Icing Ivy (2 page)

With a faraway smile, Jane turned to Daniel. “Speaking of bad manuscripts, have you had a chance to look at Bertha Stumpf's revised manuscript of
Shady Lady
?” It had taken every bit of Jane's skills of persuasion to get Bertha, who wrote historical romances under the pseudonym Rhonda Redmond, to revise her manuscript for her editor, Harriet Green at Bantam.

“Sure have,” Daniel said lightly. “It still stinks.”

“Really? Now what's wrong with it?”

“There's still absolutely no conflict between the hero and heroine. There's no reason why they shouldn't walk hand in hand into the sunset on page ten. Not only that, there's no plot. All they do is have sex.”

“Sounds good to me,” Stanley piped up.

Jane gave him an irritated look. “Don't you have some criminals to catch?”

He jumped up. “Well, I certainly know where I'm not wanted.”

“Give me a break,” Jane said, handing him his coat from the closet.

“I had to leave anyway,” Stanley said.

“I know.” Jane gave him a kiss as he opened the door to leave.

“Hello,” Jane heard him say outside, and a moment later he was showing in Rhoda Kagan and her boyfriend, Adam Forrest. “Later,” Stanley told Jane, and left.

Rhoda looked smashing, as always, in black slacks and a brilliant indigo sweater. Huge black Bakelite earrings set off her sleekly cut dark brown hair.

“Hello, darling,” she said, exchanging cheek kisses with Jane. “You remember Adam.”

“Of course.” Jane had last seen Adam at a local party about a month earlier. “How are you, Adam? You're looking well.”

Adam, independently wealthy, always looked well—trim and tan and neat. Today he wore tan Dockers and an expensive-looking brown sweater. “Thanks, Jane.” He seemed nervous, awkward somehow.

“So what's doing, guys?” Jane asked them. “You Christmas shopping?”

Rhoda shot Adam a look.

“Jane,” he said, “Rhoda and I . . . well,
I
need to ask you a favor. . . .”

F
lorence's gaze was fixed on Winky, whose pregnant tortoiseshell belly swung from side to side as she padded across the family room and out into the foyer. “So what do you think, missus? Are you going to do it?”

Jane sipped her tea. She had just told Florence what Adam had asked her to do.

Adam had recently bought Mt. Munsee Lodge, located at the top of Mt. Munsee at the northernmost end of Shady Hills. The lodge was a popular spot for hikers and campers, except in the winter, when the lodge's previous owner had shut it down. But Adam had come up with an idea to make money in the off-season. He had been sponsoring five-day “theme retreats” on topics ranging from yoga to investing.

Adam had scheduled a retreat for would-be antiques dealers for the following week—the week between Christmas and New Year's—but had learned that morning that its leader would be unable to appear because his wife was quite ill.

It was Rhoda who had come up with the idea of organizing a fiction writers' retreat to take the place of the antiques one.

Florence said, “Why doesn't he forget about it and enjoy the holidays?” A smile brightened her pretty coffee-colored face. “He doesn't need the money.”

“Apparently he does,” Jane said. “Or, to put it another way, it would help.”

“I see . . .” Florence said thoughtfully. “But how can such a thing possibly be arranged on such short notice?”

“The lodge is small, so we wouldn't need many people. And Adam says he always has one-on-one instruction at these retreats—which is another reason why there can't be too many attendees. He said that if I can round up six instructors besides myself, he'll sign up six attendees from a writers' group here in town.”

“What writers' group?”

“The Midnight Writers. I had no idea they even existed.”

“Could you ‘round up' six instructors?” Florence asked.

“I'm not sure. Probably, if I set my mind to it. I'd call editors, authors, other agents—nah, just editors and authors—and could probably come up with six.”

“Don't you want to take the week between Christmas and New Year's off? You do that every year.”

“True—which is why I'm available. I've been looking forward to spending the time with Nick, but I really do feel I should help Rhoda and Adam out with this. Besides, I've just had my vacation—I'm not in dire need of a rest.” Less than a month earlier, Jane had spent two glorious weeks in Antigua. “And I'll make it up to Nick.”

