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Mrs. Lattimer nods, as though my color preference needs her approval. Granted, it probably does. “Maybe a lilac, Susan?”
“Yes, I was thinking the same thing. ” Susan motions for me to follow her and, as I do, Mrs. Lattimer pulls the shades closed on the front window. “Take everything off but your bra and panties,” Susan says matter-of-factly, “and stand right here. ” She positions me in front of the huge mirrored wall.
I’ve never considered myself a particularly shy person, but there’s something about stripping down to my underpants in front of Bishop’s mother that has me rattled. She must sense my hesitation because she snaps her fingers at me. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s nothing we haven’t seen before. ”
I kick off my shoes without another word, unzip my pants and step out of them, and pull my T-shirt over my head. My black bra and underwear look very dark against my pale skin. I face the mirror with my chin high and fight the hot blush working its way up my neck into my cheeks.
Susan holds up a finger, telling me to wait, and disappears behind the curtain to the back. I try not to fidget, but Mrs. Lattimer is watching me in the mirror and her gaze makes me nervous. I can’t help feeling like she’s sizing me up to see if I’m good enough for her son. Susan finally returns with a length of pale purple fabric in her arms. She holds it up against my chest and nods. Mrs. Lattimer moves closer, gathering my hair in her hands and pulling it back. “I think that color’s perfect for her,” she says.
“I agree,” says Susan. “Maybe a full-length skirt and”—she shifts the fabric to drape over my shoulder—“one shoulder covered?”
“Where did you get this material?” I ask. It’s richer and softer than the homespun material sold at the market.
“Leftover from before the war,” Susan says. “Isn’t it beautiful? We have dozens of bolts of different fabrics in back. I hate to think of the day when it’s all gone. We barely have anything this nice anymore. ”
“It’s very pretty,” I say, because they are both looking at me. Once they go back to talking about the style of dress, I tune them out. Now that I know I’m safe from strapless, I don’t care what they come up with. So it takes me a second to realize Mrs. Lattimer is speaking to me.
“You really are lovely,” she tells me, her eyes on the fabric in the mirror.
I am? I’ve never bothered to think about it much. I mean, I know I’m not unattractive; enough boys have given me second looks for me to know that. But in my house, beauty was not prized. No one ever gave compliments about looks, other than Callie’s teasing about my height and curves. The lack of focus on physical appearance was a good thing, in a lot of ways. But there’s something sad about your own father never calling you pretty, about not even really knowing whether you are.
“Thank you,” I say as Susan disappears back behind the curtain with the lilac fabric.
Mrs. Lattimer looks up at my face in the mirror. She runs her thin fingers over my hair, jerking my head as she tears through a stubborn tangle to send a drift of pale strands floating to the floor. “You’ve got your mother’s hair. It looks just like hers. Color of fresh honey. ” From the tone of her voice, it is hard to tell whether she’s bestowed me with a compliment or a curse.
I am growing tired of the constant comparisons to my mother lately. They make me doubly thankful for Bishop, who, when he looks at me, sees only me, not the shadow of some long-dead memory.
“You knew my mother, too?” I ask.
Mrs. Lattimer smiles, but it’s mirthless. “A smart woman always knows her competition. ”
Well, that answers the question of exactly how much Mrs. Lattimer knew about the relationship between her husband and my mother. Did her heart sing the day they found my mother hanging from the tree because her rival was finally gone? Or did it break because she knew that from that day on, her husband would never, ever be truly free of my mother?
“You hate that I’m the one he married, don’t you?” I ask.
Mrs. Lattimer sighs. “I hate that every time I see you, I see her. But whatever you might think, I’m fair enough to know that’s not your fault. ” She fingers the pearls at her throat, her eyes like chipped ice. “I want my son to be happy. And if you can do that for him, then we won’t have a problem. ”
I notice my happiness does not enter into the equation. And I know that if Mrs. Lattimer had even the slightest inkling of my plans for her son, she would not hesitate one second to destroy me. She, I think, is probably the most ruthless of us all.
Susan returns with a box of beads, which she shows to Mrs. Lattimer. There is some discussion about making a chain with them to wind through my hair.
“Pull it all up?” Susan says, eyeing my mane.
“No, I don’t think all of it up,” Mrs. Lattimer says. “That’s too severe for her. Having some down around her face suits her. ”
I look at her in the mirror and think I see a little give in her eyes as she looks at me, a very minor softening. But when I try to give her a tiny smile in return, her face turns stern. “Hold still, Ivy,” she says. “We’re a long way from done. ”
As mid-summer begins its long, slow descent into fall, my life takes on a newly familiar rhythm. I wake early and eat breakfast with Bishop before work. At night we reverse the routine, eating dinner together before Bishop begins tinkering with whatever needs fixing around the house. There’s always some project requiring his attention. Some nights I retire to the screened porch and read. Others, I sit and watch him work; he’s efficient but not in a hurry. Bishop never rushes, never seems like he has anything to do other than what he’s doing at that moment. Just being near him calms my racing mind.
We are easier with each other than we were in the beginning. We talk about safe things—my job, the coming winter, the plans for his father’s birthday celebration. We do not touch. The lack of contact does not feel like the relief that it should.
I know my days with him are running short. My father has given me the time he promised. Time to come to terms with what he’s asking of me and what he expects. But he can’t afford to wait forever and I can’t keep dragging my feet. The three-month deadline is coming up fast. Whenever I picture Callie in my head, all I can see is her standing with her arms crossed, toe tapping impatiently. Get on with it, Ivy. Soon I will have to find a way into the gun safe, and then it will be too late to turn back.
But for tonight, I just long for something good to eat, some quiet conversation, to watch Bishop’s eyes light up as he smiles. There are no dinner smells drifting from the kitchen when I come in the front door, though. No lamps are on in the house and the rooms have a shadowed twilight glow.
“I’m out here,” Bishop’s voice calls from the screened porch.
I step through from the kitchen and he’s sitting on the floor, next to the squat table between the wicker couches. The table is covered in an old tablecloth that puddles onto the floor. On the table is an assortment of meats and cheeses, fresh fruit, cut vegetables, slices of bread. A cluster of unlit candles sits at one end, next to a pitcher of water.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“Ice didn’t get delivered,” Bishop says. “Figured we might as well stuff ourselves before the food goes bad. ” He looks around the ivy-shrouded porch. “Semi-indoor picnic. ”