The Man Plan Read online

  “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.

  “I didn’t realize you were in the habit of attending the ballet,” he said.

  “I’m not, not usually, but it’s Fred’s big night. He asked us to come see him dance. He’s in lead position tonight.”

  “Well, that solves one nagging mystery. I knew something seemed oddly familiar about Romeo. Apparently, I didn’t recognize him sober.”

  “As I recall, he wasn’t the only one who drank too much that evening.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she remembered what else had happened that night. The first and only night they’d made love. She met his eyes, saw that he remembered too.

  James looked away, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. A terrible, awkward silence descended between them. He scoured his mind for something to say. “So how have you been? You look well.”

  Well didn’t do her justice.

  She looked beautiful, exquisite. Her cheeks flushed with healthy color, her eyes more brilliant than the sky on a cloudless summer day.

  I could drown in those eyes if I let myself.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured. “You?”

  “Oh, fine.”

  Another silence fell.

  He cleared his throat. “And umm, your painting? How are the preparations for the show moving along?”

  “Great. I’ve finished one canvas and am nearly done with another. Rhonda’s seen them both and she’s pleased. She hopes I’ll have time to do one more, but it’ll be nothing short of a miracle for that to happen.”

  “How are things with Rhonda?”

  “Wonderful. Exciting. She’s very supportive, very down-to-earth. Far more than I would have expected from someone in her position. Being represented by her gallery’s the opportunity of a lifetime. I only pray I don’t flop.”

  “You won’t flop. The possibility doesn’t even exist.”

  Her eyes warmed with pleasure. “You always say the nicest things.”

  “Nothing that isn’t true.” Another quiet moment passed. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”

  “Thank me? For what?”

  “The present. For my birthday.” His voice deepened. “It’s beautiful, Ivy.”

  Her smile widened. “You really like it?”

  His thoughts turned to the small oil painting, framed and now hanging in a place of honor in his bedroom. It was a landscape of the woods near their family homes in Connecticut, leaves riotous with color, the ground cool and ready to crunch underfoot. Fall. His favorite time of year.

  “Yes,” he said. “I love it.”

  I love you.

  “I painted it nearly a year ago,” she said, “hoping you might like it.” She smiled again, her lips soft and full.

  Lord, he wanted to kiss her, snatch her up into his arms and lose himself in the very wonder of her.

  “James?” she murmured, her voice puzzled. “I was talking to my neighbor this morning. Lulu. She says you stopped by the apartment a few weeks ago.”

  “Did she?”

  He could see the exact spot on the delicate curve of her neck where her pulse beat, warm and strong; he imagined bending down and pressing his lips just there.

  “She says you came to see me. Why?”

  Why? Because no matter how many reasons there are why we shouldn’t be together, I can’t get you out of my mind, my heart.

  Because I wanted to carry you away that night and make love to you until you’d forgotten everything and everyone but me.

  But maybe it wasn’t too late to do those things, he considered. Maybe he should tell her now, take her somewhere they could be alone.

  “I knew I’d find you near one of the art displays,” a male voice suddenly said. “Hey, neat sculpture.”

  She turned her head. “Kip.”

  “Here’s your iced tea,” he said. “Thought I’d never get through that line at the concession stand.”

  Absently, Ivy accepted the drink, repressing a frustrated sigh. James had been on the verge of saying something, something important. She’d felt it in her bones.

  And the way he’d been looking at her; ooh, she had goose bumps all over her body.

  Then Kip had barged in and ruined everything.

  Why, oh why, couldn’t he have waited just one minute more?

  “You must be James Jordan.” Kip stuck out his hand. “Ivy mentions you often.”

  “Does she?” After a brief but noticeable hesitation, James accepted Kip’s hand to shake. “And you are?”

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to forget my manners. Kip Zahn.”

  “He’s an artist,” she interjected, hoping to ease a bit of the tension.

  “Yes. I sculpt.” Kip jerked a thumb
toward the imposing marble statue behind him. “Though nothing as adventurous as the stuff in here.”

  “Don’t be modest,” she defended. “Your sculptures are very compelling. Every bit as powerful as these, just different.”