“You may miss the blessed event,” Florence said, referring to Winky's imminent delivery. She rose from the sofa and took Jane's teacup. “Dinner in twenty minutes.” She walked into the kitchen and stopped to glare at Nick's books and papers strewn all over the table. Jane heard her open the back door. “Master Nicholas,” Florence called out into the garage. “Put down the snow shovel and come in here. Your homework is all over the table, and from the looks of it, none of it is done.”

“Take it easy, I'm coming,” came Nick's voice, followed by a giggle from Florence.

Laughing herself, Jane headed for her study off the living room to start making phone calls. The first would be to Adam, to tell him she'd decided to help him out.

 

 

It was a few minutes before nine that evening when Jane put down the phone, having successfully recruited six instructors for the fiction writers' retreat.

The phone rang. It was Ivy.

“I had to tell you how terrific it was to see you again, Jane. I hope we can be friends again, after everything that happened. I mean friends like the old days. I didn't get a chance to say that to you today, but I don't blame you at all for Marlene's death. I miss her terribly—she was all I had—but I know that none of it was your fault.”

“Thank you, Ivy, I appreciate your saying that. Of course we can be friends again.”

“I'm so glad. There was something else I forgot to ask you today. How is little Nicholas?”

“Not so little anymore—ten and a half years old.”

“He can't be. I'd love to see him,” Ivy said wistfully.

“I'm sure you will one day soon.”

“Mmm. It must be nice for you to have him with you at Christmas. I mean, now that Kenneth is gone.” Kenneth, Jane's late husband, had died a little over three years before.

“Yes.” Jane felt uneasy. “Will you and Johnny be doing anything special for the holidays?”

“He'll be away. Business trip. He says he can't get out of it. You know how it is.” Ivy let out a sigh. “This will be my second Christmas without Marlene. I suppose one day I'll get used to it.” There was a long silence on the line.

Alone at Christmas . . .

“Ivy,” Jane blurted out, “why don't you spend Christmas out here with us?”

“With you? Why, Jane, what an idea. But I couldn't—I'd be in the way.”

“No, you wouldn't. We'd love to have you. You'll get to see Nick, and you'll love Florence—she's Nick's nanny, and a wonderful person.”

“If you really think it would be all right . . .”

“Of course I do.” Then Jane thought of something. “One thing, though. Right after Christmas—next Wednesday—I've got to go to a retreat I'm helping organize.” She told Ivy all about it. “But we'd still be together during the holiday.”

“True. Hey, Jane, do you think I could come on your retreat
with
you? I'm taking that week off from work. Wouldn't it be a gas?”

Jane frowned. “I don't think that would be possible, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, I'd be in the way, I suppose.”

“No, it's not that.”

“I could help out,” Ivy said eagerly. “Hand out paper and pencils, things like that. I'm very organized, as you know.”

Jane had never thought of Ivy as being especially organized. She made no comment as to that. “I've never been to this lodge. I'm not sure there's room.”

“I guess you'd have your own room, huh?”

“Yes, I imagine.”

“Then we could room together. It would be like the old days at school. Wouldn't it be fun? Just you and me, hanging out in our jammies, eating Cheese Curls? What a way to spend the holidays. No chance I'd be lonely then.”

Jane's heart went out to her old friend. How could Adam object if Jane shared her room with Ivy? “I guess it would be all right. . . .”

“You don't sound very sure.”

“Yes, I'm sure,” Jane said kindly. “I'd love to have you with me at the retreat.”

“You and me and Cheese Curls. When should I come out to your house?”

The next day was Saturday. “Why not tomorrow? Then we can have the weekend to catch up, and Monday night is Christmas Eve.”

“Perfect. Oh, Jane,” Ivy said, tears coming into her voice, “I can't tell you how much I've missed you. I'm glad we're not letting what happened ruin our friendship. You're my oldest friend—my best friend.”

Still feeling uneasy, Jane averred that she was glad, too. Then they made plans. Ivy, who had no car, would take a Lakeland bus the next morning from New York City's Port Authority Bus Terminal to Shady Hills. Jane would be waiting for her bus.

F
lorence entered the dining room bearing a platter of fish fillets covered with a rich brown sauce. Steam rose from the platter.

“That looks wonderful, Florence,” Ivy said, craning her neck as Florence set it down.

