Ivy sometimes felt she was two different people—the kind, generous, moral citizen she tried to be with Gideon, and her unsatisfied, practical, opportunistic self. She would have given anything to be like Gideon naturally—to be good—but she was not good. She was jealous, petty, vengeful; experience had taught her to hide these characteristics behind a veneer of sweetness and humility. The more diligent she was in the Speyers’ presence, the more difficult it was to rein in her lesser impulses when she was alone.

Depressed by this unflattering portrait of herself, Ivy finished her cigarette, rinsed her mug, and went back to the bedroom. The entire apartment was set up like an art gallery, the rooms separated not by actual walls but by a bewildering display of glass, steel, onyx marble, free-floating furniture, and a handful of art pieces—a racetrack, sketches of human anatomy, a series of black-and-white photographs, blown up, of various hands veiny with age. All meant to appeal to a specific type of self-congratulatory bachelor. The bed sat on an elevated glass platform, not unlike the lazy Susans installed in every Chinese restaurant, and beside it was a nightstand containing the only personal items in the apartment: a large stack of papers, legal documents, yellow notepads, unopened envelopes. Underneath all that was a small silver case that Ivy had once opened to find a handgun, snugly packed between the black velvet like an expensive piece of jewelry. She picked up a particularly fat yellow manila folder and withdrew a stack of cash. She counted ten hundred-dollar bills, then placed the rest back in the folder.

“Roux. Are you awake? I have to get going.”

Roux squinted up at her before he turned over and fell back asleep.

She watched him for a few more seconds. Gideon was a light sleeper, prone to insomnia, which he regulated with a half milligram of melatonin every night. Roux’s sleeping habits rendered the handgun in his nightstand useless because the intruder would have shot him before he realized anything was amiss. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she murmured. The heels of her boots thumped softly along the floor all the way to the elevator. When she exited the lobby, she looked up once more at the towering facade. All the windows were dark.

* * *

SHE HAD INITIATED the affair.

Back in September, she and Gideon had dinner with Tom and Marybeth at a Spanish tapas restaurant to announce their engagement. She’d expected the drunken revelry that had accompanied the Crosses’ engagement announcement, had looked forward to it even, imagining Tom’s waxing nostalgia and Marybeth’s gloating triumph. But upon taking her seat at the table, Ivy knew immediately something was wrong. Tom could barely manage a grimace; Marybeth was aloof and distracted. They did not seem surprised when Gideon announced their engagement.

“Well, that was fast,” said Tom.

Marybeth said, “I suppose you’ll be moving in together?”

“Not until after the wedding,” said Gideon. “Ivy’s lease is up around then anyway and we don’t know which school she’ll end up at.”

There was a lull as everyone studied the menu. Ivy tried to fill the silence by telling funny stories about their vacation—The roof leaked! I was comatose because of a stray cat!—but she was met with tepid smiles, and she soon fell quiet, aware that her enthusiasm was as far from the current mood as a raucous football crowd from the hushed solemnity of a tragic opera.

For the rest of the night, Tom and Gideon spoke mostly about work, Tom’s arm draped on the back of Gideon’s chair like a balding freckled uncle giving advice to his earnest nephew. Ivy tried to insert a question here and there but whatever opinion she expressed, Tom would undercut her by stating the opposite opinion in a supercilious tone that began with “Where did you hear that…” or “But isn’t it true that…” or “Do you really think…” Trying to establish a rapport with Marybeth instead, Ivy asked for advice about finding a local wedding venue.

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be much help,” said Marybeth. “We’ve decided on a destination wedding in Kauai. We wanted to keep our anniversary date in March, so that limited the venue to somewhere tropical. My parents wanted to do it at Palm Beach, where my grandparents live, but Tom and I already went to three weddings in Florida last year. Miriam—Tom’s mom—doesn’t like traveling out of the country so Hawaii it was. Though why a twelve-hour flight to Hawaii is better than an eight-hour one to Italy, I have no idea.”

Ivy saw Tom’s eyes flicker their way when Marybeth mentioned his mother, but his voice didn’t break from his conversation with Gideon. Men with men. Women with women. The same thing had happened at Dave and Liana’s house the previous week. Ivy had gone to the library with the other housewives for their book-club meeting, served with Darjeeling tea, crustless sandwiches, little wispy greens picked from Liana’s garden, and Dave had whisked Gideon out for tennis with other partners at his firm. Even with the Speyers, more and more, it was Poppy and Ivy, Gideon and Ted. Perhaps there was some unspoken code about matrimony, that it meant the separation of the sexes, like joining a social club whose sole existence was to take your spouse off your hands.

