The Man Plan (17 page)

He’d taken Ivy out to dinner and a movie the other night as a kind of thank-you. She was posing for him, her modesty protected by a cleverly draped sheet. Easy as it might seem to find willing models here in the city, the professional ones wanted to be paid, and Kip’s job barely covered his rent. Taking pity, she’d agreed to help him out—no charge.

During their sessions, they talked. About art. About life and philosophy. About the miserable state of their love lives.

She hadn’t heard from James in nearly a month, despite Neil’s hopeful prediction that he’d come to his senses and admit he couldn’t live without her.

She was beginning to fear he could live without her just fine.

She’d considered throwing herself at him again, but what was the use? She’d only end up humiliating them both. Then again, what was the point of pride where love was at stake?

“I’m ready,” Rhonda sang out, handing her purchase and platinum card to Ivy.

They chatted casually while Ivy rang up the sale. She slipped the garments into a protective plastic bag, turned to hand them over to her client.

Rhonda extended a small white business card. “I have a little place on Thompson Street you might find interesting,” she said. “I’m not usually in the habit of doing this sort of thing, but I see possibilities in you, Ivy. No guarantees, but give me a call. We’ll see what develops.”

Ivy accepted the card, mildly perplexed.

Before she had time to look at it, another customer drew her attention. She tucked the card inside her pocket and promptly forgot all about it.

On break nearly two hours later, she relaxed in a chair in the back room, sipped an iced tea, and rested her weary feet. Only then did she remember the card.

She pulled it from her pocket and read:

West Galleries

Thompson Street, SoHo, NYC

Rhonda West, Proprietor

Rhonda West?

Her mouth dropped open, eyes wide. Everyone in the Western world—or at least in the art world—had heard of Rhonda West and West Galleries. Some of the finest artists working today exhibited their work in her gallery.

She had a little place, she’d said. Some little place!

My God, Pantsuit Rhonda was Rhonda West? She couldn’t believe she hadn’t put two and two together and recognized her name from her credit card.

And Rhonda had told her to give her a call.

Her heart thundered like a storm inside her chest.

Smoothing out the card with trembling fingers, she stared at it again to make certain it was real.

She had an interview with the owner of one of the top galleries in New York.

Maybe sometimes miracles did come true.

*   *   *

“Good evening, sir. How are you this evening?”

James strode up the sidewalk to his building, briefcase in hand. He gave a friendly nod to the familiar gray-haired gentleman who held open the door with the dignity worthy of royalty.

“I’m well. And you, Barton? Pleasant day?”

“Very pleasant, sir. Particularly so since Miss Grayson arrived.”

“Miss Grayson? You mean Ivy’s here?” he blurted before he had time to think.

“Yes. She went up about twenty minutes ago. I presumed you were expecting her.”

He wiped the emotion from his face, struggled to conceal the sudden leaping of his nerves. “Of course. She’s earlier than I’d planned, that’s all.”

What was she doing here? he wondered as he continued into the building and onto the elevator.

The delicious murmur of her voice came to him the moment he opened the door. He let it wash over him, sweet as a warm spring rain. He listened for a few
moments more before he set down his briefcase and forced himself to move forward into the living room, where she was in conversation with Estella.

“. . . and that’s exactly what he got,” Estella said. “Two cents.”

Ivy was chuckling when he entered the room, a gentle smile limning her pink lips.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, striding toward them across an expanse of polished hardwood.

Ivy’s head swung his way, her pretty eyes lighting with pleasure. “James.”

The sound of his name on her lips slid over him like a caress. The sight of her long feminine form curled on his sofa, a blow to his senses. Through sheer force of will, he kept his features even, in no way revealing the longing that rose within him.

“You didn’t mention you’d be stopping by,” he remarked, his tone deliberately casual.

“I didn’t know I would be,” Ivy replied.

“She’s got news,” Estella said, her excitement palpable.

James switched his attention to the older woman. “I thought you’d be finished for the day by now.”

