Ivy of Our Hearts

Twenty-five

In the evening, Phillip built a fire and we sat in the grass around it, Margaret with her knees pulled up to her chin. She hadn't said much to either of us all day. For a while, the forest, Manderley, and the fire did most of the talking.

"I should have bought marshmallows," Phillip said. He grinned. "I could put on the kettle if you guys want a warm drink."

"I'm not thirsty," I said. Besides, the fire warmed me enough, being with them warmed me, even though the weather did call for a sweater.

Margaret tapped her feet but remained quiet. Her silence meant she'd seen the grave, although Phillip might have thought she wasn't thirsty like me. He leaned closer to the fire. The flames echoed in his eyes. Manderley balked in his lap. The fire frightened her.

Shushing her and stroking her head, Phillip leaned away from it. "No harm, no foul," he said.

Margaret got up. "I'm going to bed."

"What? Why?" Phillip asked.

Her hands were balled into fists, but I didn't think he'd notice such a small detail. "I'm tired," she said, or better yet declared. The question lay in her voice.

Whose grave is it?

Even with what she'd said, she didn't move. She glared at him. He glanced at me over the flames. I picked up a twig and dug it into the dirt.

Phillip nodded, understanding. "I'm sor—" he began. Before he could finish, Margaret had marched into the cabin. She slammed the door behind her.

We were quiet once again. I dropped the twig and dusted off my hands. "I know what you're thinking," I said. "But I didn't tell her."

"I know you didn't," he said. He scratched his chin. The slam of the door had hurt him, a part of me thought he deserved it.

A breeze disturbed the fire, shoving it to the left so I saw how much the slam of the door had hurt him. "She'll understand if you talk to her," I said, because I hoped he'd talk to me like he'd promised he would.

"No," he said.

His eyes were glassy, like he might cry, but his "no" had been firm.

"Then I'm going to bed, too," I said, getting up. He didn't try to stop me, although I took my time in hopes that he would.

Margaret had already fallen asleep when I came in. I'd wanted to talk to her, but it would have to wait until morning. I turned on the light and sat on the bed with the copy of Jane Eyre. Flipping to the back cover, I traced the curve of Nora's writing. I couldn't imagine 1951, but she had been the same age as me and Margaret at the time. The photo could have been taken around the same time.

I flipped to the first page of the book and read the familiar first line. Had this been her favorite book or one in a slew of them? I had so many questions.

"Ivy." Margaret eyes flicked open.

I closed the book right away. "I'm here," I said. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to share it with her. She might not want anything to do with it.

"Do you think I'm overreacting?" she asked.

I thought about it, leaned over, and squeezed her fingers. "No, I don't think you are," I said.

***

Phillip left a note on the fridge. It said he'd gone out for supplies and would be back soon. He told us to be ready when he came back, but he didn't say why. He'd left breakfast for us out on the table. Margaret and I ate in silence. Once the dishes were washed, I left her on the couch with her book and went outside.