As Night Falls by Jenny Milchman Read Free Book Online

torn. If she said she didn’t think Ivy would do it, then she’d reveal just how recalcitrant their daughter had become, the extent of which she’d kept hidden from Ben. But if she asked Ivy to take on the task, the same thing would become apparent, and there’d probably be a big battle, to boot.
    Ben dropped a match into the pile he’d constructed, shutting the stove door with an iron
thud,
and propping up the poker in its slot on an ornate stand. “Never mind. I have enough for now. Why don’t we just eat?”
    Sandy shot him a fast, grateful glance. She wondered if he knew any of what had been running through her head, or if he’d simply decided to wait a little while before sending Ivy out.
    Either way, best to begin dinner.
    Sandy left Ben setting the table, and went upstairs to fetch Ivy.
    Her daughter was lying just as Sandy had pictured, stomach-down, her calves in skinny jeans at a right angle in the air. Red licorice wires dangled around her neck and her head bobbed in time to a silent beat.
    Sandy said Ivy’s name loud enough to be heard over the song that was playing, and Ivy twisted around. Mac, lying on the rainbow-patterned rug beside the bed, opened one eye without getting up.
    “Dad just got home,” Sandy said. “Want to come down for dinner?”
    Ivy ripped the wires from her ears and tinny music entered the room. “This is unreal.”
    Sure. Do you need any help?
Sandy heard in her head. Once that would’ve been Ivy’s response. Not all that long ago even.
    “Yeah,” Sandy said. “I know. It is a bit late for him.”
    Ivy bit back a smile.
    Encouraged, Sandy dropped down on the bed.
    “Get up, Mom,” Ivy said. “It wasn’t that good a joke.”
    Sandy laughed. “Scooch,” she said, and Ivy shifted, making room.
    After a moment Sandy asked, “Paper or plastic?” It was a game they’d played in one form or another practically since Ivy could talk. One of them would give the other a set of choices, always pertaining to some relatively inconsequential matter. Sometimes the game led to discussion, sometimes to debate, occasionally just to giggling. Sandy figured it could serve as both icebreaker and peace treaty now.
    “Paper,” Ivy said. “It’s greener.”
    Sandy nodded. “Of course.”
    Mac’s furry side rose and fell as he panted on the rug. Ivy was right: the dog’s breath did smell. Of old, tired, closed-in spaces. The next time she was in town, Sandy would get some of those rock-hard biscuits from the Blue Chair bakery. Her dog-owning patients swore by them.
    “Hot or iced?” Ivy asked.
    “Hot,” Sandy replied, indicating the weather outside. “Self-explanatory.”
    It was Ivy’s turn to nod. Then she got herself into a sitting position, and laid her head on Sandy’s shoulder. She began to thread long, looping strands of her own hair through her fingers as she rested there.
    Sandy felt herself holding her breath. The mingled scents of Ivy’s shampoo and breath and sweat entered her nose, the silky feel of her daughter’s cheek caressed the skin on her neck. Sandy wished the spell would last forever, that she and Ivy could stay like this, no push/pull, in exquisite balance, one atop the other. The moment swelled, a balloon consuming air until it threatened to pop.
    “Upstairs or down?” Sandy said at last.
    There was a pause.
    “Are we just going to eat dinner and pretend like nothing happened?” Ivy blew out a breath, lifting her head. “Like I didn’t say anything?”
    So the storm hadn’t passed. Here it was back to catch Ben up in its rush of hurled debris. But here also was her little girl, so vulnerable just a moment ago in her splayed-out position, smiling and playing their shared game. And Sandy had to try to protect her, too.
    Ivy read her dilemma, challenging Sandy with a gaze that also beseeched.
    Sandy’s finger wandered to the spot on her wrist before she could stop it. “Honey,” she said, aiming for a return to levity, “if I responded to