Page 43 of The Book of Ivy

Page 43

 

  She turns me with her hands on my shoulders and then steps back, out of my reflection. I was worried I wouldn’t recognize myself, but I still look like me. Just a more elegant version. The front of my hair is upswept, but the rest trails halfway down my back, its usual wild waves smooth and shiny. But it’s the dress that really captures my attention. It hugs my body more than I thought it would, but it’s not skintight, the skirt floating out from my hips to skim the floor. My right shoulder is bare, my left partially covered where the lilac material gathers. I’ve never had a dress that was made for my body and not my sister’s. This dress makes me glad to be tall, for once not ashamed of my height and curves or anxious to conceal them. Tonight I see a pretty girl in the mirror, one at home in her skin, and I hope Bishop sees her, too.

  I don’t even notice Laura’s left the room until I hear her voice from the front of the house and Bishop’s deep voice in response. I turn from the mirror, unsure. Should I stay where I am? Walk out to meet him? I’m breathing too fast and my palms are damp. I imagine this is how a real bride is supposed to feel on her wedding day, which makes my anxiety even worse.

  Bishop saves me from having to decide what to do when he appears in the bedroom doorway. He stops when he sees me, leans one shoulder casually against the doorjamb. His eyes travel down the length of my body before journeying back up. He’s wearing a black suit and a coveted white shirt, open at the throat. No tie. I remember the day we met—how I looked at him and catalogued his features so objectively. I understood he was handsome, the same way I knew a pretty sunset or lovely flower when I saw it. But his beauty didn’t touch me. Now, when I look at him, I just see Bishop.

  And he takes my breath away.

  He pushes off from the doorjamb and crosses to where I stand, my hands clasped in front of me. He takes them in his, smoothing out my curled fingers. “So, is this the dress my mother made you crazy over?”

  I nod. He nods in return. “Remind me to thank her,” he says. He releases one of my hands and cups my cheek, lowers his head and kisses the curve of my neck right below my ear. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, “but that’s nothing new. ”

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” I say and feel his smile against my skin. I hook a finger into his open collar and pull lightly. “No tie?” I tease.

  He pulls back to look at me, his arms looping around my waist. “Hate them,” he says with a grin.

  “Your mother won’t be happy. ”

  “She’ll get over it. ” He tightens his hold on me. “Or we could stay home and really piss her off. ”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Absolutely not. ”

  He sighs and turns for the door, my hand clutched in his. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. ”

  Erin instructed us to be early, but we end up being some of the last to arrive, walking up the drive with a few other stragglers. Bishop doesn’t seem concerned, but I don’t want to give Erin any additional ammunition against me.

  Candles in tiny paper bags sparkle along the edges of the driveway and on the front steps of the house. As if in solidarity, fireflies flicker above the grass. When I was younger, there were summers you could scoop handfuls from the air without even trying, enough to fill a jar for a nighttime lantern or to make a glowing ring if you had the will to pluck the shimmering tails from their bodies. I never did, but Callie would do it for me. There is a lesson in there somewhere, if I care to think about it.

  From the corner of my eye, I can see the hulking shadow of the tree where my mother died. I don’t turn my head to look at it, but Bishop must sense my focus because he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. We have somehow reached the point where we can read each other without words, and I’m not sure when it happened. One more thing about Bishop Lattimer that has snuck up on me.

  Bishop’s parents greet us almost the second we step through the entryway. His father gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, tells me I look radiant. Erin is her usual standoffish self, but I catch a gleam of approval in her eyes as she takes me in. “Very nice,” she tells me. It’s the most I’m likely to get from her, and it’s enough.

  “You’re late,” she says to Bishop with pursed lips.

  “My fault,” I say before Bishop can take the blame. “Trouble with the dress. ”

  Erin graces me with a polite smile. “Better late than never, I suppose. ”

  Bishop leads me through the front hallway and out onto the back terrace. It’s the same twinkling wonderland as the front, ringed with candles and the lilting sound of laughter. On the far side of the terrace, there is a bar set up, and Bishop nods toward it. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Sure,” I say. It would be nice to have something to do with my nervous hands. I can feel the stares of the other guests on us, everyone wanting to see the president’s son and the founder’s daughter. I like it better when we are alone, inside our tiny house, safe from prying eyes.

  “I’ll be right back,” Bishop says. I watch him move away from me, taller than everyone else, his lean body cutting through the crowd. I work at not feeling self-conscious as people mill around me, a few offering kind smiles as they pass. If my father and sister are here, I haven’t seen any sign of them yet.

  Bishop is waiting in the line for drinks, and he looks back over his shoulder, his eyes finding mine. He gives me a small, intimate smile that heats my skin. I don’t look away from him, even when someone sidles up next to me.

  “Well, you two seem to have gotten cozier,” Callie’s voice says.

  I tear my eyes away from Bishop’s and look down at my sister. She is wearing a yellow dress that makes her complexion sallow, but her face is still beautiful. “He can’t keep his eyes off you,” she says, running her own gaze down the length of my dress.

  “I thought you’d think that was a good thing,” I say, annoyed.

  “I would. But you can’t keep your eyes off him, either. ”

  I turn away from her. I want her focus off Bishop. “Where’s Dad?”

  Callie points with her half-empty champagne flute to a far corner of the lawn. “Over there. ”

  I can just make out my father’s profile among a group of men clustered around a high table decorated with more candles. He is laughing, his head thrown back, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  “He wants the combination to the gun safe,” Callie says, her voice lowered.

  “He said he’d give me time,” I say, not looking at her.

  “He already has. ” She taps my forearm with her glass. “Time’s up. ”

  I glare at her and she cocks her head, like she’s studying a particularly intriguing, but ultimately smashable, bug. “I told him you wouldn’t come through. I must have said it a thousand times. That we’d end up having to do it all ourselves because you wouldn’t be able to handle it. You’re too soft, Ivy. You always have been. ”

  “Shut up, Callie,” I say, fists clenched. “I said I’d get the code and I’ll get it. So just shut up. ” I whirl away from her before I do something I’ll regret, like scream in her face or slap the smirk off her mouth.

  I push my way through the crowd and back into the house. I don’t even know where I’m headed, so long as it’s away from Callie.