“I was wrong, Lacey,” Tristan said. “And so were you. Ivy doesn’t see me. Ivy doesn’t see Will, either.”
“She sees Gregory,” Lacey said.
“Gregory,” he repeated bitterly. “I don’t know how I can save her now!”
In a way, dealing with Suzanne after the performance had been easier than Ivy expected. As planned earlier, Ivy met Philip and her friends by the park gate. Before she got a chance to greet them, Suzanne turned away.
Ivy reached out and touched her friend on the arm. “How did you like Will’s paintings?” she asked.
Suzanne acted as if she hadn’t heard.
“Suzanne, Ivy was wondering what you thought of Will’s paintings,” Beth said softly.
The response came slowly. “I’m sorry, Beth, what did you just say?”
Beth glanced uneasily from Suzanne to Ivy. Eric laughed, enjoying the strain between the girls. Gregory seemed preoccupied and distant from both Suzanne and Ivy.
“We were talking about Will’s paintings,” Beth prompted.
“They’re great,” Suzanne said. She had her shoulder and head turned at an angle that cut Ivy out of her view.
Ivy waited for some kids with balloons to pass, then shifted her position and made another attempt to talk to Suzanne. This time she got Suzanne’s back in her face. Beth stood between the two girls and began to chatter, as if words could fill up the silence and distance between them.
As soon as Beth paused for breath, Ivy said she had to go, so that she could get Philip to his friend’s house on time. Perhaps Philip saw and understood more than Ivy had realized. He waited until they were a block away from the others before he said, “Sammy just got back from camp and said not to come till after seven o’clock.”
Ivy laid her hand on his shoulder. “I know. Thanks for not mentioning it.”
On their way to the car, Ivy stopped at a small stand and purchased two bouquets of poppies. Philip didn’t ask her why she bought them or where they were going. Maybe he had figured that out, too.
As Ivy drove away from the festival she felt surprisingly lighter. She had tried hard to reassure Suzanne, to please her friend by keeping her distance from Gregory. She had reached out to Suzanne several times, but each time her hand had been slapped back. There was no reason to keep trying now, to keep tiptoeing around Suzanne and Gregory. Her anger turned to relief; she felt suddenly free of a burden she hadn’t wanted to carry.
“Why do we have two bouquets?” Philip asked as Ivy drove along, humming. “Is one of them going to be from me?”
He had guessed.
“Actually, they’re both from us. I thought it would be nice to leave some flowers on Caroline’s grave.”
“Why?”
Ivy shrugged. “Because she was Gregory’s mother, and Gregory has been good to both of us.”
“But she was a nasty lady.”
Ivy glanced over at him. Nasty wasn’t one of the words in Philip’s vocabulary. “What?”
“Sammy’s mother said she was nasty.”
“Well, Sammy’s mother doesn’t know everything,” Ivy replied, driving through the large iron gates.
“She knew Caroline,” Philip said stubbornly.
Ivy was aware that a lot of people hadn’t liked Caroline. Gregory himself had never spoken well of his mother.
“All right, here’s what we’ll do,” she said as she parked the car. “We’ll make one bouquet, the orange one, from me to Caroline, and the other, the purple one, from me and you to Tristan.”
They walked silently to the wealthy area of Riverstone Rise.
When Ivy went to lay the flowers on Caroline’s grave, she noticed that Philip hung back.
“Is it cold?” he called to her.
“Cold?”
“Sammy’s sister says that mean people have cold graves.”
“It’s very warm. And look, someone has left Caroline a long-stemmed red rose, someone who must have loved her very much.”
Philip wasn’t convinced and looked anxious to get away. Ivy wondered if he was going to act funny around Tristan’s grave, too. But as they walked toward it he started hopping over the stones and turned back into his old cheerful, chatterbox self.
“Remember how Tristan put the salad in his hair at Mom’s wedding,” Philip asked, “and it was all runny? And remember the celery he stuck in his ears?”
