Ivy shrugged a little, then measured out some coffee beans. Since Friday evening she had been acting as if nothing much had happened, as if she had already gotten over the scare. She felt bad about ruining everyone's weekend and tried to keep them from worrying and fussing over her. But the truth was, she was glad to have her family home with her. She was starting to get spooked.
Philip was convinced an angel had sent Gregory to save her — the same angel who had prevented him from tumbling out of the tree house, he said. Recently he had found a statue of an angelic baseball player and claimed it had been delivered to him by a glowing friend of his own guardian.
Ivy knew her brother was talking like this because he was frightened. Maybe, Ivy thought, having lost Tristan, Philip was scared of losing her, too. Maybe that was why he had warned her several times about the train climbing up die ridge to get her.
How could she blame him? With the car accident, then Friday's close call. Ivy herself imagined hidden dangers wherever she looked. And if there was one thing she didn't heed just then, it was Beth looking at her as if she had glimpsed something frightening from beyond.
"Beth, you're my friend, and you were worried about me being alone, the same way Suzanne and Gregory were worried. The difference is, you're a writer and — and you've got a very active imagination," Ivy added, smiling. "It's only natural that when you worry, it comes out in a story."
Beth didn't look convinced.
"In any case, you're not responsible. Even if you were psychic, psychics only know about things, they don't make them happen."
The doorbell rang, and Ivy quickly dried her hands. "So there's no reason to tell the police."
"Tell them what?" Gregory asked, coming into die kitchen.
He was up earlier than usual, dressed for a day in New York City with Suzanne.
"Tell Gregory about it, Beth, if it would make you feel any better," Ivy advised, then went to answer the door.
A redheaded man sucking on a breath mint was pacing the front porch as if he had been waiting for hours. He identified himself as Lieutenant Donnelly and asked Ivy if he could speak with her in the office where the assault had occurred.
"I'll see, "Ivy replied, "My stepfather didn't go to the college today, and if he's working—" "Is he in? Good," the detective said briskly. "He's on my list, too."
A few minutes later they were joined in Andrew's office by Gregory. The detective had questions for all of them, but most of what they talked about were facts they had gone over before.
When they were finished, the lieutenant said, "Our reason for questioning you again is that we had a similar incident late last night in Ridgefield. Same style of break-in, victim a high-school girl, got a bag pulled over her head. If our friend is embarking on a series of such attacks, we want to find as many similarities as possible. That way we can establish a pattern, predict him — and nail him."
"Then you've concluded that the attack on Ivy was a random act," Andrew said, "rather than something done by someone who knows her?"
"We haven't concluded anything," the detective replied, leaning forward, raising" his bushy red eyebrows, "and I'm always interested in other people's theories."
"I have no theories," Andrew said crisply. "I just want to know if she is safe now."
"Is there some reason you chink she isn't? Is there anyone you know who would want to hurt a member of your family?"
"No," Andrew replied. Then he turned to Gregory. "Not that I can think of," he said slowly. "Do you know of anyone, Gregory?"
Gregory let the question hang in the air for a moment. "Nope."
Andrew turned back to the detective. "We just want to know if we can assume that Ivy is safe."
"Of course. I understand, sir," Donnelly said. "And of course you understand that I can't assure you of that." He handed Ivy his card. "If you remember anything else, give me a call."
"About the girl in Ridgefield," Ivy said, catching the detective's sleeve. "Is she okay?"
The man's mouth formed a grim line. He shook his head twice. "Dead," he said quietly, then pushed open the door next to the newly fixed windowpane. "I can let myself out."
As soon as he'd left. Ivy hurried out of the room, not wanting the others to see her tears. Gregory caught her halfway up the back stairs. She scrambled away from him and went down on all fours. He pulled her to him.
"Ivy. Talk to me. What is it?"
She pulled away from him and pressed her lips together.
"What is it?"
"It could have happened to me!" she blurted. "If you hadn't come at that moment, if you hadn't scared him away—" Tears tumbled down her cheeks.