  Kip grinned. “Not to everyone’s taste, she means, but it’s sweet of her to say. I’m lucky to have a friend like Ivy.”

  “Yes,” James said, his tone hard. “You are. Do you show your work?”

  “Not until recently. I was invited to join an artist’s co-op a couple of weeks ago. Several of my pieces are there on consignment. I’m hoping for a sale soon. Particularly now that I’ve finished the sculpture of Ivy.”

  “What sculpture of Ivy?”

  Reacting to the note of hostility in James’s voice, Kip nearly choked on a mouthful of soda. He swallowed with obvious effort. “Hey, relax, man. It’s not like she was naked or anything.”

  James’s eyes gleamed dangerously. “I would think not.”

  A flash of red drew Ivy’s attention. She turned her head and saw Parker Manning, sheathed in a long, body-hugging crimson evening gown, glide into the room. She walked over to James and slid a proprietary arm through his.

  “So this is where you wandered off to,” Parker said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, darling.”

  James angled his head her way. “You were involved swapping real estate stories with the Domerchis. You know how that bores me. I decided I’d look around.”

  “Umm, so I see.” Parker stroked his sleeve. “Well, I’m finished with that now, so we might as well drift back. The curtain’s due to go up on the second act at any moment.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” James agreed.

  Ivy listened to the exchange. Her fingers clamped around the condensation-slick plastic cup were as cold as the ice inside it. Her throat tightened, an ache spreading through her chest.

  She willed James to look at her.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead he moved ahead with the required social niceties. “Parker, allow me to introduce Kip Zahn to you. Zahn, Parker Manning. Zahn, here, is a sculptor.”

  “Oh, how intriguing.” Parker inclined her head and gave him a perfunctory half smile.

  “And you remember Ivy Grayson,” James continued, still not looking Ivy’s way.

  “Yes,” Parker said, oozing with ill-concealed venom. “Though we’ve never actually been introduced. Now, dear,” she said to James, “we really should be going.”

  For a moment, Ivy imagined upending her tea on top of Parker’s perfectly coiffed head. If only she had the nerve to do it.

  “Yes, of course,” James said. “Ivy. Zahn. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Finally, James looked at her. What she saw in his eyes—or rather what she didn’t see—made her want to cry.

  “James,” she whispered, too low to be heard.

  Then he and Parker were gone.

  She wilted the instant he left.

  Kip reached out a supporting arm. “Do you want to leave?”

  She did. She wanted to run away, dive underneath the covers of her bed and pretend none of this had ever happened. But she’d promised Fred she would see his ballet, and she couldn’t disappoint him by leaving halfway through.

  The overhead lights flashed, signaling everyone to return to their seats.

  Through sheer force of will, she straightened. “No. I came to support Fred, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Good girl.”

  But as she sat in the darkened auditorium, she was barely aware of the dancing. Instead, she located a familiar golden head several rows away and watched him while her heart wept.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Someone thrust a glass of champagne into her hand.

  Someone else—one of her cousins, she thought—bussed her on the cheek. Head in a whirl, Ivy stood in the center of the crowded gallery and marveled at the minor miracle taking place around her.

  Her art was a success. And so, it appeared, was she.

  She wondered if she ought to pinch herself to make sure it was real. She drank a sip of champagne instead, effervescent bubbles bursting against her tongue, tart and cool. Silken strains of music floated to her ears; the lovely, gentle strains were nearly drowned out by the hum of conversation.

  Everyone was here tonight—friends, family, critics, and curiosity seekers. There were even a handful of serious art lovers sprinkled in among the multitudes, avidly perusing the paintings on display. Others nibbled on cheese cubes and canapés, debating the merits of this style and that trend.

  As the hours ticked by, so did the sales.

  Five paintings and three commissions, steady work that would soon have the money rolling in. Oh, not in dream proportions, but comfortable, she reasoned. Enough that she’d be able to quit her job at Reflections if she wanted.

  Tonight was only a beginning. As beginnings went, though, it was a damned fine one.

  Everything about the evening should have been perfect, would have been perfect, except for one rather important detail.

  James wasn’t there.

  She’d masked her disappointment well—at least she thought she had—smiling and laughing, acting as if she were having the time of her life.