“I am, but I couldn’t run off without visiting with Miss Ivy.” She flapped a hand and teased. “Don’t worry. I won’t charge you any overtime.”

He snorted softly in reply, crossed to the wet bar on the far side of the room, and reached for the bourbon decanter.

“Go on, child,” Estella urged after a pronounced silence. “Tell him your news.”

“Yes.” He turned, drink in hand. “Tell me your news.”

Ivy rose from the couch to face him, dismayed by the hard undertone in his voice.

She’d been so happy this afternoon, so over the moon with excitement, that she hadn’t stopped to think. She’d wanted to share her achievement, reveal her triumph to someone who mattered.

Of course, he’d been the first person she’d thought of.

When she’d received the offer, it had been early afternoon. She’d considered surprising him at his office but worried he might be too busy to celebrate properly. So she’d come here to his penthouse to wait.

But now, as she looked at him across the room, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. He looked . . . cold, remote. She’d known him her entire life, yet suddenly he seemed like a stranger. His eyes were so flat and blue.

His look made her want to shiver.

She shuffled her feet. “This woman came into Reflections the other day, you know, the shop where I work.”

“I know where you work.”

“She wanted an outfit for a party. I helped her.”

James rattled the ice cubes in his glass, downed a half inch of the contents as if he were already bored.

She lifted her chin, pressed on. “She was very nice, and as we chatted, my art came up in the conversation. Turns out she’s Rhonda West.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Of West Galleries?”

That caught your attention, didn’t it?
she thought.

“The very same,” she continued. “She gave me her
card, told me to call her. Well, I did; then I did better. She took a look at my portfolio today, at least what I have finished of it, and she loves it. She said she rarely accepts representational art, but she’s giving me a show. It’s not solo. I’ll be exhibiting with three other artists, but still it’s a great opportunity.”

He set his drink aside. “You’ve been asked into the West Gallery?”

“I have.”

The chill broke suddenly as he crossed to her, grabbed her up in an exuberant hug.

She relaxed against him with relief, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. She breathed in the musky warmth trapped in his clothes from his long day, savored the delicious, male scent she knew to be his alone.

She closed her eyes, curled her arms around him, and basked in his embrace.

He pulled back but left his hands loose on her arms. “That’s wonderful, Ivy. I’m so happy for you, so proud. I knew you’d do it.”

“You’ll be at the opening?”

“You couldn’t keep me away.”

“It’s scheduled for November first.” She stepped back, gesturing with her hands. “I have so much work to do before then. I don’t know how I’m going to get it all done in time.”

“You have about two months, plenty of time to produce.”

“Not really, not with my job. I told Rhonda I’d have at least one more piece, maybe two, done in time for the show.”

“Surely you’re not planning to keep that ridiculous job?”

“I am. There’s no guaranteeing how many of my paintings will sell. Rhonda’s very enthusiastic, but even so, it’s unusual for an artist to make much profit at first. Chances are I’ll still need that
ridiculous job
to make ends meet.”

She shouldn’t let them, but his words stung.

“You wouldn’t need a job at all if you’d let people help you. If you weren’t so stubborn,” he said, dismissing her statement.

Her shoulders stiffened. “It isn’t a matter of being stubborn.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Estella interrupted with deliberate cheerfulness, “I think Miss Ivy’s news is splendid and no reason for anyone to get all disagreeable over.”

Scolded like a pair of naughty children, Ivy and James fell silent.

Ivy flushed, realizing she’d completely forgotten Estella was in the room, she’d been so wrapped up in James. Looking at him, she saw he’d only just remembered Estella’s presence as well.

She fought to rein in her temper, to regain her earlier high spirits. She gazed at him. “Estella’s right. This is a happy day. I thought we might have dinner together tonight to celebrate.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a frown marring his even features as if some unpleasant thought had just crossed his mind.

Abruptly, he turned, walked back to the wet bar. He
raised his glass and drank down the last inch of alcohol inside. “Sorry, but I can’t. I have plans.”

Her smile faded. The chilly stranger was back. “Oh, well, another time, then.”

