by Anna Burke
Nope. Don’t go there.
She wasn’t fit for a relationship. Not like this. She had nothing to offer Lillian—if Lillian even wanted something from her beyond a chance to burn off old grudges. Plus, the sex. That had always been good. She remembered Lillian’s mouth on her body, taking both her nipples between her teeth at once, and searched for a faster song.
Cousins greeted her with hugs and gossip the minute she got out of her car. Her shoulders sent sparks of pain down her arms from driving for several hours, but she ignored the pain and returned their affection. The cousins closest to her in age, Brianna and Mark, pulled her into the room that had always been their lair growing up; a pool table, bar, and huge flat screen TV were the main perks.
“Where are Keith and Sarah?” she asked, not seeing their partners.
“In the kitchen, I think. Your parents are there, too. Drink?”
“I’m good for now.”
“Ellen’s kids are nightmares. I wish she’d brought their nanny,” said Brianna.
“And don’t even get me started on—”
“There you are.” Madison swooped into the room and down on Ivy, pulling her to her feet and into a hug. “Mom’s looking for you.”
Shooting her cousins an apologetic smile, she let Madison lead her back into the main house.
“She’s not wrong about Ellen’s kids. Fucking nightmares with legs.”
“Maybe they’ll put the kids’ table in another room.”
“Let’s hope so. What’s new with you?”
“Got trapped on Rabbit the other night.”
Madison halted, her mouth open. “No you didn’t.”
“Sure did. Don’t tell anyone.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“The ferry came back early. I missed it.”
“Were you alone?”
She shrugged, and a smile tugged at her lips. Madison cackled.
“You’re bad. Anyone I know?”
“No.”
“Good for you. You didn’t burn the place down, did you?”
“Pretty sure you would have heard about it if I did.”
Richard and Prudence deposited kisses on her cheeks when she entered the kitchen. Prudence’s hands were cool and dry on hers, and she smelled like Chanel and cinnamon. Her father held a potato peeler in one hand and wore a goofy grin.
“We could use your scalpel expertise,” he said, gesturing at the mountain of peeled potatoes beside him. Ivy accepted a knife and started chopping, listening to the chatter around her as her aunts and uncles and her cousins and their spouses and children milled about the large kitchen. The potatoes were cold, and her knife hand was weak from nerve pain, but she persevered.
The holiday went as it usually did. The conversation wandered from stocks to pop culture to politics and to the children, who were shunted to a far table not because there was no room at the massive, many-leaved oak dining table, but because Ellen’s spawn didn’t know the meaning of the words “be quiet.” Ellen looked like she’d been dragged behind a semi over gravel for several miles. Her husband, meanwhile, dominated discussion whenever possible, and Ivy rolled her eyes at Madison as he went down a conservative rabbit hole.
“How’s your bunker?” she asked, unable to bear it any longer.
Prudence, sensing conflict, interrupted. “Ivy, could you pass me the cranberry sauce?”
“They’ve upgraded since the last data set came back from Exxon’s scientists,” he said. “Now that we know there is a possibility of anoxic events, they are rethinking the filtration systems.”
“Of course.” She marveled at how he seemed completely unaware—or at least uncaring—about the hypocrisy of his statement. Then she pictured him and his wife locked in a bunker colony with their children, presumably without their nanny, and stifled a snort of bitter laughter. Lillian would explode with righteous anger if she heard.
Her imagination provided her with an image of Lillian sitting beside her, white-knuckled on the silverware, which, of course, really was silver, jaw clenched as Ellen’s husband continued his detailed explanation of climate bunker engineering. As ludicrous as it was to imagine Lillian here, and as much as Lillian would hate it, she couldn’t help wishing she could reach for her hand beneath the table.
The opportunity to talk to her parents came sooner than she liked. After dinner, as the football game blasted from several TVs and cleanup finished in the kitchen, her mother and father motioned her and Madison to join them for a moment in an empty sitting room.
“It’s so good to see you girls,” said Prudence.
Madison groaned and clutched her stomach. “I’m going to burst, mother. You won’t see me much longer.”
“That’s my girl,” said Richard. “Taking after her daddy.”
“Now that you’re both in driving distance, we wanted to talk to you about the summer.”
As her mother launched into plans for the summer season on Rabbit, Ivy began to sweat. This was it. Both her parents were here, and she had Madison beside her. She wouldn’t get a better chance until Christmas. Which . . . No. I do it now.
“Actually,” she began when Prudence paused for breath, “there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Three pairs of eyes turned to her. Her mother’s green ones. Her father’s gray. Madison’s aquamarine, full of compassion and the understanding of what was coming next.
“I have MS,” she opened her mouth to say. What came out, however, was something totally different. “I’d like to throw a party. For the clinic. In the summer.”
Madison’s brows knit together in confusion. Her mother’s brow crinkled in a different sort of expression entirely. “Really?”
Are they the right sort of people? She could hear Prudence’s thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud.
“Really.” Her voice firmed as the idea took form. Lillian in a cocktail dress. Lillian on the porch, sun on her shoulders. Stormy could cater, and perhaps she could convince Lillian to spend the night, assuming things hadn’t blown up entirely by then.
