by Anna Burke
Sure enough, a sign-up sheet appeared the next day, written in Lillian’s neat script.
Ivy put her name down for wine. Cooking was something she did because she had to, and even then she did it rarely, preferring to order in. She had so little energy left over at the end of the day. Expending it on an activity she found irritating at best was a less than desirable option.
“Hey, stranger,” said Stormy that evening as Ivy slid onto a barstool. “What can I get you?”
“Small cup of your dark roast.” And advice.
“Excellent taste.”
Stormy served the coffee in a squat red cup with a pleasingly thick handle.
“I wanted to thank you for the invitation to the club the other week,” she said, schooling her features and tamping the creeping blush back down her capillaries.
“My pleasure.” Stormy winked, and the blush overpowered her defenses. “Glad you had a good time.”
“Can I ask you something?”
Stormy paused in the middle of refilling whipped cream canisters and waited.
“What do people wear to a potluck?”
“You’ve never been to a potluck?”
“Not—” She broke off. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been to a potluck before. Rabbit Island had them regularly, but those doubled as casual cocktail parties, and she strongly suspected the gathering at Bay Road would be a different sort of event. “Not for work.”
“Wear something casual. Lil’s crowd is laid-back.”
“Casual.” She could do casual.
Stormy eyed her over the row of whipped creams. “Like jeans.”
“Got it.” She took a sip of coffee and let the quiet murmur of the café’s few customers wash over her. “So, did Lil figure out you invited me the other day?”
“I’m still doing penance. I’ll be covering her bar tab for a year.”
“Sorry about that.”
Stormy shrugged. “I invited you. And all things considered, I’d say it was worth it. She looked like she had fun.”
Ivy choked on her coffee and spent the next thirty seconds coughing. Stormy passed her a cup of water.
“The way I see it, if I don’t get to play meddling bartender, then what’s the point?”
• • •
Ivy arrived at 16 Bay Road with several bottles of very nice wine, a cowl-neck sweater dress to combat the frigid air, and a racing heart. She tried to calm the latter. This was just a dinner with her colleagues. She’d been to hundreds of gatherings where far more was on the line, usually with her mother whispering a litany of who’s who in her ear. The only difference was Lillian would be at this one. Lived here, in this sprawling white farmhouse with smoke curling from the chimney against the darkening sky.
Several cars already filled the driveway. She recognized them from the practice and took a steadying breath before setting foot on the wrap-around-porch and knocking on the front door.
A curvy brunette she recognized from Lillian’s Instagram answered.
“You must be Ivy,” the woman said, motioning for her to come in.
“Yes, nice to meet you . . .?”
“Angie. I used to work at the clinic, and now I run the boarding facility.”
Ivy shook Angie’s hand and followed her out of the foyer and into the kitchen.
She stopped. The large kitchen opened into the living room, which was separated by a bar and a massive fireplace. The white cabinets and gleaming hardwood floors were partially blocked from view by the assembled party and its attendant dogs—all of whom came skittering towards her—but the warmth radiating from the place brought a lump to her throat.
“Dr. Holden,” said Georgia, greeting her with a smile.
Lillian, who stood behind her, turned at her words. She wore a simple black sweater paired with a red scarf and jeans, and her hair was down and free around her shoulders. Ivy’s pulse skittered.
“Where should I put the wine?”
“I can take it.” Lillian eased past Georgia and took the bottles from Ivy with a forced smile, but her hand lingered against Ivy’s fingers. “And sorry about the dogs.”
Ivy glanced down to examine the waiting animals. She recognized the German shepherd as Morgan’s dog, Kraken, but the other three were new to her. A brindled pit bull smiled up at her with a wiggling butt, and beside him, a massive, fluffy, three-legged monster of a mutt flattened her ears.
“Kraken, Marvin, Muffin, and Hermione,” Lillian said.
Ivy counted, but only saw three dogs. “Am I missing one?”
“Behind you.” Lillian placed her fingers on Ivy’s wrist and pointed. Distracted by the touch, it took Ivy a second to turn and see the Italian greyhound, also a tripod, hopping by her feet.
“Oh my goodness,” she said. “You are precious.”
“The tripods are mine,” said Lillian. “Don’t let them fool you. The little one is the monster.”
“Isn’t that always the case,” said Ivy, thinking of Darwin back at her house, who was no doubt plotting his revenge for this abandonment. “This is your place?”
“Yes. Stevie, Angie, and Morgan live here, too.”
“That sounds . . . crowded.”
“We can’t all have trust funds.” Lillian’s gibe lacked her usual venom. “You look nice, Ivy.”
Ivy found herself wishing she’d worn something cooler. The cashmere dress felt suddenly stifling as her face, neck, and chest flushed at the compliment, and the blush deepened when Lillian smirked.
“Thank you,” she managed.
“Help yourself to anything you want. Food’s on the table, and drinks are in the kitchen.”
“Lil—” she stopped. She had no idea what to say to Lillian, except that seeing her made something in her throat swell and she wanted nothing more than to stare at this woman—a woman she’d hated for years—until the stars faded.