He glanced at his watch. “I don’t mean to be rude, Ivy, but you’ve just reminded me of the time. I need to change or I’ll be late.”

She stared.

Does he have a date?

A greasy wave of nausea rose in her stomach at the idea. Blindly, she turned away.

She took a long moment to compose herself, then approached the coffee table. Leaning over, she picked up the small, gaily wrapped box sitting there.

She turned back. “Well, then,” she said with a brightness she didn’t feel, “I’d better give this to you now. It’s your birthday present.”

For an instant she thought he wasn’t going to accept it; then he reached out.

“Promise you won’t open it before Sunday,” she admonished. “I know how much you hate to wait.”

She decided not to ask him how he planned to spend the day. Whether he’d made any special arrangements to celebrate and with whom. It was clear she wouldn’t be invited.

“I don’t want to keep you.” She fumbled for her purse, abandoned in a nearby wing chair. “I’ll send you an announcement about the opening. Do . . . do you think Tory would be interested in coming?”

For an instant, his eyes seemed sad. “I’m certain she would.”

“Good. Well, then, I’ll include her as well.”

She crossed to Estella, hugged her quickly. “Take care. Send my best to your family.”

Estella hugged her in return. “I’ll do that, child. I can’t wait to see all that art of yours displayed in a fine gallery, ’specially that picture you did of me. Won’t everyone be amazed when they look up and discover this face of mine staring back at them?”

Ivy exchanged another smile with Estella, then swung around toward James. “I’ll see you then, I suppose.”

He hadn’t moved, the present with its shiny black-and-white-checkered paper and curly red ribbon clutched absently in his hands.

“Yes,” he said. “Congratulations again, Ivy. I’m happy for you.”

She gazed at him, wished he might say more, might explain why he’d turned so distant.

When he didn’t, she walked away and let herself out.

The sound of the door closing behind her echoed in the hall like the cry of a lonely little bird.

“Why’d you let her go like that?” Estella demanded, her broad hands sitting squarely on her broad hips. “Why’d you let her think you’re meeting another woman tonight?”

“Maybe I am. I don’t recall including you in my personal life.” He carefully placed the present Ivy’d given him to one side, poured himself another drink.

“Hmmph. If you did, maybe you wouldn’t be trying to numb yourself up with what’s in that glass. It’s plain you love that girl. Why don’t you just admit it and put the both of you out of your misery?”

“Leave it alone, Estella.”

“She adores you, good-tempered or bad, in a way that’s purely uncommon. Don’t know what all the trouble’s about between the pair of you anyway.”

He slammed down his drink, bourbon sloshing over the rim onto his fingers. “I told you to leave it alone, so leave it alone.”

Estella fixed him with a hard black-eyed stare, then shrugged. “Fine. It’s your grave. Dig it deep as you want, but don’t be surprised when it’s cold and lonely down there at the bottom.”

He turned on the tap, rinsed the alcohol from his hand. “Good night, Estella.”

His tone made it clear the subject was closed.

“Good night, Mr. James. I’ll be by Tuesday, as usual.”

When the penthouse was quiet and he was alone, James topped off his drink. He supposed he should find himself something to eat. He wasn’t in the mood to go out. And he certainly didn’t want to cook.

Estella’d guessed right. He had lied about the date. There weren’t any new women in his life. There hadn’t been anyone since Ivy.

He thought of several names—attractive, available females who would no doubt be delighted to hear from him. Perhaps he should look up a number or two, give one of them a call.

He toyed with the idea as he picked up the pretty package Ivy’d brought him. Then he raised his drink and carried both of them into his study.

“W
ant a glass of juice or something?” Kip Zahn inquired from his spot on the wide living room sofa.

Ivy dipped the fine sable bristles of her paintbrush into a blob of the caramel-colored paint. She made a careful mixture of yellow ochre, burnt umber, and titanium white, then stroked the gleaming oil across her newest work, a half-completed canvas she’d set up on an easel shortly after dawn.