Florence beamed. “Thank you. It is my very favorite recipe, from my mother—curried cascadura. I do hope you all like it. When I was growing up, we always had it on Christmas Eve—and many other times too. I had to go to my Afro-Caribbean market in Newark for the fish.”

Ivy frowned. “Why'd you have to go all the way to Newark?”

“Because that is the only store that imports cascadura, or cascadoo as we call it back home. This fish is found only in Trinidad.” Florence gazed across the dining room, a dreamy look in her eyes. “In my country they say,

Jane, her gazed fixed on Florence, said, “Why, that's lovely.”

Nick, seated to Ivy's right, was gently petting Winky, who sat on the empty chair beside him. He stroked the cat's mottled orange-and-brown head but was careful not to touch her enlarged belly. “I've eaten this a zillion times,” he declared nonchalantly, and Jane and Florence exchanged a smile.

“Indeed you have, little mister, indeed you have.” Florence went back to the kitchen for platters of rice and green beans, which she set down on the table. Then she took up serving utensils. “If you'll pass me your plate,” she said, reaching toward Ivy.

The telephone rang.

“Let it ring,” Jane said breezily. “We're having dinner.”

Ivy drew in a little breath and looked around anxiously.

“What's wrong, Ivy?” Jane asked.

The phone continued to ring.

“Nothing,” Ivy replied, moving restlessly in her chair. “It's just that . . . maybe it's Johnny.”

“Of course,” Jane said. “Where is my head?” She jumped up, hurried into the kitchen, and grabbed the phone.

It was indeed Johnny. “Umm, yeah, is this, uh, Joan?”

“It's Jane,” she replied, feeling uncomfortable.

“Right, Jane. Sorry. How's it goin'?”

“Fine, Johnny, and you? Ivy said you're away on business?”

“Well, I was—I mean, I was going to be.” He sounded as if he didn't want to discuss this with her. “Is Ivy there?”

“Certainly. One moment.”

Jane called Ivy, who hurried in. “Thanks, hon,” Ivy said, and waited, apparently not wanting to begin her conversation until Jane had left the kitchen. Jane did and was aware of the door being closed quietly behind her.

Ivy and Johnny's conversation didn't last long. Florence was still serving when Ivy returned to the dining room, an odd, preoccupied look on her face.

“Everything okay?” Jane asked.

“Yes,” Ivy replied, smiling an uneasy little smile.

“No, it's not,” Jane said with a laugh. “What's going on?”

Ivy picked up her fork and poked at a green bean. “Everything's fine, really. It's just that Johnny doesn't have to go away on business after all.”

“Ah,” Jane said. “And you want to be with him and are embarrassed to tell me. Ivy, don't worry about it. He's your boyfriend. I completely understand.”

When Ivy looked up, her face bore no trace of the relieved smile Jane had expected. She still looked troubled. “Thanks, Jane, but he and I were wondering if maybe”—she winced, as if afraid to say the words—“he could come to your retreat too?”

Jane gave her a puzzled look. “Johnny? Why would
he
want to come?”

“It would be kind of a vacation, you know? It's so pretty here—Johnny kept saying so when we drove out on Friday.”

Jane didn't know what to make of this. Ivy had always been a bit pushy, often inappropriate, and Jane's instinct was to simply say no. A fiction writers' retreat was no place for Johnny. Besides, if he came, he and Ivy would need a room of their own, and there probably wasn't one to spare. On the other hand, Jane thought, meeting Ivy's expectant gaze, she didn't know that for sure. She should call Adam and find out. Would it really be such a problem if Johnny did come? He and Ivy could take walks in the woods, do that sort of thing.

“Tell you what I'll do,” Jane said. “Right after dinner, I'll call Adam—he owns the lodge. If he says he's got a room for you and Johnny, I have no objections.”

Ivy looked apprehensive. “You think he might not have a room?”

“It's a possibility. I understand the lodge is small.”

Ivy thought about this, then nodded. “Okay, thanks, Jane.” She pressed her fork down on her cascadura fillet, crushing it. “I hope he says yes. It would be so good for Johnny and me.”

Jane watched Ivy. It was suddenly clear to Jane that Johnny's coming to the retreat meant a lot to Ivy, that she saw it as more than just a fun getaway for the two of them. Why? Was their relationship somehow in trouble? Did Ivy hope this time away together would solve this trouble?