“Ivy,” said Morgan, appearing at Lillian’s side and swinging an arm around Lillian’s shoulder.
Always swooping in at the wrong moment. “Hey, Morgan.”
“This is my partner, Emilia.” Morgan beckoned to someone out of her range of sight, and the woman she’d run into on her jog weeks ago smiled at her.
“Yes, we’ve met.” Emilia’s smile held far more warmth than Morgan’s.
“I ran into Lillian and Emilia on a run the other day,” Ivy said.
“Pun intended?” Stevie, who was passing by with a drink, shot Ivy a wink.
“Never,” said Ivy, who, as a rule, thought puns were the lowest form of humor.
Lillian laughed. The sound curled around her heart, and she watched Lillian’s mouth soften. Her dark eyes met Ivy’s in a moment of solidarity. She was vaguely aware of Morgan’s scrutiny, but she didn’t care.
The evening passed in a blur of conversation, wine, and not enough solid food. She eventually ended up ensconced in an armchair by the fire with a large black cat on her lap, pinioned by his claws. Most cats would have fled for safety and solitude during a gathering of this size, but the enormous purring animal had an authoritative glint to his green eyes that Ivy recognized; she saw it often enough in the mirror. She stroked his head with the tips of her fingers.
“Oh my god.” Stevie froze as she entered the living room. “Ange, come here.”
Ivy looked up to discover Stevie staring at her with wide blue eyes.
“Oh wow,” said Angie when she popped her head around the fireplace. “You’re still alive.”
“Yes?” said Ivy.
“Lil, come here,” Angie said.
Lillian, who had been chatting with Emilia, turned. Her eyes also widened. “You’re petting James.”
“Is that his name?” asked Ivy.
“I call him the devil’s familiar, but yes, technically it’s James,” said Stevie.
“He doesn’t normally . . . make friends.” Angie pressed a hand to her mouth to hide a smile. “I need to draw this.”
“Take a picture,” Stevie told her, pulling out her pho
ne.
Ivy searched for Lillian’s eyes. They met hers, and Lillian drifted toward her with raised eyebrows. “I didn’t take you for a cat whisperer.”
“I like cats,” said Ivy. James butted his head against her hand. “And I like this cat.”
“He seems to like you.”
“I take it that’s unusual?”
“Angie found him in a dumpster a few years ago. He was totally feral, and let’s just say he still has his moments.”
“He’s a sweetheart.”
“Only you would say that, Poison Ivy,” said Lillian, but like her earlier jab, this one also felt gentle.
“It isn’t fair, you know,” Ivy said as Lillian perched on the arm of her chair. “Poison Ivy is so easy. What am I supposed to call you?”
“My mother calls me ‘Silly Lilly.’”
“You should not have told me that.”
“Why? I can hardly see you saying it.” Lillian’s perfume wafted over her.
“You might be surprised, Silly Lilly.” Ivy paused. “Okay, you’re right. It doesn’t have much sting, and I feel really weird now.”
“And it isn’t like you’ve ever needed help insulting me.”
“You made it easy,” said Ivy. “Not my fault.”
“It’s a pity you’re trapped in that chair.”
“Why’s that?”
“I was going to offer to show you around the house.”
“I could move James.” James chose that moment to extend his claws, and she reconsidered her position. “Or not.”
“Too bad.” Lillian’s voice promised things Ivy would gladly have endured a tiger’s claws for, had she not wanted to draw attention to the fact she was staring up at Lillian Lee with naked longing.
• • •
Lillian couldn’t tear her eyes away from Ivy. Her charcoal gray dress accented her pale skin, and her hair spilled down her back. She sat curled in Lillian’s favorite chair with James laying claim to her lap, and all Lillian wanted to do was straddle her, cat be damned, and finish what they’d started.
A hand touched her back. She jumped.
“How’s it going?” asked Morgan.
“Fine,” she said. Morgan glanced at Ivy, then back at her. “We’re getting along for a change.”
“Did Angie spike the punch with something?”
“Maybe catnip,” she said, pointing at James.
“Or predators stick together. Can I talk to you?” Morgan didn’t wait for a reply and pulled her toward her greenhouse. She looked over her shoulder to find Ivy still watching, her green eyes full of liquid desire.
“What’s going on?” Morgan asked when the greenhouse door was shut behind them and the glass muffled the sound of the party.
“Nothing’s going on.”
Morgan shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and stared at Lillian with an expression that said “bullshit” more clearly than if she’d spoken aloud.
“I’m fine,” said Lillian.
“She’ll hurt you again.”
“What?” Lillian froze in the act of pruning a dead flower from a hanging plant.
“Ivy.”
“Ivy can’t hurt me.”
“I’m not an idiot, Lil. I know something happened between you two at Cornell. Fuck, everyone knew.”
Lillian crushed the husk of the petunia in her fingers. The dark greens filling the edges of her vision swam in the light from the door. “Nothing happened,” she said, but the lie sounded weak even to her own ears.
“You’re not acting like you. The last time that happened was when you were dicking around with Holden.”
“I never—”
“I get why you didn’t tell me. I’m just worried about you.”