“As long as we have the full Catholic ceremony at Saint Mary’s Cathedral,” said Marybeth, “and William can golf the Princeville Course, everyone’s happy.” She picked up a slice of the grilled tomato bread, sniffed it, then dropped it onto her plate indifferently. “Not to be a nag, Gideon,” she said, wiping her fingers on her napkin, “but have you sent in your RSVP yet?”

“Not yet. Uh—”

“I’m really sorry about the small guest list,” Marybeth said to Ivy.

“Why?” said Ivy.

Marybeth blinked at Gideon, but before he could respond, she said, “Since we decided on the new venue, we had to limit our guest list to married couples.”

“Oh!” said Ivy, a beat too late as the implication hit her. “I totally understand.” And to overcompensate for the warmth flaming her cheeks, she began to justify Marybeth’s actions, on Marybeth’s behalf, to the entire group. “You both have such large families,” she said, nodding at Tom to include him in her overreaching benevolence, “and so many old friends. And small weddings are so much better than inviting randos.” A ripple of invisible winces went across Marybeth’s and Gideon’s faces.

“I was going to tell you, but it totally slipped my mind,” Gideon said quietly.

“It’s not a big deal.” Ivy laughed again, picking up her sangria.

Tom smiled. “Don’t be mean, sweetheart,” he addressed Marybeth. “Now that they’re engaged, it’s not too late to add Ivy to the guest list, is it?”

Marybeth hesitated. Ivy could tell she was embarrassed to be outed as the decision maker. Ivy felt a pain deep in her heart. She’d thought that she and Marybeth were friends. That Tom was the bad guy.

“It’s not necessary,” she said, truly sweating now through her thin cotton dress. “Really.”

“This is dragging on,” said Gideon in a clipped way. “Why don’t you two go home and think—”

“No, Tom’s right,” said Marybeth. “We’d be thrilled to have you there, Ivy. I’ll get your address from Gideon later.”

Ivy considered protesting but felt drained by the effort.

“The banana flowers in Kauai are beautiful in March,” Tom said to Ivy. “Or so Marybeth keeps insisting. They sound like something you smoke. And they’re not even yellow, they’re a neon pink. Me, I say—who gives a shit about banana flowers?”

“I do,” said Marybeth, clearly still resentful that Tom had thrown her under the bus.

“My mom has her heart set on Cattahasset,” said Gideon as the waiter set their tapas around the table. “Or Martha’s Vineyard. Remember the summer before college, Tom?”

“Do I! Your Finn Oaks is a dinosaur compared to the setup we had going on.” Again, he addressed Ivy alone. “We had a heated pool, the living room converted with futons, Ted’s oldest bottle of whiskey—to this day, he thinks a raccoon came in the middle of the night and knocked it over. We had Blake Whitney pee around the glass. For some reason, only his piss resembled that exact shade of expensive-ass scotch.”

Ivy laughed gratefully, letting herself sink into the oblivion of being carried along with the conversation. So Tom could be considerate, she thought.

She was mistaken.

Tom picked up his glass. “I gotta admit—I underestimated you.”

“What do you mean,” she said, smiling gamely in preparation for one of his jokes.

“You sure work fast. Got Gideon locked down. Good for you.”

“What?”

“You’re one to talk,” said Gideon, pointing his fork in Tom’s direction. “Marybeth has you tied by the—” but Tom was still talking to Ivy, his tone growing increasingly merry.

“I remember you now. From the eighth-grade yearbook. Ivy Lin. It jogged my memory. You used to follow Gideon around back in the day. Real quiet and mousy. Now look at you. Grabbing the bull by the horns, eh? Hustled your way up like—who’s that Asian lady married to old Murdoch? Anyway, I bet you couldn’t wait to get knocked up—”

Gideon stood up. “Watch your mouth,” he said, enunciating every syllable with no trace of a stutter, though he was pale with emotion. The waiter hurried over to ask if they needed something.

Ivy tugged Gideon’s arm. Gideon remained standing.