Ivy and Olivia were lighting the candles in the middle of the dining room table when the pipeorgan doorbell rang.
“Girls!” Mr. Vega’s voice called faintly from upstairs. “The door!”
Ivy was about to go answer it, but Olivia grabbed her arm. “Lesson of Love Number One: interaction is the key to attraction,” Olivia whispered.
“What does that mean?” Ivy asked.
The doorbell rang again. “He should get it,” Olivia said.
Good idea, thought Ivy. “DAD! CAN YOU GET THE DOOR, PLEASE?” she yelled. She snatched a black lacquer plate off the table. “WE HAVE OUR HANDS FULL OF PLATES DOWN HERE!”
A moment later, Ivy could hear the faint patter of her father descending the grand staircase.
Ivy and Olivia peeked around the corner into the foyer just as their father reached the bottom of the steps. His hair was slicked back, and he was wearing pin-striped black pants and a tailored white shirt under a gray blazer. Perfect! Ivy thought.
“Any woman would totally fall for him,” Olivia whispered.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ivy’s father apologized as he opened the door. “Alice!” he exclaimed.
“It’s Charles, right?” Ivy heard. “Like the prince?”
Ivy’s father stood there, speechless.
Invite her in, Ivy pleaded silently.
“Please, come in,” her father said.
“Thanks!” Alice said and charged into the foyer. She was wearing an enormous crocheted sweater dress, black leggings, and silver leg warmers. On her head was a black faux-fur-lined trapper hat. She looks like a dancer in a Russian music video, Ivy thought.
“Creative outfit,” Olivia whispered hopefully.
Ivy’s father snapped his head in their direction like he’d heard. He locked Ivy in his gaze, and his eyes widened.
We’re staked! Ivy thought.
Rather than ducking out of sight, though, Olivia pushed past Ivy and marched into the foyer. “Hi, Alice!” She smiled. Ivy nervously hurried after her. “Thanks so much for helping out with our art project!”
Alice screwed up her lips. “I thought I was here for dinner.”
“You are,” Olivia said. “We had to create something special for someone else, so we’re making dinner for you and Mr. Vega!”
“That’s art?” Alice looked confused.
“That was my question exactly,” Ivy’s father said stiffly.
“I usually work in papier-mâché,” Alice admitted.
“It’s performance art,” said Ivy, pulling out the only explanation she had.
Alice’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I love performance art! Don’t you, Charlie?”
Charlie? thought Ivy. No one calls my dad Charlie.
“I once painted my whole body white,” continued Alice, “curled up in a ball, and hung myself from the ceiling for a piece. I called it:
The Phases of My Moon.”
Ivy’s father smiled uncomfortably.
As she and Olivia led the way to the dining
room, Ivy heard Alice say, “Wow Charlie, your house is so enormous and ultraconservative modern. You should really consider metallics!”
Good sign, Ivy thought. She’s interested in interior design.
Olivia and Ivy pulled out the two chairs opposite each other at the oak dining room table, which was strewn with dead rose petals atop the black silk tablecloth.
“There are only two places,” their father said, clearly surprised. “Won’t you girls be joining us?”
“We can’t,” Ivy said firmly.
“It would totally defeat the purpose,” added Olivia. “You know, of our art.”
Ivy was grateful when Alice brushed past her dad and took a seat. “Did you girls fold these napkins to look like bats?” she asked. “The Japanese say that origami is the purest art form.”
“Yes,” Ivy’s father admitted, taking a seat at last, “that is a lovely touch.”
“Make yourselves comfortable,” said Olivia.
“And we’ll be back in a moment with your first course,” added Ivy.
As her sister ladled soup into black lacquer bowls, Ivy peeked into the dining room. Her father and Alice were chatting amicably. Alice was leaning forward, her chin resting in her hands, her eyes upturned toward Ivy’s father.
It’s working! Ivy thought.
Everything’s going perfectly! thought Olivia. Through the crack in the dining room door, she could see the candlelight flickering warmly on Alice and Mr. Vega’s pale faces. Both of them were wolfing down their cream of plasma soup. As she ate, Alice talked about waitressing at the Meat & Greet—the enormous walk-in freezer (“Like a cave!”), how hard it was to find comfortable shoes (“If people like us can live forever, why do we still have back pain?”), how tips were divided (“Evenly”). Mr. Vega smiled and nodded attentively.
“Anyway,” said Alice, “I think Ivy and Olivia are absolutely, one hundred percent right on. Serving food is an art!” Mr. Vega continued to nod.
He didn’t say anything as Alice finished the last roll.
Uh-oh, Olivia thought. Silence. She turned and bumped right into her sister, who’d been peering over her shoulder the whole time.
“How come no one’s talking?” Ivy whispered.
“Lesson of Love Number Two,” Olivia replied softly, “never let an awkward moment linger.” She rushed to the counter, grabbed the bottle of sparkling white wine that was chilling there, and slipped into the dining room.
“So,” she said as she topped up the wineglasses, “you’re both actively involved with the Franklin Grove Art Museum. I’ve never been.”
“You’ve never been?” Mr. Vega and Alice both repeated incredulously.
“Olivia, you must go,” Mr. Vega said. “It is an excellent museum, one of the best in this part of the country.”
“When Charlie’s right, he’s right,” Alice said, raising her glass in the air before taking a gulp.
“Really?” said Olivia. “What’s your favorite piece of art there, Mr. Vega?”
Her father’s eyes shifted as if he was imagining that the piece of art was right there in the room with them. “There is a piece of sculpture on the first floor that takes my breath away,” he said.