"It didn't happen," he said gently but firmly, and sat her down on the steps.
Don't leave now. Ivy begged silently. Don't go out with Suzanne today. I need you more than she does.
Immediately she felt guilty about those thoughts.
Gregory wiped away her tears.
"Sorry," Ivy said.
"Sorry for what?"
"For acting so-so—" "Human?"
She rested against him.
He brushed the hair back from her face and let his fingers stay tangled in it.
"My father was right, you know. For once, old Andrew got it right. I feel sorry for the other girl's family, but I'm pretty relieved. Now we know it wasn't someone out to get you." He pulled his head back to look at her. "And that lets Will off the hook," he joked.
Ivy didn't laugh.
"Unless Will has a career we don't know about. He can be awfully silent and mysterious…."
Ivy still didn't smile. She breathed as evenly as possible, trying to stifle her hiccoughs. "You'd better get going, Gregory," she advised. "Do you realize what time it is? Suzanne doesn't like her dates to be late."
"I know," he said, and held Ivy apart from him, studying her.
Does he look at Suzanne that way, she wondered, so intently, as if he's searching out her thoughts?
Does he look into her eyes the way he looks into mine? Does he care about her as much as he cares about me?
Another wave of guilt washed over Ivy; her face must have revealed it.
"What?" he asked. "What are you thinking?"
"Nothing. You'd better get going."
He continued to look at her uncertainly.
"On your way out, would you stop and tell Beth I'll be down in a minute?"
He shrugged, then let go of her. "Sure."
Ivy hurried up the steps. She was glad she'd be spending most of her day off with Beth. If Ivy told her she didn't want to talk about something, Beth would drop the subject. Unfortunately, she had already agreed to meet Suzanne for dinner that evening, after Gregory and she returned from New York. Ivy wasn't looking forward to hashing over the details of Gregory's heroic rescue and every "he said, I said" of Suzanne's date.
Ivy had just passed Gregory's room when his phone rang. She wondered if she should pick it up for him or let the answering machine take a message.
It's probably Suzanne, Ivy thought, calling to find out where he is. She stopped to listen; if it was her friend, she'd pick up the phone and tell her that Gregory was on his way.
The machine beeped. There was a moment of silence, then a voice said, "It's me. I need the money, Gregory. You know I don't like to go to your old man. And you know what will happen if I don't get the money. I need die money, Gregory, now."
The caller hung up without identifying himself, but she recognized his voice. Eric.
Ivy drummed her fingers on the wicker chair, looked out at the pond behind the Goldsteins' house, and checked her watch once more. Obviously Suzanne had forgotten about their plans. They were to meet there at six-thirty. It was now twenty-five minutes past seven.
Ivy was annoyed that she had waited this long, especially since she didn't even want to see Suzanne that night. But she thought that as a loyal best friend she should stick it out.
"Always your best friend," she murmured. At home she had a large box of
tattered letters, notes that Suzanne had started writing in fourth grade whenever she got bored in class. All the letters were signed, "Always your best friend."
Always — but the truth was, with Gregory around, things were changing between the two of them. And Suzanne was as guilty as she. Ivy got up from the chair abruptly and started down the porch steps.
From the other side of the house came the sound of a car in the driveway. A door slammed. Ivy circled around the house, then stopped. Gregory and Suzanne were walking slowly toward the house, their arms around each other, Suzanne's head on his shoulder. Ivy wished she had left earlier, much earlier.
Gregory spotted her first and stopped walking.
Then Suzanne looked up. "Hi, Ivy!" she said with surprise. A moment later, her hand flew up to her head.
"Oh, no, I totally forgot! I'm so sorry. I hope you haven't been waiting too long."
Since six-thirty, and you know it, and I'm starved, Ivy wanted to say, but didn't. But she also didn't play Suzanne's game by reassuring her in some way: No, no, I just got here myself. That's what she was supposed to say, wasn't it? Ivy just looked at her friend and let her figure it out.