The morning light was better here next to the front windows, she’d found, today’s crisp, cloudless sunshine a blessing in the early-October sky. She didn’t want to dawdle and miss the best moments of the day.

Of course, she could compensate if she had to. Drag the tall pair of photographic lights she used for evening work out of her bedroom, though she’d rather not. The equipment was heavy and hot and she worried she’d blow out a fuse again if she tried plugging them in next
to Josh’s stereo the way she had a few unfortunate weeks ago.

“No, thanks,” she murmured to Kip’s question as she concentrated on feathering in a few fine brushstrokes. “I’m good for now.”

Kip stood and walked into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, he perused the contents. “Thanks again for letting me crash here last night.” He pulled out a pizza box that held the remains of last night’s dinner. “Your couch was a godsend.”

“No problem. I don’t know where your building management expected all of you to go, kicking you out like they did with barely any notice.”

“It was fumigate or face court-ordered fines, since the creepy-crawlies were about to carry the place off. After the Lewis kid got bitten by that Chihuahua-sized rat, the pressure was on. Fix it up or else. A couple nights’ eviction is worth a critter-free building. Though the place is gonna stink like a toxic waste dump for weeks from the fumes.”

“Are you sure it’s safe for you to move back in today?”

“So they claim,” he said in between bites of pepperoni and cheese. “If I die, ship my body back home to my folks in California.”

She pointed her paintbrush at him. “Don’t even talk that way. It’s not funny. And the sofa’s open for as many nights as you need.”

He strolled over to her, dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You rock. Almost makes me wish I’d met you first instead of Melissa.”

Ivy read the pain in his expression, the longing he couldn’t seem to shake for the young woman who’d rejected him.

She knew exactly how he felt.

She didn’t want to think about James—hard to do, though, when he happened to be the subject of her painting.

She freshened her brush with a daub of red.

She remembered the day she’d done the pencil study for this painting. A lazy Saturday, she’d coaxed him into his conservatory to keep her company while she sketched some of the plant life housed beneath the high glass skylights above. Surreptitiously, she’d made pencil sketches of him as well, capturing him where he sat bathed in easy arcs of sunlight and afternoon shadow, a faraway look in his eye.

How long ago those days seemed now. How innocent and hopeful and foolish.

Kip stood to one side, studying her progress. “So, that’s him, is it? James Edward Jordan the fourth. Rather cool and patrician, isn’t he?”

“He only seems that way on the surface. Inside he’s warm and generous, kind in a way few people are.”

“Still defending him, are you, despite the way he’s hurt you?”

“He never asked me to love him. As much as I wish he felt the same, I can’t really blame him for doubting my feelings. He’s never had much love in his life. His parents are . . . self-absorbed; I suppose that’s the best way to describe them. They’ve spent their lives traveling the world, leaving James behind.”

She swished her brush in the turpentine. “Growing up, I remember how my mother always made a point of inviting him to join us for holidays and birthdays. Otherwise he would have been left by himself in that huge rambling house next to ours with no one but the servants for company. I didn’t realize until I was older how things were for him. How much he depended on my family, depended on Madelyn, to bring some happiness into his life.”

Ivy drew a breath and sighed. “She hurt him. She hurt him badly. I suppose it’s no wonder he doesn’t trust me.”

“You’re not her. You shouldn’t be blamed for your sister’s mistakes.”

“No, but some part of him can’t forgive her, and therefore, me. Some part of him still doubts anyone will ever truly love him.”

James is scared,
she realized with sudden clarity. Scared to love, scared to trust again, the way he had once before with a completeness that had been almost blind in its intensity. He wouldn’t let himself love again so easily. She’d always known that, but until this moment she hadn’t fully understood what it could mean.

Kip voiced the next question. “So how long are you going to wait, hoping he’ll change his mind?”

She turned to him, a ripening maturity and a fresh resolve shining in her eyes. “As long as it takes.”

Forever,
she thought,
if need be.

If only she could find a way to get close to him again. If only she could make him see she wasn’t flighty or
fickle. He’d been so remote that day at his penthouse. Almost angry.

