish-sized mop heads of snowy white and pastel pink surrounded the house while masses of lilacs, forsythia, and nose-sweet mock orange carried a glory of texture and fragrance into the yard beyond.

A plain shell path wound through the yard like a foamy white ribbon cast adrift in a sea of color. Flowers of every height and variety, hundreds of delicate blooms, lifted their velvety faces to the sun. Toward the west, neat rows of vegetables thrived on hearty green vines sprung from the black fertile earth: pole beans, tomatoes, squash, eggplant, and onions, each ripening in their own way and time.

In the heart of it all stood Caroline—a wraith dressed in a floppy brimmed straw hat and a gauzy pink dress, her skin as pale as the path on which she stood. Caroline lifted a gloved, soil-stained hand to shade her eyes as Ivy stepped from the car.

Ivy was glad Madelyn had warned her what to expect. Her face would surely have given her away, so shocked was she at the dramatic changes the past few months had wrought in her sister-in-law.

Ivy lifted a hand and waved.

Caroline waved back, a smile of welcome curving her pretty bow-shaped mouth. She dusted garden loam from her gloved fingers, drew off the gloves, then stepped forward. “You’re here. How was your trip?”

Ivy joined her near a massing of tall, cinnamon-
tipped orange daylilies and purple coneflowers. “Great. It’s a nice day for a drive.”

She wrapped her arms around her sister-in-law, finding hard-edged bone where there should have been the soft give of flesh. She willed herself not to stiffen, continued the hug an extra second in unspoken apology.

When she pulled away, she glimpsed the thin, dull wisps of tawny hair Caroline had tucked up underneath her hat—hair that had always been glossy and thick, her one true vanity.

How it must pain her to watch it come out in clumps in her comb,
Ivy thought.

She met Caroline’s eyes, finding them the same as ever, soft and sweet as warmed caramel. She smiled and took Caroline’s hand to give a loving squeeze. “How are you?”

“Not dead yet.”

Ivy felt her eyes widen.

Caroline relented. “Sorry. Cancer humor. P.G. doesn’t care for it either. A bad habit I’ve picked up recently at the hospital when I go in for my treatments. You get to know the other patients, and some of them are pretty blunt.”

“That’s okay. I, for one, am glad you’re not dead yet.”

Caroline laughed, the tension broken.

Ivy stepped back to survey the yard. “The place looks wonderful. Anything ripe yet in your garden?”

Caroline looked over her shoulder with obvious pride. “A mouthful of beans and some tomatoes, I
think. The rest is still coming on. I’ll pack a basket for you to take back.”

“Oh, now, don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. You know how I love the garden. Any chance I get to work in it is a pleasure. Besides, it takes my mind off things.”

Ivy paused, unsure whether to pursue the opening. “So where are the kids?”

“At the grocery with P.G. and Laura. I don’t do much of the marketing anymore.” She laid a hand across her stomach. “The chemo makes me too nauseated to get in and out of the store in one piece.” She glanced down the driveway as they strolled toward the house. “They should be back soon. Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure. It’s hot out here under the sun. But let me get it. I’ve been in your house often enough to know where things are.”

They mounted the steps to the covered wraparound porch. Ivy motioned Caroline toward a grouping of comfortable outdoor furniture. “Sit in the shade and I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Caroline agreed. “Just a little cool water for me.”

Ivy returned shortly, carrying two tall glasses of chilled water. Caroline’s eyes were closed, an expression of weariness on her face.

“Here you go,” Ivy said with false brightness.

Long moments passed as they sipped their drinks, listened to the rhythmic rise and fall of cicadas humming in the underbrush.

Ivy set down her glass, which was beaded with condensation from the heat. “So, how are you really?”

Caroline met her look. “Not so bad. The doctors think this second round of chemotherapy and radiation should do the trick. Only a few more weeks; then I can start to feel like myself again. Start eating again, hopefully in time to enjoy a little of the produce I’ve been working so hard to grow.”

Ivy listened to her words but saw the shadow in Caroline’s eyes, suspected she felt far worse than she let on. “You should have told us, you know,” she reproved gently.

“Don’t you start in on me too. I’ve already received a thorough scolding from your mother.” She sighed. “I didn’t want you worrying, the way you’re all doing now. Even if I’d told you, what could you have done?”

“Been there for you, to help you in any way you needed.”

“But you’re always there for me,” Caroline said with a gentle smile. “You always have been. That’s the great thing about this family. We all stick up for each other.”

Ivy nodded. “Yeah, we do.”