“And the shrimp tails in his nose,” Ivy said.
“And those black things on his teeth.”
“Olives. I remember.”
It was the first time since the funeral that Philip had spoken to her about Tristan, the Tristan he had once played with. She wondered why her brother was suddenly able to do so.
“And remember how I beat him at checkers?”
“Two out of three games,” she said.
“Yeah.” Philip grinned to himself, then took off.
He ran up to the last mausoleum in a row of the elegant burial houses and knocked on the door. “Open up in there!” he shouted, then flapped his arms and flew ahead of Ivy, waiting for her at the next turn.
“Tristan was good at Sega Genesis,” Philip said.
“He taught you some cool tricks, didn’t he?”
“Yep. I miss him.”
“Me, too,” Ivy said, biting her lip. She was glad that Philip had rushed ahead again. She didn’t want to ruin his happy memories with tears.
At Tristan’s grave Ivy knelt down and ran her fingers over the letters on the stone—Tristan’s name and dates. She could not say the small prayer that had been carved on the stone, a prayer that put him in the hands of the angels, so her fingers read it silently. Philip also touched the stone, then he arranged the flowers. He wanted to shape them into a T.
He’s healing, Ivy thought as she watched him. If he can, maybe I can, too.
“Tristan will like these when he comes back,” Philip said, standing up to admire his own work.
Ivy thought she had misunderstood her brother.
“I hope he gets back before the flowers die,” he continued.
“What?”
“Maybe he’ll come back when it’s dark.”
Ivy put her hand over her mouth. She didn’t want to deal with this, but somebody had to, and she knew that she couldn’t count on her mother.
“Where do you think Tristan is now?” Ivy asked cautiously.
“I know where he is. At the festival.”
“And how do you know that?”
“He told me. He’s my angel, Ivy. I know you said never to say angel again”—Philip was talking very fast, as if he could avoid her anger by saying the word quickly—“but that’s what he is. I didn’t know it was him till he told me today.”
Ivy rubbed her hands over her bare arms.
“He must still be there with that other one,” Philip said.
“That other one?” she repeated.
“The other angel,” he said softly. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a creased photograph. It was a picture of them that had been taken at Old West Photos, but not the same one she had been given. Something had gone wrong with the developer, or perhaps the film itself. There was a cloudiness behind him.
Philip pointed to it. “That’s her. The other angel.”
Its shape vaguely resembled a girl, so Ivy could see why he might say that.
“Where did you get this?”
“Will gave it to me. I asked him for it because she didn’t get into the picture he gave you. I think she’s a friend of Tristan’s.”
Ivy could only imagine what Philip’s active mind would create next—an entire community of angel friends and relatives. “Tristan is dead,” she said. “Dead. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” His face was somber and knowing as an adult’s, but his skin looked baby smooth and golden in the evening sun. At that moment he reminded Ivy of a painting of an angel.
“I miss Tristan the way he used to be,” Philip told her. “I wish he could still play with me. S
ometimes I still feel like crying. But I’m glad he’s my angel now, Ivy. He’ll help you too.”
She didn’t argue. She couldn’t reason with a kid who believed as strongly as Philip did.
“We need to go,” she said at last.
He nodded, then threw his head back and shouted, “I hope you like it, Tristan.”
Ivy hurried ahead of him. She was glad she was dropping him off at Sammy’s for a sleepover. With Sammy back, maybe Philip would spend more time in the real world.
When Ivy arrived home she found a note from her mother reminding her that she and Andrew had gone to the dinner gala that was part of the arts festival.
“Good,” Ivy said aloud. She’d had enough strained conversations for one day. An evening with just Ella and a good book was exactly what she needed. She ran upstairs, kicked off her shoes, and changed into her favorite T-shirt, which was full of holes and so big she could wear it like a short dress.
