“I didn’t ask you what you don’t want,” Ivy informed me. “I asked what you do want. Don’t think of this as a heart-to-heart. Think of it as a negotiation. I want you to give this arrangement a chance.” Ivy’s voice never changed—not in volume, not in tone. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll see what I can do.”
I wanted to go home. I wanted Gramps to come home. But even the great Ivy Kendrick couldn’t turn back the clock. She couldn’t make him well.
“Have you heard from the doctors?” My voice sounded dull to my own ears.
“I got an update this morning.” Ivy set her tea down. “He’s got some cognitive impairment, disorientation, mood swings.”
I thought of Gramps yelling, demanding to know what I’d done with his wife.
“He has good days,” I told Ivy.
Her voice was gentle. “They’re going to get fewer and farther between. There are some treatment possibilities. A clinical trial, for one.”
“I want to talk to the doctors.” I swallowed, pushing down the lump in my throat. “I want them to explain the different options. And I want to talk to Gramps.”
I’d tried calling but hadn’t been able to get through yet.
“I’ll get you the doctor’s direct number,” Ivy promised. “What else do you want?” She paused. “For you?”
I didn’t reply.
“I want you to give yourself a chance to be happy here, no matter how angry you are with me.” Ivy leaned forward. “What do you want?”
She wasn’t going to stop asking until I answered. I gritted my teeth. “No more afternoon teas.”
Ivy didn’t bat an eye. “Done. What else?”
She wants a negotiation. Fine. I locked my eyes on hers. “I want a car.”
Ivy blinked. Then she blinked again. “A car?”
“I don’t care if it’s used,” I told her. “I don’t care if it’s borrowed or barely functional. I want transportation.”
I didn’t like depending on other people. I needed to know that if push came to shove, I could take care of myself.
“Driving in DC isn’t like driving in Montana,” Ivy told me.
“I can learn.” My words sounded strangely loud. For a moment, I thought I’d raised my voice. Then I realized that I hadn’t—I was talking at the exact same volume; it was the rest of the restaurant that had changed.
It was silent.
I glanced to my right. The old women sitting at the table next to us were gone. And so were the women at the table beside them. The sorority sisters on the other side, the mother with the three little girls . . . They were all gone.
The entire restaurant was empty, except for us.
Ivy took in the silence, the empty chairs, and she sighed. Then she picked up her tea and took another drink, waiting.
For what?
The back door to the restaurant opened. A man wearing a suit stepped through. He had an earpiece in one ear and a gun strapped to his side.
“Mark,” Ivy greeted him.
He nodded to her but didn’t say anything. A second later, a woman stepped through the door. She was in her early sixties but could have passed for a decade younger. She had blond hair that had gone only slightly silver with age, perfectly coiffed around her heart-shaped face, and wore navy blue like she had invented the color.
A second armed man followed her into the room.
“Georgia,” Ivy said. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Don’t lie, darling,” the woman replied. “It doesn’t suit you.” She crossed the room and pulled a chair over to our table. Then she turned warm hazel eyes on me. “You must be Tess.”
CHAPTER 15
When the First Lady of the United States sits down next to you and asks you if you would like a scone, you say yes.
“Now you want a scone?” Ivy said, sounding somewhat disgruntled.
“Tea?” Georgia Nolan ignored Ivy and focused on me.
I smiled, no lips. “Tea would be lovely.”
“Lovely?” Ivy repeated incredulously. “You don’t think anything is lovely.”
“Hush,” the First Lady told her. I’d never seen anyone hush Ivy before. It was almost enough to make me forget the fact that there were two Secret Service agents watching our every move.
“You cleared the room,” Ivy commented.
“There have been some threats,” Georgia replied, passing me some jam for my scone. “Apparently, some radical groups blame me for my husband’s foreign policy decisions.”
Ivy snorted. “Imagine that.” She paused. “Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m here because Bodie told me that you would be,” Georgia replied.
“Bodie’s fired,” Ivy said.
Georgia waved a hand. “Bodie is always fired. And to answer your question, no, I’m not here about the threats. I’m here because I understand that a mutual friend paid you a visit.”
Georgia Nolan was Southern—very Southern. I had a feeling she used the word friend loosely.
“And,” the woman added, “I’m here to meet Tess.” She turned to me. “I asked Ivy to bring you by the White House. She politely declined.”
“I wasn’t that polite,” Ivy muttered.
I wasn’t sure what surprised me more—the fact that the First Lady was apparently one of Ivy’s clients, or the fact that Ivy didn’t treat her like a client.
She treated her like family.
“I was very sorry to hear about your grandfather, Tess.” Georgia Nolan reached over and squeezed my hand. “From what I hear, he is a good man.”
I stared down at my tea. She’d used the present tense. He is, I thought, clinging to that one word. He is a good man. He is tough and smart and more like me than either one of us would ever admit.
I could feel Ivy’s eyes on me. I swallowed back the rush of emotion I’d felt at the First Lady’s words. “Justice Marquette has—had—a grandson who goes to Hardwicke,” I said, still staring at the rim of my cup. Better to talk about anyone else’s grandfather than my own. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” My eyes flitted back up to the First Lady’s hazel ones. “Ivy fixes problems. A dead Supreme Court justice is a problem.”