“She’ll handle it,” said Gideon, exchanging a look with his sister. Countless times, they must have tag-teamed Ted and Poppy in this fashion, thought Ivy, maneuvering through their parents like two acrobats whose mutual trust was implicit and uncompromising.

Sylvia brought the cat to the living room, where Roux was nursing a scotch and flipping through one of Poppy’s coffee-table books about historic landmark homes, and began to tease it with one of the wooden mobiles. Gideon jingled the shells together and the cat swiveled toward him, both the normal ear and the shriveled one flattened on its football-shaped head, its tail switching low on the ground like a ratty mop. “I’ve always liked cats,” said Gideon. “I was quite fond of Tom’s old cat, Beaver. He used to drink water straight out of the faucet. Miriam even taught him how to pee in the toilet. Quite smart, cats.”

“Do you want to take Pepper?” Sylvia asked.

“Should I?”

“Your place is quite small—” Ivy began just as Sylvia said, “Oh, you should!”

“Are you sure you have time for a pet?” Ivy asked, realizing, too late, that she’d used the exact line as Poppy only minutes ago. Gideon and Sylvia exchanged another look.

“I hate cats,” said Roux, snapping his book shut with a bang. “And this one’s ugly as hell. I don’t know that it’s actually tame. It looks like it could take a swipe at an eyeball when you’re asleep.”

Ivy couldn’t help it—she laughed.

“You’re heartless,” said Sylvia. “How on earth your parents raised you.”

Roux said, “Like a stray dog.”

When it didn’t look like Sylvia or Gideon were going to do anything else other than lie on the ikat rug and pet the cat, Ivy suggested that they head back down to the beach.

“I actually need to finish up an email,” said Gideon. “I’m going to go grab my laptop.” He got up and left.

Shortly after, Roux finished his drink and got up as well. He looked at Sylvia as if expecting her to follow him, but she stayed put on the rug. Their earlier lascivious affection seemed all but a figment of Ivy’s imagination. She wondered if something had happened over crab cakes. But then again, maybe this was just the norm for Sylvia and Roux, who both seemed like the sort of people who’d be attracted to volatility.

“Can you please hang up your clothes?” Sylvia called out to Roux’s retreating back. She frowned at Ivy. “You’re lucky Gideon’s relatively tidy. Roux’s barely unpacked anything yet somehow our bed is covered with his shit.”

“You guys are sharing a bedroom?” said Ivy.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“It’s just—I thought your mom didn’t like it…”

Sylvia actually laughed out loud, dimples flashing. “Ivy! You’re such a duck. Mom’s looked the other way since I snuck Tucker McDermott through my window in tenth grade. What a proper upbringing you must have had. No wonder Giddy loves you.”

* * *

STARING AT GIDEON across the table, Ivy thought: Either Sylvia’s lying or Poppy does mind, but Sylvia doesn’t care about her mother’s feelings while Gideon is more considerate. He would never sneak some slut through his window. This explanation was plausible, yet it did nothing to mollify the sting of rejection. Ivy could not bear to contemplate the third idea, which was that Gideon simply had grown tired of her but was too much of a gentleman to say so outright. Since arriving at the cottage, they’d barely had any alone time and even amongst others, he didn’t stay by her side like a protective boyfriend nor did he seem overly concerned about making her feel comfortable. She’d thought this was a sign of their bond, from the man who’d said Sorry, were we supposed to have the talk?, and that he trusted her to hold her own among his family, the same way she had with the Crosses and Finleys. But perhaps the distance she felt between them was just that—distance.

Lost in her own thoughts, she was quiet throughout dinner and ate very little. She felt she might be coming down with a cold. The spasms in her little finger had spread to her face, which felt stiff and tingled as if she were on the verge of sneezing. Halfway through the entrée, interrupting Poppy’s summary of her volunteer work at the local museum, Roux glanced over at her and exclaimed: “Ivy—your eyes.”

“What about them?”

“Oh my,” said Poppy, covering her mouth. Everyone turned, forks pausing in midair.

“They look really red and—puffy,” said Gideon.