  Yet even as her heart thrilled to hear the compliments and praise being tossed her way—including an unexpected nod of approval from an influential critic for the Times, who’d cooed at length over her brave use of color and bold, neorealist design—part of her remained focused on the door, waiting for the instant when James would arrive.

  But he hadn’t, and at nine forty-five, a trickle of people were already starting to depart. She would simply have to face facts.

  He wasn’t coming.

  She’d never for a moment imagined he wouldn’t be there. In spite of the awkwardness of their last meeting, she’d thought he would come. He, more than anyone, knew how important this night was to her. He’d made a promise, and once James promised, he never went back on his word.

  At least he never had before tonight.

  Optimistic to the last, she searched the entrance one more time.

  Suddenly a long male arm slipped around her shoulders and gave a mighty squeeze.

  She jumped, then relaxed just as quickly when she recognized the tall, broad-chested man at her side.

  “Hi, Dad.” She met his generous smile with one of her own.

  “Hey, kiddo. About time I found you alone. The crowd around you has been so thick all night. I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t have a moment for your old man.”

  “Not a chance. You know I always have time for you, and I always will.” She flashed him a grin. “No matter how famous I become,” she teased.

  The idea of that made Philip Grayson’s eyebrows soar skyward. Two slashes of coppery red that contrasted strongly with the crown of snowy white hair age had seen fit to deposit on his head.

  “Glad to hear it,” he declared. “If tonight’s any indication, this is only a taste of things to come.” His voice deepened. “Your mother and I are very proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Really, we are, despite any reservations we may have had at first. We never doubted your talent, you know.”

  “I know. You were just concerned. You’re parents and that’s what parents do. They worry about their kids.”

  “Damn right they do.” He gave her shoulder another quick squeeze. “Though I should have known you’d beat the odds and pull it off. Once you put your mind to a thing, there’s no stopping you until you get it.”

  Not always, she thought with an inward sigh as she scanned the entrance one more time. No, I most certainly do not always get what I want.

  “Come and say good night to your mother,” her father said. “We’re heading back to the hotel in a few minutes.”

  “Oh, do you have to leave? I thought we all might grab a late supper together.”

  “Not tonight, kiddo. Your mom’s tired. She’d been running
on adrenaline all day, though she doesn’t want to admit it.”

  “She’s okay, isn’t she? She isn’t sick?”

  Her father blinked, momentarily taken aback. “No, no, nothing like that.” He patted her shoulder. “She’s fine, a little worn-out is all. A new florist she hired messed up an entire order for one of her weddings. She was up most of the night doing damage control, arranging centerpieces herself. I offered to help, but she sent me to bed. She was over at the reception hall by seven this morning. Needless to say, she barely slept last night. You’ll understand if we beg off tonight.”

  She swallowed her disappointment as the two of them made their way across the room. “Of course.”

  “Anyway, your friends must be planning something special for you. You don’t need a pair of old fogies tagging along to spoil the fun.”

  “You wouldn’t spoil anything.”

  Assuming there was anything to spoil. Her friends had dropped by the opening hours ago, exchanged congratulatory hugs, then deserted her to go their various ways.

  They’d all had to work tonight.

  All of them.

  Neil, Josh, Fred, and Lulu.

  Even Kip.

  She’d thought at least Kip could have gotten the evening off. But he said his boss was a shrew and had nixed the idea before he’d even opened his mouth to ask for the time.

  Maybe Madelyn and Zack would like to do something, she hoped.

  And Brie.

  She’d been touched that her other sister had flown up from Washington, D.C., just to see the gallery opening. Especially since Brie was serving as lead attorney in an important lawsuit.

  Apparently, Brie’d had to twist a few influential arms to get even two days’ vacation. But she’d managed, arranging a short postponement before handing over the reins to her cocounsel while she was away.

  Ivy knew she was lucky to have such a generous, warmhearted family. Even P.G. and Caroline, who was looking healthier than she had in months, had made the trip into the city. Unbeknownst to her, they’d left a short while ago, their two sleepy children in tow.

  “You were tied up,” her father explained about P.G. and Caroline departing without saying their good-byes in person. “Oh, and Madelyn and Zack wanted me to pass along their apologies as well.”