“Yes, and so, it is incumbent that you are seen with people that are in our social sphere. We are not going to lose everything that we have gained in all these centuries in America by becoming just like everyone else,” Mr. Ivy insisted. “That’s not how we raised you, Max. You are trained to be the best, and you should associate with only the best.”
“I will be seen with Isabella, or whomever else I might choose to associate with, regardless of their standing in society,” said Max. He was secretly imagining Isabella standing while wearing one of his shirts, and nothing else.
“Well, don’t be surprised if she’s after your money,” retorted his father. “She might try to trick you into getting her pregnant. Just never believe a girl when she says that she has everything taken care of and not to worry.”
“Listen to your father about being protected, Max. There are all kinds of disease out there,” said Camille. “Even a nice girl could have one,” she added, so as not to seem overly harsh about Isabella.
“She’s not that kind of girl, I’ll have you know. She’s…” Max searched for the right words to describe Isabella’s sweetness. “She’s pure. She is not trying to do anything here but plan a garden and make sure it is sustainable with low upkeep.”
At this point, Charlene, and her mother, Julia, walked quietly into the room. They had just met with the large-lipped wedding planner, Rochelle, at her office. It seemed like a nice idea to stop by the main house to see if Max was around. He was everybody’s favorite in the family, and they all had great expectations for him.
Having absorbed the significant points from the conversation from where she had been perched outside the breakfast room door, Charlene was ready to share her opinion.
“Isabella? Shut up! I knew you were getting cozy, that’s awesome.” She said, very enthusiastically, “I’ve been trying to get you two together! You are, like, made for each other.”
Charlene was twenty-three going on sixteen as she described this very romantic pairing using a schoolgirl vocabulary and inflection.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but Isabella is not interested in me. I am not her type; she’s joining a convent or something,” said a newly shy Max.
“Oh, that’s hogwash. Jimmy said she started talking about becoming a nun after her fiancé, Robby Sabatini, the carpenter, broke her heart.” Charlene said, as she tasted the crudités.
Max was surprised to hear of a failed engagement in Isabella’s past. He had imagined that he was the only man to ever hold her tightly, even if it was during a kitchen snafu. He started to feel a pang of annoyance that someone else had been intimate with her. Unused to feeling jealousy, he brushed off the feeling with a shrug. Well, the idea that a girl in this day and age could actually be a virgin was pretty ridiculous. Of course, she had been engaged. What man wouldn’t want her to be his?
“Oh, that reminds me, I’ll stay around this week so we can have a nice visit and then I’d like to have use of the shore house the following week.” Max asked.
“Sure Max, and invite whomever you want,” said a defiant Camille, giving her son a subtle wink.
“Ah, Mom,” interjected an annoyed Julia Ivy, Charlene’s socialite mother. “That isn’t fair. You promised the shore house to me and my friends next week. Remember, my MOB sobfest? My friends have all made arrangements with their husbands, bosses, or babysitters to be able to take a few days to help me get my groove back.
The cheerleaders, thought Max, when he heard about the clique of friends that Julia kept in touch with through thick and thin. Their cheering moves had made quite an impression on him in his youth, but the moniker, while accurate, did not fully describe the very essence of this group. They were simply “the best” that the Lower Merion class of ’82 had to offer. Lower Merion Cheerleaders were not just attractive, thin, and energetic. They were also all-star students, athletically superior, the cool kids, and always had the best clothes and the best boyfriends. While the group was an eclectic mix of ethnicities, they all had one thing in common. They could stand for nothing less than the best in themselves and others.
Sophie was an accomplished muralist and part-time fundraiser for the Philadelphia Museum of Art. In high school, she had been both a cheerleader and an artist, which was an unusual combination. Currently, her daughter, Ruth, ran a successful catering company on the Main Line. The other former cheerleaders were mostly professionals, doctors, and lawyers, married to professionals, or divorced from professionals. It was hard for Max to keep track.
“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem, kids. That house was built to accommodate several families. We used to have the Abrams family visit all the time. There’s plenty of space. Why Max, you could even allow Cyrus a guest, maybe he has a special someone to bring along.”
“No way,” said a loyal Julia, “Sophie would shoot me if we encouraged competition! Ruth has had her eyes on Cyrus.”
“Ruth is going, too, Julia?” Camille asked.
“Well of course, who do you think is going to be preparing our meals for us? We don’t cook!”
“Well, that’s brilliant, come to think of it. Everyone should have friends who are caterers!” replied an encouraging Camille.
“Make sure she asks for the family discount at the grocery there when she goes for supplies,” insisted a shrewd and frugal Mr. Harrison Alexander Ivy. “Cook can fill her in on the right markets to go to, have her give him a call.”
Max was thinking about how frugal his father could be, but that was common amongst the wealthiest gentry of the fabled Main Line. “How do you think we got this way?” was a phrase repeated in his youth when he dared to question this philosophy.