She met Morgan’s slate gray eyes and said nothing. Morgan’s frown faded, and her broad shoulders relaxed as she searched Lillian’s face. Morgan knew her well enough to know admitting what had happened would have meant admitting how much it had hurt her, which could only have been possible if she cared about Ivy.
“What are you going to do?” Morgan asked.
“I’m going to be professional.” She let the flower fall to the floor in a sprinkle of dust. “We work together now. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Besides, you were the one telling me to give her a chance.”
“I was talking about working together. Not . . . you know.”
“Gross.”
“Pro tip,” said Morgan. “Try not looking at her like she’s a buffet.”
“You’re an ass.”
Morgan’s warning sobered her, however, and she did not return to Ivy’s side. Instead, she wandered into the kitchen and chatted with Danielle Watson, Georgia, and Shawna while her mind strayed continuously back to Ivy.
Was Morgan right? Could Ivy hurt her again, or had they grown up enough to move past that? Did she even want to move past that? This new game they were playing had higher stakes than the taunts they’d thrown at each other in school. Yes, the underlying dynamics remained the same, but the rules had shifted. More was on the table. Quite literally, she thought, remembering how it had felt to have Ivy’s legs wrapped around her in the exam room.
But since when did she play games? Her hands strangled the wine glass. She didn’t gamble. Every risk she took was calculated to the nearest degree, and she did not enter into games where the stakes were higher than she could afford. She had no safety net. Stability was sexy—not this. The person Ivy turned her into was reckless, and that was dangerous.
“. . . explain why it is called Rabbit Island?”
She turned to see Angie and Ivy, who had finally been freed from James’ clutches, enter the kitchen. Ivy’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire and the wine Angie was liberally pouring into her empty glass. Lillian made a mental note to find her keys and call her a ride if she finished that drink.
“It’s shaped sort of like one,” said Ivy.
“Are there rabbits on it?”
“No. Just these little shrew things and mink.”
“Mink?” Angie squealed in delight. “They are so cute!”
Ivy smiled, her skin porcelain against the flush of her cheeks and her lips—not a buffet, she reminded herself.
“What happens to the island in the winter?” Shawna asked. She, too, had apparently been eavesdropping—or had been drawn by Angie’s squeal.
“It’s closed. They shut off the water, which means they don’t want people out there. Fire hazard. Work crews go out to work on houses, though.”
“That sounds absolutely frigid,” said Lillian.
“They have space heaters, but yes. Not a job I’d want.”
“Why don’t they work in the summer?” Angie asked.
“Because,” said Lillian, “rich people don’t want their vacations interrupted by construction.”
“It does get in the way of cocktail hour.”
“Speaking of,” said Lillian, “the wine is wonderful. Would I have to sell an organ to afford it?”
“Depends on the organ.” Ivy shifted her weight, and Lillian wondered how she had ended up standing next to her again. Angie studied them with interest. Lillian saw her fingers twitch as if sketching. Great. I’ve become fuel for comics.
“Not the liver,” Angie said, and somewhere Stevie laughed.
“Kidney?” Lillian wondered, not for the first time, if Ivy had been born with perfect eyebrows or if she’d just had them sculpted for so many years they grew in that way.
“Or you could just let me buy you another bottle.”
Angie’s eyebrows, which were only slightly less immaculate, skyrocketed.
“The thing about rich people,” Lillian said for Angie’s benefit, “is they think their money can get them whatever they want.”
An unfamiliar emotion flickered in Ivy’s eyes. “Not always.”
What was that?
Ivy cut off her reflection by raising her glass in a toast. “B
ut good wine? Yes.”
“Have you ever been to the island during the winter?” Lillian changed the subject before she grew any more distracted by the wine staining Ivy’s lips.
“No. I’ve seen photos and it looks absolutely freezing.” She paused and leaned back against the counter, tilting her head. “Why, would you come with me?”
She issued the invitation so quietly Lillian doubted anyone had heard. Angie had gotten into a heated debate with Shawna about which organ she’d donate for money, and no one else was paying them any attention.
“Is that an invitation?” she said, just as quietly.
“It could be.”
“Then sure, why not. I’d love to be inspiration for a horror novel.”
Ivy’s smile was quick and bright. “Meet me at the dock by seven on Sunday,” she said. “There are only two boats. One there at seven, and one off at three.”
“So we’ll be trapped on an island without running water or heat for . . .”
“Eight hours. Pack a lunch, Lee.”
“You’re insane.”
“So don’t come.”
“That’s not—” Lillian broke off in frustration, which rekindled Ivy’s smile.
“That’s not, what?”
Lillian took a chance and put her hand over Ivy’s on the counter. Their bodies hid the gesture from sight and the contact deepened the flush on Ivy’s pale neck. “That’s not what I meant.”
“No?”
She dug her thumbnail into Ivy’s wrist and Ivy’s breath caught in her throat.
“Lil,” she said, and the need in her voice was unmistakable.
“I’ll see you Sunday.”
• • •
Sunday. Three days. Plenty of time to call it off, Ivy thought as she finished her exam on a yearling colt. He tried to nip her sleeve, but she pushed his head away and scratched his mane to distract him.