Caroline reached out and wrapped her fingers around Ivy’s wrist, her voice serious. “Ivy, there is one thing. If I don’t make it. If I—”

Ivy cut her off before she could finish. “Don’t talk that way. Of course you’re going to make it. You’re only thirty-four. You’ve got lots of years left.”

“I pray you’re right, but if you’re not and the worst happens, promise me you’ll look after P.G. and the children. Oh, not all the time,” she amended at Ivy’s
obvious look of dismay, “just often enough to see they’re getting on with their lives, finding some happiness along the way.”

Caroline’s eyes gleamed bright with intensity. “Especially P.G. Don’t let him grieve forever. The children are young. They’ll need a mother. A woman who’ll love them as if they were her own. And P.G. will need a wife. He’s the kind of man who’s better off in a comfortable, settled relationship.”

“Which he already has with you.”

Caroline ignored her, released her grip. “He’s stubborn as all the rest of you, and I worry he’ll cut himself off, crawl into his work, and withdraw in a way that isn’t healthy.” In her lap, she began to clench and unclench her too-thin hand. “He deserves to be happy. He deserves to be loved.”

“And he will be, happy and loved. By you. Because you’re going to be here with him. With your children, to see them grow to adulthood. You’re going to finish out these dreadful treatments and get strong again, healthy again.”

Caroline refused to relent. “Promise me you’ll do this.”

Uncomfortable, Ivy shifted. “Why me? Madelyn’s his twin. Wouldn’t she be a better choice? Or Brie? She’s closer to him than I am.”

“That’s exactly why. They’re too close. You and P.G. love each other as brother and sister, but the years between you force some distance, some objectivity. You’ll be able to view things through calm eyes.” Caroline drew a ragged breath. “You’re a good judge of
character. You’ll know if the woman he’s with is the right one for him. Help me make him happy. Do this for me, Ivy. Promise me you will.”

Caroline’s making a mistake,
Ivy thought.
Why pick me?

She didn’t have any influence over her brother, certainly not in a matter as serious as this. How on earth was she supposed to respond?

Ivy frowned. “I don’t know. I—”

Caroline’s face fell. “That’s all right. I understand. It’s too much to ask.”

“It
is
a lot to ask.” She looked at Caroline—at her friend and sister—who wanted, needed, the comfort of this request. How could she possibly deny her, regardless of her reservations? “All right. If you’re really sure, then I’ll do it.”

Caroline brightened. “Really? Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. Though I still think you could choose someone better for the job.”

“There is no one better.” Caroline covered Ivy’s hand again and squeezed. “Thank you.”

They were discussing Caroline’s latest book—she’d long ago established herself as a successful children’s author—when a wine-colored minivan pulled into the driveway.

The doors slid open, and out scrambled a pair of children, followed by a coal black Scottie dog who raced around the vehicle, emitting a trio of exuberant barks.

P.G. exited next, his wavy russet hair glinting like fire beneath the strong summer sun.

From the passenger’s side, Laura Grayson emerged: vivacious, blond, and energetic as ever at fifty-seven.

The kids pounded up the steps.

Heather, the younger one at four, looked adorable in a pink jumper embroidered with plump red strawberries. A crisp matching ribbon was threaded through her silky auburn curls. She leaped at Ivy for hugs and kisses, chattering about the present Grammy had bought her—a stuffed white toy cat.

Long and lanky, Brian hung back, reluctant at seven to participate in any overt displays of affection. Huggy-kissy stuff was for girls and wimps, he would say; everybody knew that.

But Ivy ignored his male stubbornness and pulled him into her arms for a hard embrace. He resisted for a few seconds, then pressed close, winding his slender boy’s arms around her waist. Eyes closed, he turned his face into the warmth of her stomach.

She gazed down, brushed a lock of brown hair off his forehead, noting how much he’d grown since they’d last met. He had his mother’s eyes, she saw as he tipped back his head—that same warm melting caramel. In them she glimpsed trouble, worry a boy his age shouldn’t have to bear.

He knows,
Ivy thought.
He understands how seriously ill his mother is.

She wanted to reassure him, tell him everything would be all right. That the only fear he need face was worrying how far he’d hit the ball the next time he came up to bat in his Little League game.

But she couldn’t.

No one could.

Brian pulled away and went to stand next to
Caroline as Ivy exchanged kisses with her mother, then hugs with her brother.

Tall and broad-chested, P.G. looked his usual robust self except for the lines across his high forehead, grooves grown deeper with recent worry. They deepened more as he cast concerned eyes over his beloved wife.