“Julia, you called it a ‘sobfest’, what’s that about? What on earth is an MOB? Is this some sort of plastic surgery?” Max asked.
Julia was silent, and a bit sullen.
“Sister might be a bit under duress over her status as an almost mother of the bride, which is a step from,” Camille said softly, pausing for effect, “grandmother-hood, which has got her on a low. But her girls, those cheerleaders, they’ll pull her through. They always do.”
Chapter 12 - Road Trip
“Nothing in life is free.”
Camille’s mother to her grandchildren, Max and Julia
Isabella was planning to drive her own truck, but it needed last-minute repairs. She didn’t like to rely on others unless she had to. She talked about skipping the needed mechanical work, but Dan didn’t like his daughter to be driving an unreliable vehicle across the state. He insisted that she ride over with Max, offering her a ride to the Ivy estate so that her car could be in the shop for the much-needed servicing.
Dan dropped her off in front of the main gate, not wanting to chase ghosts by entering the Ivy compound. There were so many memories, good and bad; he would leave that for another day.
Max said he would be taking the Land Cruiser, which sounded like a good, reliable car to Isabella.
As he pulled out of the enclosed garage, however, she saw that the vehicle was vintage 1972. She didn’t even know that Toyotas were made back then. In addition, it was bright green and missing some conspicuous pieces.
“Max, where are the doors to the Land Cruiser?” Isabella asked in disbelief.
“They’re in the back, but I’ll put them on if the weather changes. I like to ride like this in the summer, it is all fresh air, I’m telling you. You’ll love it, Isabella!” Max said slyly, “Plus, it’s green, and I’m a great driver!”
Max was driving the vintage, beat-up, sporty vehicle because it exuded a certain laid-back charm. Plus, it really drove his father to the brink. It was completely inappropriate for someone of his lineage and social standing, according to the stodgy Mr. Harrison Alexander Ivy, to be driving such a pile of crap.
As they drove through the Main Line into Center City, Philadelphia, Isabella noticed a few creative driving moves. His sporadic driving implied distaste for the rules of the road and a devil-may-care attitude.
Max promised to be more cautious, and did slow down a bit, so they were able to have a more relaxed conversation. Now she didn’t have to zing him about his driving.
As Max drove over the Ben Franklin Bridge and into New Jersey, Isabella shouted out some of her early preparation for the garden redo.
“I’m having the crew revitalize the yard and eliminate the weeds with geosulfate, as it is less toxic than the chemical herbicide alternatives. I think that it won’t spoil the surprise if we find out from Charlene what her favorite color for mulch is; she knows that I am doing a few minor alterations.” Isabella took out her cell phone, “I’ll send her a text.”
“Yes, do that when you’re not driving, I’m giving you the controls,” Max said.
Max slowed down on a main thoroughfare in Camden, and took a few turns off the highway to slower streets to switch drivers. He stopped the Land Cruiser with a flourish, and, indicated that he was ready for Isabella to assume the driver’s role.
“Here?” She asked, as she realized that they were in an area that was probably zone zero for drug and gang activity during the later hours of the day.
“I think I have a cramp in my leg, it is your turn to drive. Let’s switch places,” Max said in a very controlled, calm voice.
After rapidly switching seats, Isabella sat low in the driver’s seat and looked at the controls. “Do you always allow the gas to get so low?”
Cyrus, driving an army issue Humvee, drove up with replacement gas and a stern look.
“It happens every time, Boss. You always go for the less expensive fuel in New Jersey, and then you run out.”
“Fellas,” said Isabella, “I think we’re getting a lot of attention here, can we just get back on the road?”
Going over the bridges into Long Beach Island, Max asked, “Isabella, may I ask, what are your thoughts on James and Charlene, I mean, as a couple?”
“Yeah, they’re a couple alright,” she giggled, “a couple of nutcases...” Then she got serious. “Well, Jimmy is very happy with Charlene, they are like two peas in a pod. But, well, he’s not very stylish, you know, he’s comfortable, financially speaking, but not rich. I don’t really see how it is going to work. But, hopefully it will all work out and it won’t be a total disaster. And, if it all falls through, well, I hope they stay amicable, for Lacey’s sake, at least.”
“So, to summarize, you think it is Charlene’s starter marriage?” he asked.
Her silence evaded a response.
Max made a few turns once on the island and ended up in North Beach. As Isabella saw the huge, white-columned home, Max explained how the island is long and narrow, and that the bay is on one side and the ocean is on the other.
She laughed, “Yeah, I know that, I’ve been coming here with my grandparents since I was a child. Uncle Johnny had a house in Beach Haven, near the pier.”
They arrived at the shore house and Cyrus offered to take their bags up to the residence areas. This left Isabella and Max with time to spend out on the beach. There was a nice sea breeze, and it was heavenly.