Why?
she wondered. Was it simply his way of pushing her farther out of his life, or was it something more?

“Please tell me there’s coffee,” Josh grumbled, interrupting her thoughts.

He shuffled in from the hall, wearing white boxers and a robe dotted with little drums and guitars, baggy red socks on his big feet. His dark, uncombed hair stuck out in crazy rooster clumps all over his head. Bleary-eyed, he all but stumbled into the kitchen.

“There’s fresh in the pot,” she told him, her mood lightening at the comically pitiful picture he made.

She and Kip watched him retrieve a pair of mugs from the cabinet, bang them on the counter, shovel three teaspoons of sugar into one and coffee into both. He raised the unsweetened one to his mouth, uncaring that he nearly scalded himself on a pair of steaming droplets that sloshed out of the cup.

Eyes closed, he grunted with pleasure.

Frederick, fresh from his morning shower, strolled into the living room. His short hair lay damp and curling, his lean, muscular body clothed in loose gray exercise pants and a long-sleeved blue tank top. “Morning, everyone.”

Ivy and Kip returned the greeting.

Josh grunted again.

Fred reached into the refrigerator for a yogurt, then rattled the wobbly silverware drawer open for a spoon. He peeled the foil top off the carton. “You’re all still
coming tonight, right?” he asked expectantly, taking a bite.

“Coming to what?” Josh asked.

“Tonight’s performance. The ballet, remember? I’m dancing the lead.”

“Oh, that.” Josh picked up the second mug of coffee he’d poured, a cup in each hand. “Sure, we’re coming. Why the hell else would I be up so early? I took an a.m. shift today so I’d have the night off.” He yawned. “Neil wants his coffee. I want a shower. Later, people.”

He disappeared down the hallway. The sound of a door closing rang out moments later.

“Don’t mind him,” she said, seeing Fred’s offended glare. “He doesn’t mean to be rude.”

“No, he is rude. And it’s not your job to apologize for him.” Fred chomped down another spoonful of yogurt. “Trouble with Josh is, every time you’re on the verge of punching his lights out, he turns around and does something nice. Bastard went and fixed the leaking showerhead yesterday. Did you notice?”

She exchanged a grin with Kip, then wiped her paintbrush on a rag. “Yeah. Rotten of him, wasn’t it?”

“At least he could thank me for the complimentary tickets,” Fred continued. “I scrounged extra so all of you could come. Should have made him pay for his.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to tonight,” she soothed. “And I appreciate the free seats.”

“Same here, man,” Kip seconded. “I’ve never been to the ballet.”

“Then it’s about time you went.” Finished with what
passed for breakfast, Fred chucked the empty carton into the trash.

“Is that all you’re going to eat?” she asked.

Fred laid a hand across his flat stomach. “Can’t afford anything more, not today. The less of me there is, the higher I’ll fly onstage.” He glanced at the time gleaming in red numerals on the microwave. “Which reminds me that I’d better be flying out of here now or I’ll be late for practice and rehearsal. Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” she and Kip chorused.

A knock sounded on the door as Fred approached it to depart, a small vinyl gym bag in hand.

Lulu stood on the other side. “Hey, you leaving?”

He nodded. “Big day. Can’t be late.”

“How about some company on the subway? We’ll ride together if you can hang here for another five minutes.”

“All right. I’ll wait for you, Lu. But five’s your limit.”

“You got any Band-Aids? My left foot’s one big blister from the new dancing shoes I’m breaking in.”

“Sounds like it’s your feet that are being broken in, not the shoes.” Fred dropped his carryall to the floor. “Hang on and I’ll get ’em.”

Lulu came farther into the room, raised a hand in greeting.

“Are you okay?” Ivy asked, noticing the other woman’s slight limp.

“Oh, sure. Hazard of the trade. I’ll be healed up in a couple days. Are you painting?”

Ivy set her brush aside. “Trying to.”

“Let’s see.” Lulu limped closer. “Ooh, that’s nice. Will it be in your show?”