“I told P.G. to hurry,” Laura said to Ivy, “knowing you must have arrived by now. But the stores were packed and the roads were a nightmare. I’ve come to make dinner for everyone—baked pork chops with apples and mashed potatoes. I phoned your father. He should be along soon.”

Heather wandered up and climbed into Caroline’s lap to share her toy cat with her mother. Caroline played with one of her daughter’s long curls, listening to the childish prattle, sudden weariness hanging over her like a shroud.

“Need help carrying in groceries?” Ivy asked, stepping toward her brother.

P.G. stood for a moment as if he hadn’t heard, then gave a stiff nod. “Thanks. Mom just about bought out the store.”

Laura laughed, determined to remain upbeat despite the wrenching byplay they’d all been witness to. “Oh, I left one or two items behind, including that very fine jar of mustard you refused to let me buy. Cruel boy.”

P.G. set his hands on his hips. “Fifteen dollars for mustard? Even James wouldn’t splurge on that, and he can buy anything on earth.”

Ivy jolted at her brother’s casual mention of James, making her realize she hadn’t thought about him more than once or twice in the past hour. Preoccupied, she nearly missed P.G.’s next remark.

“He’s coming up on Sunday for a visit.” P.G. opened the rear door of the van, hefted out two bags of groceries. “He wants to treat us all to brunch at the country club, if Caro’s up to it.” He flicked a concerned glance over at his wife. “Maybe you should stay the weekend, Ivy. Tag along in case Caro and I can’t make it. You and James, and Mom and Dad, could take the kids.”

Stay and see James on Sunday? Sit through brunch with him in front of her family and endure the agony of pretending nothing had happened between them?

“No, I can’t,” she blurted before she had a chance to give in to her brother’s wishes. “I . . . I’ve made plans and have to get back. I’m sorry.”

P.G. frowned but didn’t argue. “Okay. It was just a suggestion. Maybe next time.”

She gave a wide, noncommittal smile, then leaned into the van for a bag of groceries.

J
ames stayed away for a week.

Initially, he’d told himself it wouldn’t be a problem having Ivy out of his life. It wasn’t as if she’d been around much over the years, certainly not on a day-to-day basis as she’d been this summer.

But as the week wore on, he found himself thinking about her.

At work and at home.

In the morning and afternoon and evening.

Especially in the evening, when he lay alone in his big bed and remembered their night together.

There’d been only the one night, yet he couldn’t get their lovemaking out of his mind. Worse, he dreamed about her, waking up aching and stiff with unsatisfied desire. He told himself such inappropriate appetites would fade; all he needed was time.

Spending the day around her family on Sunday didn’t help matters. Seeing Caroline so ill made him
sad, even after she agreed to visit an internationally renowned specialist he recommended.

Entertaining thoughts about Ivy made him feel guilty. And when the conversation at lunch turned in her direction, it became impossible to get Ivy off his mind.

He’d been shocked and displeased when he’d learned about her decision to move out of her Upper West Side digs and in with her slum-dwelling, bohemian friends. As he’d listened to her parents voice their confusion and distress, he’d sat mute and scowling, fully aware that he was the reason Ivy was moving.

He couldn’t let her go through with it, which was his excuse today for breaking his self-imposed exile and going to see her.

Her door stood open when he arrived, propped wide with a stacked pair of packing boxes. His jaw tightened as he raised a hand to knock. “Hello,” he called.

Moments later, a man appeared in the living room. He stopped and raised an expressive tawny eyebrow.

James remembered him from the party—Neil something-or-other, Ivy’s friend.

They stared at each other for a long unblinking moment, like a pair of boxers measuring their best chance to get in a punch.

James cut through the silence. “Is Ivy here?”

Neil’s lip curled. “Yeah, she’s here.” He crossed his arms and moved to block the entrance. “But I don’t think she wants to see you.”

James stepped forward, looking down from his superior height. “Why don’t we let her decide that?”

“And why don’t you—”

“Neil, who’s at the door?” Ivy walked out of her studio, a set of canvases in her hands. She stopped amid the half dozen packing boxes that littered her foyer and living room. A mild sawdust smell hung in the air, big sheets of packing paper lying in a bundle on the floor.

“James,” she said, setting the canvases against the wall.

“Hey.” He tucked his hands into his pockets and stepped forward, bypassing Neil. “So what’s all this about? Looks like you’re moving.”

“Gee, he’s a bright one, isn’t he?” Neil quipped.

Ivy turned a reproving look on her friend.

James enjoyed a short-lived gloat before she turned her sights back on him. His instant of satisfaction abruptly disappeared.