“Oh. Well. That sounds lovely.”
“Great idea,” said her father. He put a quelling hand on his wife’s arm.
There were two kinds of rich people, she imagined telling Lillian. Those who were hyper-conscious of wealth and class, and those who were too rich to care. Her father fell into the latter category, and right now she loved him fiercely for it.
The prospect of a date with Lillian kept the pain at bay for the days following Thanksgiving and her failed attempt at confessing her condition to her parents. It buzzed at the edge of her perception, but she found it easier than usual to ignore.
She laid several outfits on her bed Friday afternoon. Her favorite black dress. Tight slacks and a sheer blouse. A dark green dress she knew looked amazing against her skin. A suit, because putting a power move on Lillian did things to her imagination that she wished would stop.
“What do you think, Darwin?”
Darwin was busy rolling around on the thick rug at the foot of her bed, sending a fine mist of terrier hairs into the air. She considered her options. Clothing sent messages. Her mother had drilled that into her at a young age, and while she’d resented it as child, she’d grown to appreciate her mother’s intuition. The right outfit opened doors. The only question was what kind of door she wanted to open tonight.
Her cocktail dress dipped modestly in the front but swooped low down her back, inviting touch. The long-sleeved green dress, on the other hand, showed a generous amount of cleavage—not enough to cross the line into trashy, but enough to draw and hold the eye. She remembered the feeling of her breasts brushing Lillian’s and shivered.
Then there was the suit. Perfectly tailored, it would be another gauntlet. I’m in charge, it said as it lay on the bed. And I know exactly what I want to do with you.
Which was far from the truth.
She wished she had someone she could talk to. Stormy was too close to Lillian to
truly confide in, and Madison was too cutthroat in her love life to offer sound advice. Her mother, of course, was out of the question, and her friends in Colorado were probably still angry at her, since she’d barely reached out. She was on her own.
Not the slacks.
Which left the suit and the two dresses. She stepped into the black dress. It came to just above her knee, hugging her hips, and she arranged her hair to fall over her shoulders as she surveyed herself in the mirror. The black brought out the gold strands in her hair. She turned to look at herself over her shoulder, approving of the way the dress showed off the curve of her waist and the smooth skin of her back. Sexy, but classy.
Maybe.
The green dress was warmer, which, considering the weather, was a point in its favor. She stroked the skin above the neckline, imagining Lillian’s lips and teeth instead of her hand, and how she’d let Lillian push her back against a bed, or a wall, or—
Focus.
The suit turned her into a different person. That was what she loved about fashion. The minute she slid her arms into the sleeves of the jacket, she felt confident. Competent. In this outfit, she’d be the one shoving Lil up against her front door, heedless of the snow, whispering an invitation in her ear as she eased her key into the lock.
Would power or vulnerability better serve her?
She knew the answer. The green dress seemed to stare back at her, luring her into surrender. Vulnerability would prove to Lillian she was willing to listen, willing to put some of their past behind them. It was the right choice. She fingered the hem of her blazer and wondered what Lillian was thinking at that moment, and if she, unlike Ivy, had any idea what they were doing.
Chapter Nine
Lillian pulled into Ivy’s driveway and stared. The house was quintessential New England with its shingles and cozy windows, and the pines and leafless deciduous trees sheltered it from the wind off the Damariscotta River. At five o’clock, the sun was just setting, and it cast long shadows over the leaf strewn ground. She got out of her car with her heart in her mouth.
Still time to back out of this.
Her strides covered the distance between her car and the door too quickly. She hesitated, hand raised to knock. Her peacoat cut the chill from the air, which meant the trembling in her legs had a different cause. This is such a terrible idea.
The door opened before her knuckles touched it.
“Hey.”
Ivy stood in the doorway, dressed in a casual suit of dark gray wool and a white shirt she’d left unbuttoned just enough to hint at cleavage. The slim-cut suit pants made her legs look like they went on forever, and the designer black boots beneath radiated control. The heels on Lillian’s feet looked flimsy in comparison, and the way Ivy’s hands were tucked into the pockets of her slacks, and the tousle of her hair around her shoulders, robbed her of speech. Mascara and a subtle lipstick were the only visible signs of makeup. An Ivy that looked like this could get away with anything, so long as she kept staring at Lillian the way she was now.
“Ready?” Ivy asked, reaching for her coat with her lips curved in a suggestive smile.
She nodded and stepped back to let Ivy pass.
I’m in trouble, she realized. So, so much trouble.
In the car, Ivy rested her hand on Lillian’s thigh, her thumb brushing over the fabric of her tights. She gripped the wheel and focused on the traffic on Route 27, and did not part her legs for Ivy’s fingers, even though her body ached for it.
“How did you get into classical music, anyway?”
“One of my friends growing up. Her mom taught piano, but my friend didn’t like playing, so her mom taught me, instead.”
She did not point out that her parents could not afford to give her lessons. Ivy squeezed her thigh and she squirmed in her seat, clamping down on a groan.
