Tristan turned the opposite way to climb a road that would take him to the top of the ridge, where the Baines house was. Philip might be home, he thought. Ivy's little brother had held on to the belief in angels that Ivy had given up. He could see Tristan shimmering, though he didn't know who it was.
Strangely enough. Ivy's cat, Ella, saw Tristan, too.
He was able to pet Ella when he materialized the tips of his fingers. That was about as much as he could do now: pet a cat, pick up a piece of paper. Tristan longed to touch Ivy, to be strong enough to hold her in his arms.
He'd go straight to the house now and wait for her to come home from the party. He'd watch for Gregory, too. While he did, he'd figure out whose mind might hold the clue he needed — and how, please tell me how, he prayed, to reach Ivy!
Suzanne swatted back a piece of hanging plant that needed clipping, then stretched out luxuriously on her lounge. She wore a gold silk robe and had wrapped a green-and-gold towel around her head like a turban. Everything in the room— the large, round tub, the pillows, the luxurious carpeting and silkgrained wallpaper — was green or gold.
The first time Ivy had walked into this room at Suzanne's house, her eyes had popped open. She was seven years old then. The sumptuous bath, the elegant child's bedroom, and the velvet-lined trunks containing twenty-six Barbie dolls immediately convinced Ivy that Suzanne was a princess, and Suzanne didn't act otherwise. She was a remarkable princess who cheerfully shared all her toys and had a nice streak of wildness in her.
That day Ivy and Suzanne had snipped off small hunks of their own hair and made little wigs for the dolls. Twenty-six dolls required a lot of hair. Ivy figured she'd never get invited back, but soon she was being picked up by Mrs. Goldstein all the time, because Suzanne said she wanted to play with Ivy even more than she wanted her allowance or a pony.
Suzanne sighed, adjusted her turban, and opened her eyes. "Are you warm enough, Ivy?"
Ivy nodded. "Perfect."
After bringing Suzanne home from the party. Ivy had changed from her wet bathing suit to a T-shirt and shorts. Suzanne had lent her a pink, satiny robe, which was needed in the air-conditioned house. It made Ivy feel like part of the princess scene.
"Perfect," Suzanne repeated, lifting a long, tan leg, pointing her toes. She took a sudden ungraceful swat at the plant hanging over her lounge, then dropped her leg and laughed. Now that the pie and whipped cream had been washed out of her hair, she was in a much better mood.
"He is… perfect. Tell me the truth. Ivy," she said. "Does Gregory think about me often?"
"How would I know, Suzanne?"
Suzanne turned on her side to face Ivy. "Well, does Gregory talk about me?"
"He has," Ivy said cautiously.
"A lot?"
"Naturally he wouldn't say a lot to me. He knows I'm your best friend and would pass it along to you, or at least have it tortured out of me." Ivy grinned.
Suzanne sat up and whipped the towel off her head. A tumble of jet black hair fell over her shoulders.
"He's a flirt," she said. "Gregory will flirt with anyone — even you."
Ivy didn't take offense at the words even vou. "Of course he will," she said. "He knows it gets to you. He likes to play games, too."
Suzanne dropped her chin and smiled up at Ivy through wisps of damp hair.
"You know," Ivy went on, "you two are supplying Beth with a ton of material. She'll have written five Harlequins before we graduate from high school. If I were you, I'd ask for a cut."
"Mmm." Suzanne smiled to herself. "And I've only just begun."
Ivy laughed and stood up. "Well, I've got to go now."
"You're going? Wait! We've hardly talked about the other girls at the party."
They had dissected the other girls all the way home and shouted a dozen more catty comments over the loud drumming of Suzanne's shower.
"And we haven't talked about you," said Suzanne.
"Well, when it comes to me, there's really nothing to talk about," Ivy told her. She took off the robe and started folding it.
"Nothing? That's not what I heard," Suzanne said slyly.
"What did you hear?"
"Well, first off, I want you to know that when I heard it-" "Heard what?" Ivy asked impatiently. " — I told them all that, as someone who has known you a long time, I thought it unlikely." "Thought what unlikely?" Suzanne started combing her hair. "I may have even said very unlikely — I can't remember."
Ivy sat down. "Suzanne, what are you talking about?"
"At least I told them I was very surprised to hear that you were making out in the deep end with Eric."
Ivy's mouth dropped. "Making out with Eric! And you told them it was unlikely? More like totally impossible! Suzanne, you know I wouldn't!"
"I don't know anything for sure about you anymore. People do strange things when they're mourning.
They get lonely. They try different ways to forget… What exactly were you doing?"
"Playing a game."
"A kissing game?"
Ivy blew out through her lips. "A stupid game."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," Suzanne said. "I don't think Eric's right for you. He's much too fast, and he plays around with some weird stuff. But of course you should start dating again."
"No."
"Ivy, it's time you started living again." " Living and dating aren't the same thing," Ivy pointed out.
"They are to me," Suzanne replied. They both laughed. "What about Will?" Suzanne asked. "What about him?"
"Well, he's kind of a newcomer to Stonehill, like you, and an artsy type — like you. Gregory said that the paintings he's entering in the festival are awesome."
Gregory had told Ivy the same thing. She wondered if the two of them were conspiring to get her and Will together.
"You're not still angry about him drawing those angels, are you?" Suzanne asked.
Drawing a picture of Tristan as an angel wrapping his arms around me. Ivy corrected silently. "I know he thought it would make me feel better," she said aloud.
"So cut him a break, Ivy. I know what you're thinking. I know exactly how you feel. Remember when Sunbeam died, and I said, 'That's it for Pomeranians. I never want another dog again'? But I've got Peppermint now and—" "I'll think about it, okay?" Ivy knew Suzanne meant well, but losing Tristan wasn't quite like losing a fourteen-year-old half-blind and completely deaf dog. She was tired of dealing with people who meant well and said ridiculous things.
Fifteen minutes later Ivy was headed home, her old Dodge climbing the long drive up the ridge. Several months earlier she would not have believed it possible, but she had grown fond of the low stone wall and the patches of trees and runs of wild flowers she passed — her stepfather Andrew's wall and trees and flowers. The large white house on top of the hill, with its wings and double chimneys and heavy black shutters, actually seemed like home now. The high ceilings did not look so high to her, the wide hall and center staircase no longer intimidated her, though she still usually scooted up the back steps.
It was about an hour before dinner and Ivy looked forward to some time by herself in her music room. It had been four weeks exactly since Tristan died — though no one else seemed to have noticed the dateand four weeks exactly since she had stopped playing the piano. Her nine-year-old brother, Philip, had begged her to play for him as she once did. But every time she sat down on the bench she went cold inside. The music was frozen somewhere within her.
I have to get past this block. Ivy thought as she pulled her car into the garage behind the house.
The Stonehill Arts Festival was two weeks away, and Suzanne had registered her as a performer. If Ivy didn't practice soon, she and Philip would have to do their famous "Chopsticks" duet-Ivy paused outside the garage to watch Philip play beneath his tree house. He was so involved in his game, he didn't notice her.