Free Icing Ivy by Evan Marshall Page B

hadn’t bathed or changed her clothes since yesterday. She made her way over to Jane, William, and Daniel and took the empty seat next to William. Watching Ivy sit down a little too carefully, Jane wondered if she’d been drinking.
    The atmosphere was subdued—Adam, Rhoda, and Ginny serving, everyone quietly eating. Adam, crossing the room with a tray, gave Jane an imploring look. She nodded.
    â€œWell,” she burst out sunnily. “How are everyone’s stories coming along?”
    They all looked at her, wary expressions on their faces.
    Finally William looked up and smiled at Jane. “I think mine’s a real humdinger,” he said in his thready voice. “Maybe I’ll get myself one of those movie deals. But I’ve got to executive produce.”
    Everyone laughed, the atmosphere loosening up.
    â€œ I’ve got a hell of a story,” Ivy suddenly announced. The room grew silent again. Everyone watched her, waiting.
    â€œMm-hm,” she continued matter-of-factly, spearing a piece of chicken and putting it in her mouth. “It’s going to put someone in jail for years and years.”
    Again the uneasy silence. Jane didn’t blame Ivy for feeling bitter toward Johnny and was happy that her friend was rid of him, but she didn’t like the way this conversation was going.
    â€œWhat about you, Carla?” Jane asked.
    Carla looked up and scowled at Jane, who refused to be intimidated.
    â€œHow is your novel coming along?”
    â€œFine,” Carla said brusquely, and looked away. “Pass the butter, please.”
    Jane gave up. The remainder of the meal was eaten in virtual silence.
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    The atmosphere of that evening’s group session made Jane nervous, as if the air itself were charged.
    Tamara read from her novel, about a woman dying of breast cancer. Red Pearson ripped it to shreds, calling it maudlin and melodramatic.
    When he read from his own novel based on the Boriken Social Club tragedy, Tamara got him back by loudly scoffing at least three times.
    William Ives, in his thin, shaky voice, read a passage from his novel about a lost woodsman. To Jane’s surprise, it was extremely well written. She noticed Arliss, William’s instructor, nodding approvingly at the other end of the room. Jane wondered, perhaps uncharitably, if Arliss had rewritten William’s material. Brad Franklin, as if reading Jane’s thoughts, called out, “Sounds like your teacher helped you with your homework.”
    â€œWhat is that supposed to mean?” William demanded.
    Brad laughed, his shoulders rising and falling once. “It’s obvious. Arliss rewrote your stuff. Or maybe she just wrote it, saved you the trouble of doing anything at all.”
    A hush descended upon the room. Arliss was watching Brad with a shocked, hateful look in her eyes. “That remark was totally uncalled for, Brad,” she said, “and I resent it immensely.”
    Brad laughed again. “Sorry, sorry. I was only joking.”
    â€œYou know,” Ivy said, and everyone turned to her, “I think Brad is the last person who should object to someone’s writing being ‘ghosted,’ since that’s exactly what he does for a living.”
    Brad’s face grew serious. “I just told you,” he said tightly, “I was joking.”
    Ivy appeared to ignore this. “Damn cushy setup,” she muttered. “Cushier than people think.”
    Brad gave her a surprised, murderous look.
    Paul Kavanagh read more of his coming-of-age novel, a passage in which the protagonist experienced his first homosexual encounter. In the middle of the reading, Red yelled out that he hadn’t come to this retreat to hear porno. This time Paul, who seemed to have girded himself for blows such as this, simply finished reading and took his seat.
    Ellyn Bass read lovingly from her romance, dwelling on the heavy Scottish accents. Tamara rolled her