Perhaps Gregory picked up on some of the tension between them. He jumped in quickly. "We decided at the last minute to get a pizza at Celentano's. I'm sorry we didn't know you were here. Ivy. It would have been great if you'd come with us."
He was rewarded with two glares: Suzanne's, for implying that dinner would have been great if Ivy had come; Ivy's, for suggesting that she'd enjoy being with them on a date. Hadn't he ever heard that three's a crowd?
Gregory unwrapped himself from Suzanne, then retreated toward the car. Slipping one hand in his pocket, he propped the other on the open door, trying to look casual.
"I can see there's going to be some talking here tonight, some dirt-dishing. Maybe I should leave before I get hooked by the soap opera."
You are the soap opera. Ivy thought.
"You may as well," Suzanne replied. "Most guys are amateurs at talking."
Gregory laughed — not as much at ease as he pretended. Ivy thought — then rattled his keys at them and left.
"I'm beat," Suzanne said, throwing herself down on the front steps and pulling Ivy down next to her.
"Manhattan in the summer—1 tell you, it brings out the crazies. You should have seen all the people at Times Square, waiting for another vision of—" She stopped herself, but Ivy knew what she was about to say. She had already read about die angelic Barbra Streisand.
Suzanne reached out then and touched Ivy's face very, very gently. "Aren't they getting tired of seeing you in the emergency room?"
Ivy laughed a little.
"How're you feeling?" Suzanne asked.
"AH right… really," she added when she saw the doubt in Suzanne's eyes.
"Are you dreaming about this now, too?"
"I haven't so far," said Ivy.
"You're tough, girl," Suzanne said, shaking her head. "And I bet you're hungry and ready to kill me."
"Very hungry and almost ready," Ivy replied as Suzanne pushed herself up from the steps and dug in her purse for her house keys. Peppermint, Suzanne's Pomeranian, greeted them with yaps of joy, anticipating dinner. They headed straight for the kitchen.
While Suzanne fed Peppermint, Ivy explored the Goldstein's refrigerator, which was always well stocked.
She settled for a large bowl of homemade soup. Suzanne set a pan of brownies and some lemon frosted cupcakes on die table between them. She cut herself a brownie, then swiveled back and forth in her chair. "I've got him, Ivy," she said. "Gregory's definitely hooked. Now all I have to do is reel him in."
"I thought you were going to reel him in last week, or maybe the week before," Ivy recalled.
"That's why I need your help," Suzanne said quickly. "I'm never sure with Gregory. I have to know. Ivydid he go out with any girls this weekend? I mean, with me being away and him having to come home because of you, I wondered whether he got out his little date book and…"
Ivy chased noodles around with her soup spoon. "I don't know," she said.
"How can you not know? You live with him!" "He was home Saturday morning. In the afternoon we played tennis and went shopping. At night he went to a movie with Philip and me. He was out for a while on Sunday afternoon, but the rest of the time he was with Philip and me."
"And you. It's a good thing you're my best friend and Gregory's stepsister," Suzanne remarked, "or else I'd be insanely jealous and suspicious. Lucky for both of us, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Ivy replied without enthusiasm. "How about Monday? Did he go out then?"
"For a while in the morning, then late last night. Suzanne, I don't feel right reporting on him to you."
"Well, whose side are you on?" her friend asked.
Ivy crumbled a cracker in her soup. "I didn't know there were sides."
"Who do you feel most loyal to, me or Gregory?" Suzanne persisted. "You know, in the beginning I thought you didn't like him. In fact, I thought you couldn't stand him but didn't say anything because you didn't want to hurt my feelings."
Ivy nodded. "I didn't know him very well then. But I do now, and since I care about him and I care about you, and since you're chasing him—" "I've caught him. Ivy."
"Since you've caught him, and you hooked me years ago, how can there be sides?"
"Don't be so naive," Suzanne replied. "There are always sides in love." She chopped away at the brownies in the pan. "Love is war."
"Don't, Suzanne."
She stopped chopping. "Don't what?"
