My father laughs again, louder this time. "I like her, Brooks. She knows her audience."
Betty lowers her glass. She studies Ivy for a long, silent moment. The tension at the table is thick enough to choke on.
Then, slowly, the corner of my mother's mouth twitches upward.
"Colette wanted blue," Betty says disdainfully. "She said it was 'nautical.'"
"Nautical is for children's birthday parties," Ivy says gravely. "This is a gala."
"Precisely," my mother says.
She picks up her fork. The test is over.
"Brooks," Betty says, cutting into her salad. "Why didn't you tell me she had taste? I was expecting... Well, I was expecting denim."
"I told you she was perfect," I say.
I look at Ivy. She is taking a sip of water, her hand trembling slightly against the glass. She catches my eye over the rim. She winks.
A genuine, startling jolt of admiration hits me in the chest.
I expected her to survive. I didn't expect her to win.
The rest of lunch is a blur of social niceties. Ivy navigates the minefield of Hampton gossip like a pro, nodding when appropriate, laughing at my father's terrible jokes, and deferring to my mother just enough to feed Betty's ego without looking weak.
By the time the check comes, my mother has actually invited Ivy to "look at the ballroom lighting" later that afternoon.
We walk back to the car in silence.
As soon as the valet shuts the doors and the partition slides up, Ivy collapses.
She slumps against the leather seat, letting out a groan that sounds like a deflating balloon. She rips the sunglasses off her head and covers her eyes with her arm.
"I need a drink," she muffles into her elbow. "I need a drink, and a nap, and hazard pay."
"You were incredible," I say, and mean it.
She peeks out from under her arm, eyeing me suspiciously. "I was lying. I hate amber lighting. It makes everyone look jaundiced. But I knew she'd love it because it's pretentious."
I laugh. I can't help it. It hurts my head, but I laugh anyway.
"You played her," I say. "You played Betty Taylor. I've seen hostile board takeovers with less strategic maneuvering than what you just did with a salad fork."
"It's just client management," she says, sitting up and smoothing her hair. "She's just a bride with a bigger budget and more repressed rage."
She looks at me, and for a second, the air in the car changes. The camaraderie is there. The shared victory.
"You defended me," she says softly. "With the 'crisis management' story. You didn't have to do that."
"You're my asset," I say, falling back on the safety of business terms. "I protect my assets."
"Right," she says. The softness vanishes, replaced by a cool mask. "Asset."
She looks out the window again.
I watch her profile. I think about the way she handled my mother. I think about the moment earlier when her composure slipped. And I think about the fact that later tonight, she'll be sleeping in my bed.
"Ivy," I say.