“It’s just you and me, cat,” Ivy said to Ella, who had chased her up the steps and down again to the kitchen. “Is mademoiselle ready to dine?” Ivy set two cans out on the counter. “For you, seafood nuggets. For me, tuna. I hope I don’t get them mixed up.”
Ella rubbed back and forth against Ivy’s legs as Ivy prepared the food. Then the cat mewed softly.
“Why the fancy dishes, you ask?” Ivy got down a matched set of cut-glass plates, along with a crystal drinking glass and a crystal bowl. “We’re celebrating. I played the piece, Ella, I played the movement all the way through!”
Ella mewed again.
“No, not the one I’ve been practicing—and not the one you’ve been practicing, either. The ‘Moonlight.’ That’s right.” Ivy sighed. “I guess I had to play it for him one last time before I could play for myself again. I think I could play anything now! Come on, cat.”
Ella followed her into the family room and watched curiously as Ivy lit a candle and put it on the floor between them. “Is this classy, or what?”
The cat let out another soft meow.
Ivy opened the large French doors that led out to the patio at the back of the house, then put on a CD of some soft jazz.
“Some cats don’t have Saturday nights like this, you know.”
Ella purred through dinner. Ivy felt just as content as she watched Ella clean herself, then settle down by the tall screen doors, her nose and ears positioned to catch all the smells and tiny sounds of twilight.
After a few minutes of keeping vigil with Ella, Ivy dug a book out from underneath the chair cushion, a collection of stories Gregory had been reading. Moving the candle out of the draft, she rolled over on her stomach next to it and began to read.
It wasn’t till then that she realized how tired she was. The words kept blurring before her eyes, and the candle cast a hypnotic flicker across the page. The story was some kind of mystery, and she tried to concentrate, not wanting to miss any of the clues. But before the killer struck a second time, her eyes closed.
Ivy didn’t know how long she had been sleeping. It had been a dreamless sleep. Her mind had jerked awake suddenly, alerted by some sound.
Before she opened her eyes, she knew that it was late. The CD had ended and she could hear the crickets outside, a full choir of them. From the dining room came the soft bonging of the mantel clock. She lost count of the hours—eleven? twelve?
Without lifting her head, she opened her eyes in the dark room and saw that the candle, though still burning, was a stub. Ella had left, and one screen door gaped open, silvery in the moonlight.
A cool breeze blew in. The fine hairs along Ivy’s arms stirred, and her skin felt suddenly chill. It was Ella who had slipped through the door, she told herself. Probably the screen had been unlatched, and Ella pushed it open to let herself out. But the draft was strong, drawn across the room to the door behind Ivy. That door, which led to the gallery, had been closed when Ivy fell asleep.
It was open now—without turning around, she knew it. And she knew that someone was there watching her. A board creaked in the doorway, then another, much closer to her. She could feel his dark presence hovering above her.
Ivy quietly sucked in her breath, then opened her mouth and screamed.
P2-10
Ivy screamed and fought him, kicking behind her with all her strength. He held her down on the floor, his hand pressed over her nose and mouth. She screamed into his hand, then she tried to bite it, but he was too quick for her. She started rolling her body back and forth. She’d roll him into the candle flame if she had to.
“Ivy! Ivy! It’s me! Be quiet, Ivy! You’ll scare Philip. It’s just me.”
She went limp beneath him. “Gregory.”
He slowly lifted himself off her. They stared at each other, sweating and out of breath.
“I thought you were asleep,” he said. “I was trying to see if you were all right without waking you.”
“I—I just—I didn’t know who you were. Philip is out. He’s staying over at Sammy’s tonight, and Mom and Andrew are at the gala.”
“Everybody’s out?” Gregory asked sharply.
“Yes, and I thought—”
Gregory rammed his fist into his palm several times, then stopped when he saw the way she was looking at him.
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “What’s wrong with you, Ivy?” He held her by both arms. “How can you be so stupid?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He stared deep into her eyes. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
Ivy looked away.