Neil eyed the pair of them, then bent to lift a box. “I’ll take this one down to the truck. Then I think I’ll walk over to Starbucks for a half-caf Caramel Macchiato. You want me to bring you something back, cupcake?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine. Take as much time as you’d like.”

Neil shot James a warning scowl, then walked out.

James waited until the other man had gone and folded his arms over his chest. “So? Let’s hear it.”

She raked a thumbnail over the seam of her jeans pocket. “Hear what? I’m sure my parents have already told you everything.”

“They told me enough. They’re both quite upset about this move of yours. I wasn’t very happy to hear about it either.”

She swiveled abruptly, crossed to a display of knickknacks arranged on one of the living room bookshelves. She moved an empty box into place, picked up a sheet of newsprint, and began to wrap breakables. “Is that the reason you came down here? To talk sense into me?”

“Yes, since you’re apparently in need of some.”

She shot him a defiant glare. “Then you can turn right around and go home. I already took an earful from my parents. I don’t need you ragging on me too.”

He worked to control his temper. “I’m not here to
rag
on you. I’m here to stop you from making a huge mistake.”

She shoved a paper-wrapped ceramic dog into the box, started on another piece. “My decision to move is not a mistake, and I don’t need your advice, however well intentioned it might be.”

“Ivy . . . what do you want to do this for? You’re comfortable here in this apartment. You’re safe and you have the luxury of time to paint. You won’t if you move out. You won’t if you toss aside your parents’ financial help.”

“I’ll get a job.”

“Doing what? Some low-paying retail job that’ll eat up all your time and energy? You want to paint. Stay here and paint. Take advantage of your parents’ generosity.”

She shook her head. “And your generosity as well. I know you had something to do with my living here. I was willing to let it go until now because . . . well, just because.” She tucked another paper-wrapped figurine
into the box, then turned to face him. “I should never have moved in here in the first place. I should have done what I’d planned—stood on my own two feet without anyone’s aid or assistance. You said yourself I need more experience. Well, I’m going to get some.”

He stepped nearer, careful to leave a good three feet of space between them. He couldn’t risk giving in to the urge to touch her. Whether it was to shake some sense into her or just hold her close, he wasn’t sure.

“You don’t have to do this because of me, you know,” he said, “because of something I said in the heat of the moment.”

“I’m not,” she declared, her voice filled with quiet conviction. “I’m doing it because of me.”

Ivy straightened and set her hands on her hips, suddenly aware she meant every word. She was doing this for herself.

For her pride.

For her self-esteem.

She’d told herself she was leaving because of James, but that wasn’t strictly true. She wanted him to be proud of her, wanted him to see her as a woman worthy of his admiration, his love. But more, she wanted to see those things for herself, in herself. She wanted to know she could be the independent, self-reliant woman she’d always imagined she would one day be. She wanted to know she could succeed.

“But you can’t leave,” he blurted.

A flicker of hope sprang to life inside her. An insane wish that he’d pull her into his arms and beg her to stay because he needed her. That he’d tell her he’d been
wrong to toss her aside. That being without her had made him realize how much he truly loved her.

“Why not?” she murmured, her body softening.

He looked at her for another moment, then crossed his arms. “Because I promised your parents I’d watch over you. How can I do that if you’re not even living in Manhattan anymore?”

His words struck her like a faceful of ice water.

What a stupid, sappy fool I am,
she thought.

She turned away. “I need to finish packing.” She reached for another knickknack, barely feeling it in her hand. “I’m only taking a few of my things. The rest will need to go into storage, including most of the furniture. It won’t fit in my new place. I’ll make arrangements to have it moved.”

“The lease is good for a while, so just leave everything. You’ll be back.”

“No, I won’t.”

His arms dropped to his sides. “Ivy, what can I do to make you change your mind?”

She met his eyes, reading his frustration and feeling her own in return.

If you don’t know,
she thought,
maybe there is no hope for us, after all.

“Nothing,” she murmured with an ache in her chest. “Nothing at all.”

*   *   *

Her mood melancholy, Ivy strolled along Fifth Avenue, one of the midweek multitude that hurried up and down the city sidewalks. Using a bit of skillful maneuvering, she eased out of the rush and slowed to peer at
a window display of elegant leather handbags. A month ago she would have gone inside without a thought and treated herself to one of the store’s new collection.

A cute little bag in brilliant cherry red beckoned to her through the glass.

Come in
, it whispered.

Take me home
, it urged in a seductive, enchanting voice.

But with no job and no income, the expense was out of the question. There were always her credit cards. . . . But no, she’d promised herself she’d use them only for emergencies. A new purse, however gorgeous it might be, was not an emergency.

She turned, forced herself to walk on.

