The Power of Love kbaa-2 Page 3

  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.

  But Ella did. It was as if the cat had been waiting for her, her green eyes wide and staring expectantly.

  She was purring even before Ivy rubbed her around her ears, her favorite spot, then she followed Ivy inside, Ivy called hello to her mother and Henry, the cook, who were sitting at a table in the kitchen. Henry looked weary, and her mother, whose most complicated recipes were copied off soup cans, looked confused. Ivy guessed that they were planning another menu for a dinner entertaining benefactors of Andrew's college.

  "How was the party, dear?" her mother asked.

  "Good."

  Henry was busily scratching items off Maggie's list. "Chicken a la king, chocolate pie with whipped cream," he said, sniffing with disapproval.

  "See you later," Ivy said. When neither of diem looked up, she headed for the back stairs.

  The west side of the house, where the dining room, kitchen, and family room were, was the most-used section. A narrow gallery lined by pictures connected the family room to the wing occupied by Andrew's office on the first floor and Gregory's bedroom on the second. Ivy took the small staircase that ran up from the gallery, then crossed through the passage that led back into the main part of the house, into the hall with her room and Philip's. As soon as she entered her room she smelled something sweet-She gasped with surprise. On her bureau, next to the photo of Tristan in his favorite baseball cap and old school jacket, were a dozen lavender roses. Ivy walked toward them. Tears rose quickly in her eyes, as if the salty drops had been there all along without her knowing.

  Tristan had given her fifteen lavender roses the day after they argued about her belief in angels — one for each of her angel statues. When he saw how much she loved their unusual color, he'd bought her more, giving them to her on the way to a romantic dinner the night of the accident.

  There was a note next to these roses. Gregory's jagged handwriting was never easy to decipher, and less so through tears. She wiped her eyes and tried again.

  "I know these have been the hardest four weeks of your life," the note said.

  Ivy lifted down the vase and laid her face lightly against die fragrant petals. Gregory had been there for her, looking out for her, since die night of die accident. While everyone else was encouraging her to remember dial night and talk about die accident — because, they said, it would help her heal — he'd let her take her time, let her find her own way of healing. Perhaps it was his own loss, his mother's suicide, that had made him so understanding.

  His note fluttered to die floor. Ivy quickly leaned over and picked it up. It fluttered down a second time.

  When she tried to pick it up again, the paper tore a little in her fingers, as if it had caught on something.

  Ivy frowned and gently smoothed the note. Then she set it back on die bureau, slipping one corner under die heavy vase.

  Despite die tears, she felt more peaceful now. She decided to try playing die piano, hoping she'd be able to find the music within her. "Come on, Ella. Upstairs. I need to practice."

  The cat followed her through a door in the bedroom that hid a steep flight of steps leading to the house's third floor. Ivy's music room, which had a sloping roof and one dormer window had been furnished by Andrew as a gift to her. It was still hard for Ivy to believe she had her own piano, a baby grand with gleaming, un-chipped keys, kept perfectly in tune. She still marveled at the sound of the CD system, as well as the old-fashioned phonograph that could play the collection of jazz records that had belonged to her father.

  At first Ivy had been embarrassed by the way Andrew lavished expensive gifts on both her and Philip.

  She had thought it angered Gregory. But now it seemed so long ago, those months when she'd thought that Gregory hated her for invading his life at home and school.

  Ella scurried ahead of her into die room and leaped up on the piano.

  "So, you're sure I'm going to play today," Ivy said.

  The cat still had her wide-eyed look and stared just beyond Ivy, purring.

  Ivy pulled out music books, trying to decide what to play. Anything, anything, just to get her fingers going. For the festival she would do something from one of her past recitals. As she sorted through classical scores she set aside a book of songs from Broadway musicals. That was the only kind of old, soft music that Tristan, a rock fan, had known.

  She reached for Liszt and opened the score. Her hands trembled as they touched the smooth keys and she started her scales. Her fingers liked the familiar feel of the stretches; the repetitive rise and fall of notes soothed her. She glanced up at the opening measures of "Liebes
traum" and willed herself to play.

  Her hands took over then, and it was as if she had never stopped playing. For a month she had been holding herself so tightly; now she gave in to the music that swirled up around her. The melody wanted to carry her, and she let it, let it take her wherever it would lead.