"Don't do what you're doing to him."
Suzanne sat back in her chair. "Just what are you saying?" There was a noticeable chill in her voice.
"I'm saying don't play games with him. Don't push him around the way you've pushed^ around the other guys. He deserves better treatment, much better."
Suzanne was silent for a moment. "You know what you need. Ivy? A boyfriend of your own."
Ivy stared down at her soup.
"And Gregory agrees with me on that."
Ivy glanced up sharply.
"He thinks Will is perfect for you."
"Tristan was perfect for me."
"Was," said Suzanne. "Was. Life goes on, and you've got to go on with it!"
"I will when I'm ready," Ivy replied.
"You've got to let go of the past." Suzanne laid her hand on Ivy's wrist. "You've got to stop acting like a little girl, holding on to the hand of big brother Gregory."
Ivy looked away.
"You've got to start getting out and seeing other guys. Will's a start."
"Butt out, Suzanne."
"Gregory and I can set you up."
"I said, butt out!"
"All right!"
Suzanne sliced an ultrathin piece of brownie, then pointed the knife at Ivy. "But you butt out, too, and don't tell me what to do. I'm warning you now, don't interfere with me and Gregory."
What did she mean by interfere? Ivy wondered. Don't give her advice — or stop holding on to Gregory's hand?
They both stared down at their food in silence. Peppermint sat between their chairs, looking from one to the other. Then somehow, after what seemed an interminable silence, they found their way onto safer ground, talking about the wedding Suzanne had been to. But as Suzanne talked on and Ivy nodded, all Ivy could think of was that one way or the other, she was going to lose someone who meant a lot to her.
Chapter 8
"Give us a few more minutes, Philip," Ivy said. "We want to look at the rest of these paintings."
"I think I'll go find Gregory."
Ivy reached out quickly and caught her brother by the back of his T-shirt. "Not today. You're stuck with Beth and me."
For the last four days Ivy had spent little time with Gregory, seeing him only at occasional family meals and in chance passings in the hall. Whenever their paths did cross, she'd been careful not to start a long conversation with him. When he'd sought her out — and th
e more she'd avoided him the more he had sought her out— she'd claimed she was on her way up to the music room to practice.
Gregory looked puzzled and a little angry about the distance she was putting between them. But what else could she do? They had grown too close. Without meaning to. Ivy had come to depend on him. If she didn't back off now, she might lose Suzanne as a friend.
Suzanne and Beth had met Gregory, Philip, and Ivy in town that afternoon, at the bottom of Main Street, where the festival began. Suzanne had immediately draped her arm across Gregory's back and slipped her hand into his back pocket, walking him away from Ivy and Philip. Ivy had responded by steering Philip in another direction. Beth was left standing on the street corner.
"Come with us," Ivy had called to her. "We're going to see the art."
The display was set up along a narrow lane of old shops that ran back from Main Street. An assortment of townspeople — women pushing baby strollers,' old ladies in straw hats, kids with their faces painted, and two guys dressed as clowns-walked along looking at the pictures, trying to guess who the artists were. Each picture was tided and numbered, but the artists' names were masked for the judging that would take place later that day.
Ivy, Beth, and Philip were almost at the end of the display when Philip had started fussing about finding Gregory.
Now Ivy pointed to a strange painting, trying to distract him. "What do you think that is?" she asked.
"Things." He read the title with a scowl.
"Looks to me like a row of lipsticks," Beth said, "or trees in the fall or Christmas candles or catsup bottles or missiles at sunset—" Philip screwed up his face. "It looks to me like it's stupid," he said loudly.
"Shh! Philip, keep your voice down," Ivy warned. "For all we know, the artist is right behind us."
Philip turned around to look. Suddenly the scowl was gone. His face lit up. "No," he said, "but there's an—" He hesitated.
"What?" Beth asked.
Ivy glanced quickly behind her. No one was there.
Philip gave a little shrug. "Never mind." He sighed.
They moved on to the last entry, a panel with four watercolors.
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