She missed her old Upper West Side apartment; she was honest enough with herself to admit it. The space, the solitude, the amenities—like a shower that didn’t run out of hot water halfway through and walls thick enough that you couldn’t hear the guy upstairs peeing and flushing every morning at six a.m.

Her new roommates were great though, including Fred, who’d apologized for his drunken behavior the night of the Fourth. He’d told her he’d still like to be more than friends but that he’d keep his hands to himself unless she gave him the go-ahead. The next move, he’d told her with a wink and a grin, was strictly up to her. She’d laughed at his harmless flirting, relieved to know he remained heart-whole and that she wouldn’t have to worry about him hitting on her—at least not much.

True to his word, he behaved like a perfect gentleman; they all did. As their first month together passed, her three new roommates did their best to make her feel comfortable and at home. They kept her from moping when the blues got the better of her too.

Which lately seemed to be most of the time.

If only James would quit calling to badger her about moving back. Despite the tough, independent stance she’d taken, she was weak enough to know she’d have tossed it all aside and returned if only he’d say the words she needed to hear.

Ivy, I miss you.

Ivy, I want you
.

Please come home.

Instead he spent his time lobbing arguments and questions her way.

Her parents were worried, he’d say. Her family was concerned.

Had she found a job yet?

What about her painting? Was she making any progress crammed in such a tiny space?

What about food? Was she eating right?

Was she carrying the pepper spray he’d sent over in case she was mugged?

He was worse than an overprotective brother and mother hen rolled into one.

Last night she’d had enough.

When he called, she’d refused to speak to him, leaving Josh to make an excuse. Heart aching, she’d shut herself in her room, sat on her bed in the dark, and cried.

So much for her great plans. They all seemed to be crashing down around her feet, including the one that had seemed the simplest of all—finding a job. She’d never dreamed getting work would be so hard.

Apparently, three years of liberal arts education, with a major in art history, didn’t count for much. She’d sent résumés all over town, but so far nada. No one wanted her artistic skills. And to her chagrin, she discovered she was overqualified for the most basic of positions. They wouldn’t hire her even as a waitress or a cashier.

“You’ll leave, honey,” one crusty old manager had told her as he’d handed back her application. “Why should we train you so you can leave?”

“You’ll be bored and quit in a week,” another one said, ears closed to her pleas to the contrary.

Go back to college
.

That was the refrain she’d been hearing a lot lately.

Finish your education
.

Well, I’m not going back to college,
she thought, one fist squeezed tight at her side. And she wasn’t giving up on her dreams, not any of them. She’d vowed to be independent, to make her own way, her own life. To succeed and prosper at her art. And to win the heart of the only man she would ever love, even if she had to get over the hurdle of him refusing that love. Even if he was an infuriating hardhead who made her want to clobber him and kiss him all at the same time.

No, no matter how desperate and dark things seemed, she wasn’t quitting. She couldn’t afford to quit; she had far too much to lose.

She sighed and came to a halt in front of a boutique window. She sighed again as she gazed at the beautiful designer dress on display, arranged like a slice of sky over an improbably thin mannequin.

Maybe she’d go inside to cheer herself up. She’d just browse, she promised, nothing more.

What could it hurt to look?

A small metal bell on the door tinkled as she let herself inside.

Soft and feminine, the clean, pastel decor wrapped around her like a comfortable breeze, her feet sinking into plush camel carpet as she crossed farther into the space.

Artsy glass shelves and shiny metal racks held an array of merchandise, organized into neat rows, projecting a stylish rainbow of textures and hues. A pair of large cream-colored armoires, painted in the French provincial style with masses of flowers and curling vines and leaves on their fronts, stood in opposite corners, stocked with chemises and scarves, jewelry and other small accessories. A trio of changing rooms were tucked away to one side, a counter and register on the other.

A refreshing hint of beeswax polish lingered in the air, while classical music played at a discreet, soothing volume.

The shop stood empty with the exception of a single female customer who disappeared into one of the fitting rooms. Ivy drifted toward a row of silk blouses and began to peruse the trendy collection, wondering where the shop’s clerk was.

She was eyeing a smart little skirt that would be perfect for her sister Brie when the other customer emerged from the fitting room.

“Excuse me,” the woman said, approaching. “Could you help me with this dress?”

Politely, Ivy turned to face her.

Pretty, dark-haired, well-groomed. Mid-forties, if Ivy guessed right, with a creeping spread through the middle that ruined what had once likely been a splendid figure. The frown on the woman’s forehead spoke to the vulnerability all women experience when trying on clothes, the naked uncertainty and critical self-doubt.