Isabella offered to help Max water the attractive foundation plantings, and they ended up pruning and deadheading the hydrangeas. She saw the tender way he nurtured, and said, “Why did you do it?”
“What?” he asked.
“Rip out the house plant. It was magnificent one minute and then torn down and strewn all over the shed like a murder victim.”
Max stopped what he was doing and rubbed the sweat off his brow with the back of his gloved hand. “It was a rough time. I wanted to enter some juried exhibitions at the art center, and my father forbade it. I felt like I was missing out on so much, just sort of feeling impoverished, so I went into the brandy in Dad’s office.”
“I thought that was just in the movies that rich people had decanters of brandy in their drawing rooms,” she said.
“You don’t understand, your dad wanted you to be your own person, to stay true to yourself,” Max said in a defensive tone.
“Yeah, but how can you be complaining about your upbringing?” Isabella argued. “You got everything you ever wanted.”
“I’m not going to apologize for coming from a wealthy family. There are things my parents have done for me that are amazing, such as first class educational and travel opportunities. But,” Max said slowly, for emphasis, “no, I did not get everything that I ever wanted. There’s a price for privilege, and that is expectations which become limitations. Nothing in life is free, is what my grandmother used to always say.”
“It’s funny, though,” Isabella said, “Your grandmother’s gardener was my grandfather, and your grandmother’s cook, you know about that right?”
“Let me guess,” said Max. “She was your grandmother?”
“No way, my grandmother was a librarian. I got you!” She tussled his hair and did a “tag” move and he chased her playfully around to the other side of the house.
Isabella almost ran into a rusted metal sign with weeds growing over it. She brushed off the front of the sign, and it read, “For Sale.”
Max asked if she was all right, and if she had any cuts or bruises from running into the sign. She said she didn’t, but that her tetanus shots were up to date.
He explained the sign with a dismissive, “Oh, that. My father has had it in his head that we should put the house up on the market asking a total fortune. Nobody in their right mind would ever pay his asking price, so it has been listed for years. I don’t think anyone has ever been interested, especially in this economy.”
Isabella quietly wondered what the asking price for this sort of dwelling would be, but decided that it didn’t matter, and dropped the subject.
They completed the gardening chores and washed up at an outdoor hosing station. They dried off with fluffy towels that were left on the line to dry. Isabella thought that the line added a sweet, homey touch and appreciated the Ivy’s use of the soft sea breeze to dry the towels.
Max showed Isabella to a room he felt would be to her liking. It had a garden view on one side and a beach view from the other side. After they both had a chance to freshen up, he took her on a brief tour of the beach home. Isabella was astounded by the Great Room, which had views of the bay from one side and the beach from the other side.
Ruth had prepared a light brunch of pasta salad with capers and a fruit tray, which the cheerleaders were enjoying in the dining room. Max beckoned Isabella, holding two filled-up plates for each of them, into the kitchen, one of his favorite rooms.
They constructed their plans for the next few days. Mornings would be for relaxing and enjoying the beachside community, and afternoons would be for working on the garden plans. Then in the evening, they would have a light dinner and find some entertainment to cap off the day. It was easy to strike up a schedule, and it looked to be a relaxed way to complete the planning portion of the project.
It was decided that the study, which was on the bay-view side of the home, would be their creative station. It took a few hours to get into the groove of the project. Isabella was adamant that they forgo any and all over-the-top creative expressions, and keep the project simple. She also insisted on local, native, sustainable plants and materials, and recycling previously used supplies whenever possible.
Max felt that if they simplified things too much, it would lack any sort of zing, and would be a dreary, yawn-inducing garden fiasco.
They worked on the garden plans for several hours, trying to make concessions and compromises whenever possible. Needing a break, Max asked Isabella if she wanted to see the billiards room, as he had neglected to include that in the cursory tour.
The octagonal-shaped small room included a window-lined alcove with a bay view. Since the sun set on the bay, this was an ideal place to spend an evening. Right then, the sun was still shining bright, as it was only on
e in the afternoon, and the pool table beckoned.
“Oh, and these are the cues. Here’s how to put the blue chalk on them, it helps with the friction.” Max conducted a tour of the billiards room in a sultry, seductive way, as this had worked for him with the women in his past.
“And, here are the balls, which are stacked just so. How about a game, Isabella?” he drawled.
“I’ll play,” she replied, “but since I am so grateful to you for this great tour of your lovely home, let’s put a wager on this game. How about, if you win, we do the garden project your way?”
“Sure,” said Max, “I’m always up for a challenge.”
As she started setting up the pool table, it became obvious to anybody but a trained seal, that she was an experienced pool player. When she made her first three shots and had almost cleared the table, Max could clearly see who was being played.
Prune, Plant, or Plunder? Page 6