“That’s sweet.”
To keep her composure, she continued talking. “Then later I taught myself. They left the practice rooms unlocked at school and I’d play whatever sheet music I could find lying around or online.”
“Do you have a piano now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t really have time, and since I don’t own my own place yet, it seemed like a bad idea.”
“Why don’t you own?”
“You have a lot of questions.” Her voice rose on the last word as Ivy slid the hem of her dress up higher.
“Maybe I want to get to know you better.”
She chanced a glance away from the road and caught Ivy’s eye. Was she serious?
“I don’t own a house because, unlike you, I have a massive student loan debt I want to get paid down before I take on a mortgage.”
“What kind of house would you want?”
“Something cozy,” she said, forgetting to guard herself. “With a library room and a big garden and a greenhouse.”
“I can see you in a place like that.”
“What about you? Mansion on the water?”
“I like where I’m at now. Besides, it’s small enough I can keep it clean myself, and Darwin loves chasing the Roomba. Anything bigger and I’d have to get a house cleaner.”
“Putting money into the local economy.”
“Trickle-down economics at its best,” said Ivy. “Kidding. Although ultimately I want something with a barn for Freddie, for when he’s fully retired.”
Horses. She seized on the topic. “How is he liking Maine?”
“He’s not.”
“Colorado is cold too, though.”
“It isn’t the weather.” Ivy shifted in her seat, and the coy tilt of her lips slipped into a frown. “The other horses won’t leave him alone.”
Animals, provided they were not Seal Cove clients, were a safe topic, and it got them to Portland. She found street parking near the restaurant she’d selected: The Blue Crab.
“You can parallel park as long as it’s a standard?” Ivy said.
“As if you can drive stick at all.”
“You don’t know. Maybe I’ve learned.”
She raised an eyebrow at Ivy. “Have you?”
“I have to keep some secrets from you, Lee.”
Ivy got out of the car, and she followed, avoiding a pile of gray slush.
“Here.” Ivy held out her hand. She took it, allowing Ivy to pull her onto the sidewalk, and winced as a gust of wind barreled down the city street. Ivy’s laughter tickled her ear as Ivy wrapped an arm around her and steered her toward the restaurant door.
“Reservation for Lee,” she told the hostess.
“I’m impressed,” said Ivy. “There are tablecloths.”
“You did say you were paying.” She meant the jab to sting, but Ivy just laughed again.
They were led to a table in a corner. She shrugged out of her coat and heard Ivy’s breath catch.
The dress she’d chosen for tonight had sat in the back of her closet for a long time. She couldn’t remember when she’d purchased it, or why, but when she’d sent Angie a panicked text and summoned her to her room for approval, Angie had blinked rapidly and immediately pulled her phone out of her bra to snap a photo.
“I need evidence you can look this banging.”
It was a simple, thin-strapped black evening dress. The material probably cost about as much as one of the buttons on Ivy’s jacket, but the way Ivy was looking at her, her hand still on the back of the chair as if she’d forgotten how to sit down, made it priceless.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
“You clean up nicely,” Ivy said. Her tone was lightly mocking, but her eyes continued drinking Lillian in.
“I’ll try not to be insulted by the implication I require cleaning up.” She sat and pulled the wine list toward her.
Ivy plucked it out of her hands. “No offense, but I’m choosing the wine. Pinot noir or merlot?”
“What if I wanted white?”
“Do you?”
“No.”
Ivy glan
ced at her over the menu. “Please let my extravagant upbringing do some good.”
“I am perfectly capable of choosing what I want to drink.”
“Of course you are. Which is why we’re going to try several.” Ivy smiled at their waiter, who had appeared in time to overhear the end of their conversation. He vanished, only to return moments later with the three bottles Ivy had requested, the French pronunciations rolling off her tongue.
“Tell me which one you like best. You seemed to like the pinot I brought over the other day.”
The waiter’s expectant presence made a derisive comeback impolite. Instead, she accepted the proffered glass and breathed in the smell of the wine as she’d seen Ivy do.
“This is one of my favorites,” said the waiter. “Can you smell the currants?”
“Yes, and is that cherry?” Ivy asked.
The waiter beamed.
Lillian smelled wine. Good wine, but just wine. Then it hit her tongue.
She’d had nice wine before. Stormy maintained the best wine could be found for $14 if you knew what you were looking for—and Stormy did—but this was different.
“What do you think?” Ivy asked her.
“It’s good.”
An understatement. She licked the last drop of it off her lips and eyed the bottle.
“This one has more of an oaky finish,” said their waiter as he poured the next wine into their glasses, and he waxed poetic about the last, a French red from Burgundy, which seemed to mean something.
“Your pick,” Ivy said.
She wondered if this was some kind of test—Ivy’s way of proving how much more she knew about the world, and how provincial Lillian was with her blue-collar upbringing and her thrift store clothes.
“The first one.”
“An excellent choice. I’ll leave the bottle?”
“Please,” said Ivy.
He removed the rejected wines and left them to peruse the dinner menu.