Dinner felt somehow strained to Jane, though the food was heavenly and they all talked and laughed. It was as if Ivy couldn't wait for the meal to end so that Jane could call Adam.

 

 

To Jane's surprise, Adam did have a spare room and was only too glad to let Ivy and Johnny have it. “You're doing me a tremendous favor, Jane. How could I say no? The room's on me.”

“Thanks, Adam,” Jane said, surprised to find herself disappointed by his response. Was it that she'd looked forward to just her and Ivy—jammies and Cheese Curls? Or was it Johnny? Somehow she couldn't imagine him at a writers' retreat. The idea made her uneasy. What would he and Ivy do all day? On further reflection, he hadn't struck Jane as the woods-walking type.

Lost in thought, Jane left her study and went in search of Ivy to tell her the news.

 

 

Later that evening, Jane, Ivy, Florence, and Nick sat together in the family room watching TV. Since Christmas vacation had officially begun, Nick was allowed to stay up late and had, in fact, chosen tonight's television viewing, a special Christmas episode of his favorite show,
CyberWarriors
. Jane was utterly bored, and it appeared that Ivy and Florence were as well. Nick sat at the edge of the sofa, jumping up and down every time a CyberWarrior laser-blasted a Vultron.

Jane let her gaze travel around the room. The Christmas tree had turned out especially well. Each year she added a new touch, and this year's was a collection of ornaments in the shape of tiny stacks of antique books wrapped with gold bows. Colored lights that reminded her of the window of Whipped Cream twinkled among the tree's branches. Beneath the tree, in a pleasing jumble, were a goodly number of presents. Jane had even run out the day before and bought something for Ivy—a bottle of Norell perfume, which had always been her favorite.

“Mom, look at this,” Nick cried. Jane expected to see some especially exciting scene from
CyberWarriors
, but on the TV screen instead was a newscaster looking solemn.

“Good evening. We interrupt our scheduled broadcast to bring you an update on the bus hijacking . . .”

“What bus hijacking?” Jane said.

“Haven't you heard about this, missus? It's the big story right now.”

“Shhh, listen,” Ivy said, and they all watched the screen.

That morning, in the city of Paterson, New Jersey, a man described as heavily bearded and carrying a briefcase had boarded a New Jersey Transit bus bound ultimately for New York City. Approximately twenty minutes after boarding, as the bus sped eastward on Route 3, he brandished a gun and threatened to detonate a bomb in his briefcase if he did not receive full cooperation. Holding his gun to the driver's head, he commanded the driver to radio headquarters and relay his demands: a million dollars in unmarked twenty-dollar bills for the release of his hostages—the driver and thirty-one other passengers. This ransom was to be waiting for him at Gate B of Giants Stadium in East Rutherford within an hour.

An hour later, the commandeered bus pulled up at Gate B of the stadium, where police waited with the money. At gunpoint the driver opened the doors, and the money was thrown aboard. The gunman checked the money and, apparently satisfied, released the other passengers but not the driver, whom he ordered to shut the doors and take off. The bus then raced westward on Route 3, onto Route 46, then onto Interstate 80. It left I-80 at Shady Hills and sped north into Lincoln Park, where it finally stopped in a wooded area and the gunman disembarked. The authorities, who were interviewing the driver and the passengers, had as yet found no trace of him.

“Can you believe this?” Ivy said, wide-eyed.

The newscaster continued, “Police are combing the woods in the Lincoln Park/Shady Hills area for signs of this man. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.”

Once again, colorful CyberWarriors and Vul-trons filled the screen.

“A million dollars,” Ivy said. “Can you imagine?”

“That poor driver,” Jane said. “And all those frightened people. I hope they catch him.”

The credits for
CyberWarriors
had begun to roll.

“Well,” Florence said, rising from the sofa. “It's time a certain young man got to bed, or else Santa Claus won't come with the rest of the presents.”

“Come off it, Flo,” Nick said. “There's no Santa Claus, and you know it. Besides, all the presents are there already.”

“You never know.” Florence grinned widely, eyebrows rising. She looked down at Winky. “And from the look of our little miss here, I think she's ready to give us a few presents anytime now.”