  "I love you, Ivy, and one day you're going to believe me."

  She stopped playing. The sense of him overwhelmed her. The memory was so strong-him standing behind her in the moonlight, listening to her play — that she could not believe he was gone. Her head fell forward over the piano. "Tristan! I miss you, Tristan!"

  She cried as if someone had just now told her that he was dead. It will never get easier, she thought.

  Never.

  Ella crowded close to her head, nosing her. When Ivy's tears stopped flowing, she reached for the cat.

  Then she heard a sound: three distinct notes. Ella's feet must have slipped. Ivy thought. She must have stepped down on the piano keys.

  Ivy blinked back the wetness and cuddled the cat in her arms. "What would I do without you, Ella?"

  She held the cat until she was breathing normally again. Then she set her gently on the bench and got up to wash her face. Ivy was halfway across the room, with her back to the piano, when she heard the same three notes again. This time the identical set of three was struck twice.

  She turned back to the cat, who blinked up at her. Ivy laughed through a fresh trickle of tears. "Either I'm going crazy, Ella, or you've been practicing." Then she descended the stairs to her bedroom.

  She wanted to pull the shades and sleep now, but she didn't let herself. She didn't believe the pain would ever lessen, but she had to keep going, keep focusing on the people around her. She knew that Philip had given up on hen He had stopped asking her to play with him three weeks ago. Now she'd go outside and ask him.

  From the back door she saw him performing some kind of magic cooking ritual beneath two large maples and his new tree house. Sticks were arranged in a pile and an old crockpot sat on top.

  It's only a matter of time. Ivy thought, before he decides to light one of these piles and sets fire to Andrew's landscaped yard. He had already done chalk drawings on the driveway.

  She watched him with some amusement, and as she did the six notes floated back into her head. The repeated triplets were familiar to her, from some song she had heard long ago. Suddenly words attached themselves to the notes. "When you walk through a storm…"

  Remembering the words slowly. Ivy sang, "When you walk through a storm… keep your head up high."

  She paused. "And don't be afraid of the dark." The song was from the musical Carousel. She couldn't recall much about the play except that at the end, a man who had died returned with an angel to someone he loved. The title of the song floated into her mind.

  " 'You'll Never Walk Alone,'" she said aloud.

  She put her hand up to her mouth. She was going crazy, imagining Ella playing certain notes, imagining music with a message. Still, Ivy found some comfort in remembering that song.

  Across the lawn Philip was chanting his own soft song over a pot of weedy greens. Ivy approached him quietly. When he looked up and waved a wand at her, she could fell he was making her a character in his game. She played along.

  "Can you help me, sir?" she said. "I've been lost in the woods for days. I'm far from home, with nothing to eat."

  "Sit down, little girl," Philip said in a quivery old-man voice.

  Ivy bit her lip to keep from giggling. "I will feed you."

  "You're not — you're not a witch, are you?" she asked with dramatic caution.

  "No."

  "Good," she said, sitting down by the "camp-fire," pretending to warm her hands.

  Philip carried the pot of leaves and weeds to her. "I'm a wizard."

  "Eiiiii" She jumped up.

  Philip exploded with laughter, then quickly assumed his serious, wizardly look again. "I'm a good wizard."

  "Phewl" "Except when I'm mean."

  "I see," said Ivy. "What's your name, wizard?"

  "Andrew."

  The choice took her aback for a moment, but she decided not to say anything about it. "Is that your house, Wizard Andrew?" she asked, pointing to the tree house above them. Philip nodded.

  The other Andrew, the one who did magic with his credit cards, had hired carpenters to rebuild the tree house Gregory had played in as a child. It was more than doubled in size now, with a narrow boardwalk leading to the maple next to it, where more flooring and railings had been hammered into place. In both trees, upper levels had been added. A rope ladder dangled from one maple, and a thick rope that ended in a knot beneath a swing seat hung from the other. It was everything a kid could want, and moreGregory and Ivy had agreed on that after climbing around in it one day when Philip was out.

  "Do you want to come up to my hideout?" Philip asked her now. "You'll be safe from all the wild beasts, little girl."

  He scampered up the rope ladder and Ivy followed, enjoying the physical effort, the hard rub of the rope against her palms, and the way the wind and her own motion made the ladder sway. They climbed up two levels from the main floor, then stopped to catch their breath. "It's nice up here, Wiz."