“Look at me! Answer me!”
She swung her head back. “Ask Suzanne, if you want to know why.”
She saw the flicker in his eyes then, as if he suddenly understood. It was hard to believe that he hadn’t guessed what was going on. Why else would she avoid him?
He loosened his grip. “Ivy.” His voice was softer now, wavering. “You’re home alone, late at night, in a house where you were attacked last week, with the door wide open. You left the door wide open! Why would you do something so dumb?”
Ivy swallowed hard. “I thought the screen was latched. But it wasn’t, I guess, and Ella must have pushed it open.”
Gregory leaned back against the sofa, rubbing his head.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I upset you,” she said.
He took a deep breath and laid one hand over hers. He was much calmer now. “No, I scared you. I should be the one apologizing.”
Even in the flickering candlelight, Ivy could see the weariness around his eyes. She reached up and touched the temple he had been rubbing. “Headache?”
“It’s not as bad as it was earlier today.”
“But it still hurts. Lie down,” she said. She set a pillow on the floor for his head. “I’ll get you some tea and aspirin.”
“I can get it myself.”
“Let me.” She put her hand lightly on his shoulder. “You’ve done so much for me, Gregory. Please let me do this for you.”
“I haven’t done anything I didn’t want to.”
“Please.”
He lay back.
Ivy got up and put on a disk with sax and piano music “Too loud? Too soft?”
“Perfect,” he said, closing his eyes.
She made a pot of tea, put some cookies on the tray along with aspirin, and brought it back to the candlelit room.
They sipped awhile in silence and munched cookies. Then Gregory playfully clinked his cup against hers in a silent toast.
“What is this stuff? I feel like I’m drinking a garden.”
She laughed. “You are—and it’s good for you.”
He took another sip and looked at her through the wispy steam. “You’re good for me,” he said.
“Do you like to have your back scratched?” Ivy asked. “Philip loves to.”
“Have it scratched?”
“Rubbed. When you were a little boy, didn’t your mother ever rub your back trying to get you to sleep?”
“
My mother?”
“Turn over.”
He looked at her, somewhat amused, then set down his tea and rolled over on his stomach.
Ivy began to rub his back, running her hand over it in small and big circles, the way she did with Philip. She could feel the tension in him; every muscle was tight. What Gregory really needed was a massage, and it would feel better if he removed his shirt, but she was afraid to suggest this.
Why? He’s just my stepbrother, Ivy reminded herself. He’s not a date. He’s a good friend and kind of a brother—
“Ivy?”
“Yes?”
“Would it be all right with you if I took off my shirt?”
“It would be better,” she said.
He removed it and lay down again. His back was long and tan and strong from playing tennis. She began to work again, pushing hard this time, moving her hands up his spine and across his muscular shoulders. Ivy kneaded the back of his neck, her fingers working up into his dark hair, then she ran her hands down to his lower spine. Slowly but surely she felt him relax beneath her fingers.
Without warning he rolled over and looked up at her.
In the candlelight, his features cast rugged shadows. Golden light filled a little hollow in his neck. She was tempted to touch that hollow, to lay her hand on his neck and feel where his pulse jumped.
“You know,” Gregory said, “last winter, when my father told me he was marrying Maggie, the last thing I wanted was you in my house.”
“I know,” Ivy replied, smiling down at him.
He reached up and touched her on the cheek.
“Now …” he said, spreading his fingers, letting them get tangled in her hair. “Now …” He pulled her head down closer to his.
If we kiss, thought Ivy, if we kiss and Suzanne—
“Now?” he whispered.
She couldn’t fight it anymore. She closed her eyes.
With both hands, he pulled her face swiftly down to his. Then his rough hands relaxed, and the kiss was long and light and delicious. He lifted her face and kissed her softly on the throat.
Kissed by an Angel/The Power of Love/Soulmates Page 24