and Lawrence had things to discuss, and I was curious about them. But I didn’t want to take any time away from Ivy, because I knew how she looked forward to her own practice. Though I made fun of her acting sometimes, I wanted to support her.
Ivy preformed her monologue that night—this time, from Romeo and Juliet:
“...and, when I shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun....”
I noticed the way Mr. Lawrence could not take his eyes off my sister.
I took a better look at him myself. His hair was light, and his features were soft yet strong. It was his laughter at the end of the evening that made me begin to feel I knew him. That perhaps he could be a friend.
As the evening drew to a close, Mr. Lawrence made pleasant conversation. The Scotch Father had served brought a blush to his complexion.
“Are you working on anything new, Everett?” he asked.
“He’s working on a glorious botany book, you know. Drawings and such of plant life. You should see it,” said Ivy, interrupting.
“I’ll make sure to take a look,” he said, looking at Ivy. It was then that he turned his attention back toward my father. “Everett, thank you for this delightful evening, but as the time grows late, I fear we must get down to business.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said my father, who guided Mr. Lawrence into his study.
I went about cleaning the kitchen and making sure Ivy was settled and not staying up all night reading Photoplay magazine until her eyes popped out of her head. I was looking forward to getting back to my novel, Bleak House, which was waiting patiently on my nightstand with other books. Books are my only passion. Father and Ivy used to go off on their excursions, never knowing that I was relieved when they were gone. That I’d wear my nightgowns all day and read from dawn till dusk.
It was very late when Father ascended the stairs and went to his rooms. I hurried out of bed, flew down the stairs and then brought his bedtime tea back up.
“Here you are, Papa. See, I will always bring your tea. No matter how late I must stay awake,” I said, placing the cup by his lamp and pulling the quilt up tight around him as I fluffed his pillows. He didn’t complain or tell me not to fuss over him like usual.
“Is something wrong, Papa?” I asked.
He settled back against the pillows and took his tea. The cup clattered in the saucer. I held his hands steady as he took a sip, and then guided them back to place it safely on the nightstand once again.
“I suppose I could tell you that everything is fine. But you are Rosemary Lillian Adams. Not Ivy. And you deserve the truth.”
“You are scaring me, Papa. What did Lawrence say?”
“Just a bit of trouble with money. But don’t worry too much, Rose. I’ll sell the new book any day now.”
“I can sew more dresses, Papa. And I should be charging more for the lace collars anyway,” I said, sitting on the bed next to him.
“Well, to be honest, Rosemary, we may need far more than my book of plants and your sewing skills. But I must tell you that now may not be the best time to speak about it, because I am very tired. Perhaps the sun will shine on us tomorrow and our financial future will be less bleak. Let’s look at it from a new perspective in the morning...what do you say?”
“I believe it will all work out. And I don’t want you to worry about anything,” I said.
He reached up and placed his hand on my cheek.
“You’ve taken such good care of us. Promise me you’ll keep looking out for Ivy. No matter what. She needs you. Things may get... Well... If I’m busy. Promise me?”
“Of course I will,” I said and kissed his cheek.
“Rose?” he said, stopping me as I went to leave...and stopping my heart because he’d called me Rose and not Rosemary.
“Yes, Papa?”
“I love you.”
Hot, unbidden tears came to my eyes. Father was always lavish with his love for Ivy. It was not the same with me.
“I love you, too, Papa,” I said.
I read my book late into the night and thought about ways to make money. I’d convinced myself that I’d go work at a mill or even become a housemaid. Something that would keep us afloat until our father sold his books.
I woke feeling unworried, and stretched in the silvery morning light.
I heard Ivy’s laughter as she entered our father’s room, and smiled. Though I was sometimes jealous of their closeness, I was happy that morning because I knew Ivy could cheer our father like no other.
But then her voice broke off, and a deep wail began. It grew into a hollow sound that broke my heart before I knew it could be broken. I ran to her, my sister. I ran to her and tried to make sense of what she said to me through her choking sobs.
“He’s dead. Rose. He’s dead!”
She hid her head against my chest. My knees must have gone weak, because I stumbled backward, and we both fell against the wall. We slid down it, together, grasping at one another, staying entangled there until the sun rose too high for us to ignore our reality.
CHAPTER 2
Ivy
I DIDN'T KNOW how to grieve.
While the undertaker began discussing finalities with Rose, I sneaked out the back door. The weather was pleasant, and I imagined my father throwing up his arms as he always did on the warm days of late spring, shouting, “aces-high in the ever-loving sky!” to the blinding sun. The garden he’d recently turned ran wide and deep, leading to a freshly planted field of barley. Beyond that, the road beckoned, the one leading to Albany, and beyond even that, New York City. After squelching the urge to hitchhike, I stretched out across the damp grass and tried not to think about the sound of the casket being transferred to the waiting hearse. The ground held the trace of a chill, and I shivered, closing my eyes as the cold seeped into my dress. What would it feel like to sink into the endless earth? To never feel it under my feet again?
“It’s time to leave, Ivy.”
I blinked up at my sister. She wore a dress she’d sewn the night before, a prim, black buttoned-up number that covered everything but her face and hands. Rose’s eyes were puffy and raw, and her soft blond hair was twisted into a tight, unforgiving knot behind her head. I wished she’d