Ivy got up and fast-walked to the restroom; Gideon and Poppy were on her heels. When she looked in the mirror, she let out a squeak. Her eyelids were so thick they looked like two angry blisters on top of her black pupils. “What’s happening?” she lamented, closing her lids and rubbing them to clear the watering. This made it worse and the skin around her eyes began to tingle, then to itch.

“Should we go to the hospital?” Poppy asked, clutching her throat. She called over her shoulder, “Ted, can you come here? We need you.”

Ivy said she thought she might be having an allergic reaction. She’d had one when she was very young, to a bee sting, only less severe. That time, her throat had been itchy as well. She swallowed to check her reflexes, which seemed intact.

“The cat!” said Gideon. “Ivy, are you allergic to cats?”

“I don’t know,” she said through rubbery lips, beneath which, even as she looked into the mirror, she could feel the blood beginning to pulse.

“Is everything all right?” Ted asked, switching places with Gideon, who’d gone to fetch the Benadryl.

Poppy explained the situation to her husband. “Should we take her to the ER? Is this like a peanut allergy? Do we have an EpiPen on hand? How’s your breathing, Ivy?”

“What’s going on?” asked Sylvia, joining the fray.

“Ivy’s allergic to your cat,” said Poppy. “She’s been playing with him all evening. Look at her eyes.”

Sylvia frowned. “You’re allergic to Pepper?”

“I don’t know,” Ivy said again. She felt it was her fault she didn’t know anything about her own allergies.

Ted asked if she’d been around cats before.

“Not really.”

Gideon returned with a Benadryl and a glass of water. After she swallowed the pill, she said, “I’d better stay in my room in case it gets worse.”

“Oh yes,” said Poppy, “stay upstairs until the cat leaves tomorrow.”

“Pepper’s not leaving,” said Sylvia.

“We can’t keep him here if he makes Ivy sick.”

“We don’t even know she’s allergic to cats.”

“It’s not a food allergy,” said Gideon. “We’ve only had salad and steak. Have you been touching your eyes after petting him?”

Ivy tried to remember if she had done so; she wasn’t sure.

Sylvia said, “See—it might not be Pepper.”

Poppy, a tad shrill, said, “Really, Sylvia, now is not the time to argue about this.”

Sylvia’s cheeks flushed; she whipped her head around and disappeared down the hallway.

Gideon asked again about going to the hospital.

“I’m fine—really,” said Ivy, embarrassed at everyone’s attention. “This happened before when I was young. My throat feels fine. I’m just going to go shower and wait for the Benadryl to kick in. You guys go and finish your dinners.” She tried to smile but the effect was gruesome. With great effort, she convinced the Speyers to return to the table. Roux hadn’t moved a centimeter from his chair. He glimpsed her face on her flight up the stairs; she thought she saw his lips twitch. But of course he would laugh at her misfortunes. What had she expected? Concern?

Upstairs, she took her second shower of the day, careful to avoid scrubbing the sunburned spots on her nose and cheeks. The steam soothed the itchiness; when she stepped out, some of the swelling in her lips had gone down. Looking in the vanity mirror, she said, “I’m a troll,” and turned away.

A few minutes later, Gideon came up holding a breakfast tray. One plate held the remains of her steak and potatoes; the other plate had a slice of apple pie, the filling congealed on the bottom like amber-colored slime. Ivy thought woefully of the hours she and Poppy had spent that afternoon slicing the apples, simmering the bourbon, rolling the dough, brushing egg wash onto the beautiful lattice pattern of the crust as the house filled with the wonderful aroma of cinnamon and butter. How she’d looked forward to that pie.

“So much for making a good impression,” she intoned.

“What are you talking about?” said Gideon.

“This evening was a nightmare. What your family must think of me.”

“They love you.”

“Do they?” It wasn’t rhetorical, she really wanted to know. But Gideon only patted her leg as a gesture, meant to convey his support, but already she could sense his thoughts leaving her, waiting for the proper moment to retire to his room, where he could shed his boyfriend duties and resume his primary relationship with his laptop.