  "It's safe," Philip replied. "Except when the silver snake comes."

  Fifty yards beyond them was the low stone wall marking the end of the Baines property. From there, the earth dropped away steeply into a landslide of jagged rocks, tangled scrub, and spindly trees that bent in odd ways to keep their hold in the rocky ground. Far below the Baines property was Stonehill's tiny railroad station, but from the tree house one could hear only the whistles of the trains as they ran between the river and the ridge.

  Farther to the north. Ivy could see a twisting piece of blue, like a ribbon cut from die sky and dropped between the trees, and, next to it, a train crawling along, flashing back die sunlight.

  She pointed to it. "What's that Wizard Andrew?"

  "The silver snake," he replied without hesitation.

  "Will it bite?"

  "Only if you stand in its way. Then it will gobble you up and spit you out in the river."

  "Ugh."

  "Sometimes at night it climbs up die ridge," Philip said, his face absolutely serious.

  "It couldn't."

  "It does!" he insisted. "And you have to be very careful. You can't make it angry."

  "Okay, I won't say a word."

  He nodded approvingly, then warned, "You can't let it know you're afraid. You have to hold your breath."

  "Hold my breath?" Ivy studied her brother.

  "It will see you if you move. It watches you even when you don't think it's watching. Day and night."

  Where was he getting this stuff from?

  "It can smell you if you're afraid."

  Was he really frightened of something, or was this just a game? she wondered. Philip had always had an active imagination, but it seemed to her it was becoming overactive and darker. Ivy wished his friend Sammy would return from summer camp. Her brother had everything he could want now, but he was too isolated from other kids. He was living too much in his own world.

  "The snake won't get me, Philip," she told him, almost sternly. "I'm not afraid of it. I'm not afraid of anything," she said, "because we're safe in our house. All right?"

  "All right, little girl, you stay here," he said. "And don't let anyone else in. I'm going over to my other house and get some magic clothes for you. They will make you invisible."

  Ivy smiled a little. How would she play invisible? Then she picked up a battered broom and began to sweep off the flooring.

  Suddenly she heard Philip yelp. She spun around and saw him tottering on the edge of the narrow boardwalk, sixteen feet above the ground. She dropped the broom and rushed toward him, but knew she couldn´t catch him in time.

  Then, just as suddenly, he was balanced again.

  He dropped down on all fours and looked back over his shoulder. The rapt expression on his
face stopped Ivy in her tracks. She had seen that look on his face before: the wonder, the glow of pleasure, his mouth half open in a shy smile.

  "What happened?" Ivy asked, moving toward him slowly now. "Did you trip?"

  He shook his head, then picked up the loose end of a board.

  Ivy leaned down to study it. The bridge had been constructed like a miniature boardwalk, with two long, thin boards secured between the two trees and a series of short planks laid across them. The short planks overhung the boards a few Inches on each side. This particular plank was nailed loosely on one side — Ivy could pull the nail out with her hands; on the other side there was a hole, but no nail.

  "When I stepped here" — Philip pointed—"the other side came up."

  "Like a seesaw," said Ivy. "It's a good thing you didn't lose your balance."

  Philip nodded. "Good thing my angel was right here."

  Ivy sucked in her breath. " 'Cause sometimes he isn't. Though he usually is when you're around."

  Ivy closed her eyes and shook her head. "He's gone now," said Philip.

  Good, thought Ivy. "Philip, we've talked about this before. There are no such things as angels. All you have is a bunch of statues—" "Your statues," he interrupted. "I'm taking good care of them."

  "I told you," she said, her throat tightening and her head starting to throb, "I told you that if you wanted to keep those statues, you must never speak to me about angels again. Didn't I tell you that?"

  He lowered his head and nodded. "Didn't you promise?" He nodded again.

  Ivy sighed and pulled up the piece of wood. "Now slide around behind me. Before you go any farther, I want to check each board."

  "But, Ivy," he said, "I saw my angel! I saw him catch the wood on the other side and push it down so I wouldn't fall. I saw him!"

  Ivy sat back on her heels. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. He was wearing wings and a night-gown, and had a little saucer of light on his head."

  "No, he was just light. He was just shining. I think he has sort of a shape, but it's always hard for me to see it. It's hard for me to see his face," Philip said. His own young face was earnest.