Page 55

After the call from George, Vivian looked around her dingy apartment and wondered where she’d put Ivy.

Because it was only a matter of days, she was certain, before Ivy landed on her doorstep.

Ivy, who had run away wearing a pleated skirt and a light-blue sweater.

“Periwinkle,” George had specified, as if the exact color of that sweater was the key detail that would lead them all to her daughter.

Ivy, who was carrying only a school satchel, and, if Ruth’s assessment of her finances was correct, less than twenty dollars.

Twenty dollars wouldn’t get a girl Ivy’s age far, but there were other forms of payment that would, and thinking of that, Vivian had rushed to her tiny bathroom and been very sick.

When Ivy did appear, two days later, the pleats having fallen out of her skirt, her periwinkle sweater in need of a wash, but otherwise looking perfectly whole and healthy, Vivian already had a spare set of sheets waiting on the arm of the couch.

“Forty-eight hours,” she said. “Because your mother and I have always spoken truthfully about things.”

Ivy snorted. “She’s not my mother.”

Her eyes challenged Vivian, but Vivian only said, “You must be hungry,” and retreated to the kitchen to make grilled cheese sandwiches.

She’d laid in some Coca-Cola. And some graham crackers because she remembered the girls eating them when they were little.

What did they eat now? She had no idea. She hadn’t paid enough attention during her visits to Enid.

She felt terrible about not immediately calling George.

But having run away herself, two years younger than Ivy and from a household with nothing like the Rutledge advantages, Vivian left the phone on the hook.

After all, she’d returned to Hahira. Surely Ivy would find her way back to Enid.

Vivian hoped to convince her to go sooner, rather than later.

Not tonight, because Ivy seemed too petulant and exhausted to yield to any sort of persuasion.

But tomorrow, after she’d rested, after she’d had another day to see that the world wasn’t the marvelous, thrilling place she’d imagined.

And that home was a better place than she’d realized.

Ivy needed to come to this realization herself. If George and Tom dragged her back to Enid, she’d be out the door again as soon as they looked the other way. And the next time, she wouldn’t run to Vivian.

Vivian couldn’t afford to skip out on a lesson, especially one with a new student, so she tried to persuade Ivy to come with her. “You can sit in the back and listen in. After, if you want to go up just the two of us, I’ll give you a lesson.”

Ivy leveled her glance at Vivian as if to say, “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Vivian tapped her appointment book. “Look. Right here. Chad Elkins at ten a.m.”

“I’m not getting in your plane,” said Ivy. “You’ll just fly me back.”

To be fair, Vivian had considered this option. She’d imagined George somehow knowing to be at the field to meet them, the gratitude on her friend’s face when Vivian ushered Ivy out of the plane and back into her arms.

Ivy scanned the appointment book. “Ugh. Chad. All the worst ones are named Chad.”

She lay curled up in a nest of blankets on the couch, wearing an old pair of Vivian’s silk pajamas and sipping the orange juice that Vivian had delivered to her.

It struck Vivian how accustomed the girl was to being waited upon.

How she had reached up without even looking to take that glass of juice, to take the plate of eggs and toast, offering up a rote thank-you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Vivian. “The worst ones how?”

“Never mind,” said Ivy.

She’s just a child, thought Vivian. What could she possibly know about the Chads of the world? “You’ll be bored here,” she insisted. “There’s nothing to do.”

“I’ll manage.”

“I really think you should come with me.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“It’s just a lesson. I swear. Only a lesson. Then I’ll show you around the field. We’ll get lunch somewhere.”

Ivy yawned and stretched. “No thanks.”

Maybe tomorrow morning she’d dissolve a couple of sleeping pills into the orange juice.

If this Chad was one of the worst ones, perhaps she could solicit his assistance in maneuvering an incapacitated teenage girl down the stairs, into the car, and then into Vivian’s plane.

But how did you even broach that idea? The rest of your lessons are free if you help me kidnap a girl?

No, there would be no forcing Ivy onto a plane.

No forcing Ivy home. Only the tedious process of convincing her to go herself.

“Okay, then,” she said. “Wash up the breakfast dishes. When you’re done, sweep the kitchen. I’m leaving some money right here. Go down to Oswalt’s and get some chops and a vegetable for supper. I have two lessons after lunch, so I’ll see you late afternoon.”

Ivy didn’t whine or resist the tasks assigned to her.

When Vivian returned home, she found the vegetables washed, peeled, and diced, the table set, and the apartment as tidy as could be.

Ivy had redonned her cleaned and pressed skirt and sweater.

“How was your day?” she asked as Vivian walked through the door.

It would be so easy to get used to this.

Vivian made her heart stern against the possibility.

“Nothing special,” she said. Though that was far from true, because Chad hadn’t been one of the worst ones.

He’d been attentive and respectful and had even asked questions, and her other lessons had gone well too.

Patterson had taken her out for a burger at lunchtime and hadn’t pressed her about Ivy.

And Ivy was here. In her home. Smiling at her, asking her how her day had been.

Which was the most special part of it all.

That night as she dabbed cold cream on her face and neck, Vivian mentally lectured herself about the necessity of enforcing her deadline.

In the morning, she’d fix Ivy breakfast, take her to the bus station, and give her some money.

She’d prepared a speech. “You can buy a ticket home. And if you don’t buy a ticket home, you’re to at least call your mother and let her know you’re okay.

Tell her you love her.” After spending two days with the girl, she recognized in Ivy the look of someone who wasn’t going back home—who didn’t believe she had a home.

And honestly, she’d expected Ivy to have that look.

That was why she had already stashed $200—all she could spare—in an envelope for her.

But when Vivian woke the next morning, the sheets were folded on the arm of the couch and the envelope with the $200 was gone.

Ivy had left a note propped against the percolator.

“Thanks, and please don’t tell I was here.

I’ll be fine. Maybe next time I see you, we can speak more truthfully. About things.”