“If I can finish it in time.”

Lulu pointed at the canvas. “That’s weird. I think I know that guy.”

Ivy froze. “Who? James?”

“Yeah. That’s him.
James,
” Lulu said with a snap of her fingers. “Never forget a face, especially when they’re as grade-A gorgeous as his. Though you’re painting him a tad gloomy, don’t you think? Ought to give him a nice bright smile.”

Ivy ignored the suggestion. “How do you know James?”

“Oh, he was by here a while back, asking for you. But you were out.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. I met him in the hallway. We chatted for a few minutes. Wowza, what a gentleman. Totally
GQ
.”

Ivy’s stomach gave a peculiar squeeze. “When did he stop by?”

“Oh, one evening four, five weeks ago. Can’t remember now. Said he was a friend and not to bother you about it; he’d catch up with you later.” Lulu shot her a curious look. “Was it important?”

“No, it’s fine.”

James had been here? Had driven all the way down one evening to see her? But why? What had he wanted? And more important, why hadn’t he said anything to her about it since?

Fred strode back into the room, Band-Aid box in hand. “Here you go, Lu.”

Lulu flashed him a grateful smile. “My hero.” She dropped down onto the floor, pulled the sneaker and sock off her abused foot, and began tending to her wounds.

“You okay?” Kip asked Ivy after Fred and Lulu had left.

She blinked. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, no reason,” he said sarcastically. “Just wondered.”

She turned a look on him that said she wasn’t in the mood to talk, then reached for her paintbrush.

She had work to do.

*   *   *

The houselights came up at intermission.

Ivy stood, together with her friends and the rest of the audience, and joined the slow, meandering procession from auditorium to lobby.

As soon as they were able, Josh and Neil veered off to swap stories with some actor acquaintances they’d spotted on the opposite side of the theater. Kip set off for a quick trip to the men’s room, to be followed by a long wait in the beverage line. He’d catch up to Ivy, he told her, once he’d purchased their drinks.

In need of some breathing room and a chance to stretch her legs, she wandered away from the thick crowds toward one of the quieter areas of the building.

Much as she enjoyed events like this, she didn’t always enjoy the close atmosphere. Too many warm bodies. Too many designer fragrances swirling in the same confined space. She could use a few minutes of clean air and solitary reflection.

She paused by a poster announcing the ballet company’s fall season. Next to the listing for tonight’s performance of
Romeo and Juliet
was Fred’s name—Oops, she amended,
Frederick’s
name—spelled out in small but impressive block letters.

She thought back over the first act. Fred and the entire company had been brilliant, moving with a grace and power that left her breathless. She was so happy for Fred. She knew how hard he worked, how much he wanted this. She understood his passion, the pride he must feel knowing his long years of training and devotion were finally paying off.

She walked on, lured by her artist’s sensibilities toward a portion of the theater that contained sculpture and other works of art.

She moved into a large, square room that stood blessedly empty of other people. Recessed lighting cast a mellow glow over the space, an effect enhanced by yards of fawn-colored carpet and warm white walls. Additional lighting was unobtrusively positioned to showcase a pair of huge, postmodernist paintings, as well as a massive marble sculpture that towered skyward in a milky, treelike tangle of arms and legs.

Humanity Grasping at the Heavens
was its title.

She stared, absorbed by the visceral impact of the piece, finding it both vile and profound all at the same time.

Unsettling, she decided, definitely unsettling.

Muffled footsteps sounded in the doorway. She tossed a glance to her left, the breath whooshing out of her lungs as her eyes collided with James’s.

She didn’t know which of them was more surprised.

He took a step backward, then halted. After a moment, he walked toward her, hands tucked into his pockets. “Disturbing, isn’t it?”

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about the sculpture.

“Yes,” she agreed. “And weird, though I suppose that sounds sacrilegious coming from an artist.”

She stifled the urge to reach out, to slip her arm through his or clasp his hand the way she would once have done without thought. Instead, she drew the edges of her pink satin wrap tighter around her shoulders.