Icing Ivy by Evan Marshall

him. His face grew instantly serious.
    Adam cleared his throat loudly and addressed Ellyn with a wan smile. “You should be very proud that your book has been able to arouse such controversy already.”
    â€œThat’s right, Ellyn,” Jennifer said, “you write ’em how you want. Your readers will love you for it. Before you know it, you’ll be the next . . . Bertha Stumpf!”
    William Ives, looking shrunken in the corner, said, “Who’s Bertha Stumpf?”
    Bertha surveyed the group in horror. “Well, I— I’m certainly not—” And she stomped out of the room.
    â€œGood,” Jennifer cried triumphantly. “Now we can continue without any more interruptions.”
    Ellyn chose not to read any further. Paul Kavanagh read next from his novel, an artsy coming-of-age story about a boy who, fearing he might be gay, went to see his priest.
    â€œHa,” Ivy burst out.
    â€œIvy,” Jane whispered fiercely.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Ivy called to Paul. “It just strikes me as funny.”
    Paul glared at her, openmouthed. “What’s funny about it?”
    â€œIt’s so obvious the boy is you.”
    Without a word, Paul turned and left the room.
    Rhoda jumped up from her chair. “People, people, listen to me. We can’t do this. We have to be considerate of one another’s feelings or this isn’t going to work. Constructive criticism only, please. Delivered . . . sensitively.”
    â€œExcu-u-use me,” Ivy said.
    Tom Brockman appeared at the side of the room and motioned to Adam, who got up and followed Tom into the reception room. As Carla Santino read from her mainstream women’s novel, the sounds of Tom and Adam arguing heatedly could be clearly heard.
    Forty-five minutes later, Jane, utterly exhausted, rose at the end of the group reading. Daniel and Ginny approached her.
    â€œThat was . . . interesting,” Daniel said with a wicked grin. “Do you think Bertha will be all right?”
    â€œOf course,” Jane blustered. “She throws hissy fits like that all the time and forgets about them the next day. You two want to come up to my room for some coffee?”
    â€œSure,” Ginny and Daniel said, and so did Ivy, suddenly standing at Jane’s elbow. Jane would rather have taken a break from Ivy, but she saw no way to exclude her, so the four of them went to Jane’s room, where she made coffee in the Mr. Coffee machine on the dresser.
    Ivy took the chair behind the desk in the corner of the room, Jane dropped into the armchair, and Ginny and Daniel sat on the bed.
    â€œThis is all turning out pretty awful, isn’t it?” Ivy said, and they all turned to look at her. “I mean, first the bridge collapsing, then that horrible reading just now. And then that repulsive Red Pearson made not one but two passes at me. What would ever make him think I’d be interested in him? Bald as a cue ball,” she muttered.
    Jane thought of suggesting that perhaps Red had noticed Johnny’s interest in Carla and therefore deduced that Ivy was available, but of course Jane restrained herself.
    â€œYou know who’s awfully sweet, though?” Ivy went on. “That little William Ives. Isn’t he the cutest thing?”
    Ginny looked aghast. “You mean that shriveled-up man with the skinny head?” She shuddered.
    â€œOh, come on, Ginny. Make believe he’s your grandfather.”
    â€œMy grandfather happens to be an exceptionally handsome man.”
    â€œYou’re being very . . . superficial—yes, that’s the word. I think he’s sweet, that’s all. I also,” Ivy went on, leaning forward a little, “had a very interesting chat with that Brad Franklin, the ghostwriter. Very interesting.”
    â€œHow so?” Jane asked. “What did he say?”
    â€œNever you mind,” Ivy replied smugly.
    Jane was about to object to Ivy’s