please her friend by keeping her distance from Gregory. She had reached out to Suzanne several times, but each time her hand had been slapped back. There was no reason to keep trying now, to keep tiptoeing around Suzanne and Gregory. Her anger turned to relief; she felt suddenly free of a burden she hadn't wanted to carry.
'Why do we have two bouquets?' Philip asked as Ivy drove along, humming. 'Is one of them going to be from me?'
He had guessed.
'Actually, they're both from us. I thought it would be nice to leave some flowers on Caroline's grave.'
'Why?'
Ivy shrugged. 'Because she was Gregory's mother, and Gregory has been good to both of us.'
'But she was a nasty lady.'
Ivy glanced over at him. Nasty wasn't one of the words in Philip's vocabulary. 'What?'
'Sammy's mother said she was nasty.'
'Well, Sammy's mother doesn't know everything,' Ivy replied, driving through the large iron gates.
'She knew Caroline,' Philip said stubbornly.
Ivy was aware that a lot of people hadn't liked Caroline. Gregory himself had never spoken well of his mother.
'All right, here's what we'll do,' she said as she parked the car. 'We'll make one bouquet, the orange one, from me to Caroline, and the other, the purple one, from me and you to Tristan.'
They walked silently to the wealthy area of Riverstone Rise.
When Ivy went to lay the flowers on Caroline's grave, she noticed that Philip hung back.
'Is it cold?' he called to her.
'Cold?'
'Sammy's sister says that mean people have cold graves.'
'It's very warm. And look, someone has left Caroline a long-stemmed red rose, someone who must have loved her very much.'
Philip wasn't convinced and looked anxious to get away. Ivy wondered if he was going to act funny around Tristan's grave, too. But as they walked toward it he started hopping over the stones and turned back into his old cheerful chatterbox self.
'Remember how Tristan put the salad in his hair at Mom's wedding,' Philip asked, 'and it was all runny?
And remember the celery he stuck in his ears?'
'And the shrimp tails in his nose,' Ivy said.
'And those black things on his teeth.'
'Olives. I remember.'
It was the first time since the funeral that Philip had spoken to her about Tristan, the Tristan he had once played with. She wondered why her brother was suddenly able to do so.
'And remember how I beat him at checkers?'
'Two out of three games,' she said.
'Yeah.' Philip grinned to himself, then took off.
He ran up to the last mausoleum in a row of the elegant burial houses and knocked on the door. 'Open up in there!' he shouted, then flapped his arms and flew ahead of Ivy, waiting for her at the next turn.
'Tristan was good at Sega Genesis,' Philip said.
'He taught you some cool tricks, didn't he?'
'Yep. I miss him.'
'Me, too,' Ivy said, biting her lip. She was glad that Philip had rushed ahead again. She didn't want to ruin his happy memories with tears.
At Tristan's grave Ivy knelt down and ran her fingers over the letters on the stone — Tristan's name and dates. She could not say the small prayer that had been carved on the stone, a prayer that put him in the hands of the angels, so her fingers read it silently. Philip also touched the stone, then he arranged the flowers. He wanted to shape them into a T.
He's healing. Ivy thought as she watched him. If he can, maybe I can, too.
'Tristan will like these when he comes back,' Philip said, standing up to admire his own work.
Ivy thought she had misunderstood her brother, 'I hope he gets back before the flowers die,' he continued.
'What?'
'Maybe he'll come back when it's dark.'
Ivy put her hand over her mouth. She didn't want to deal with this, but somebody had to, and she knew that she couldn't count on her mother.
'Where do you think Tristan is now?' Ivy asked cautiously.
'I know where he is. At the festival.'
'And how do you know that?'
'He told me. He's my angel. Ivy. I know you said never to say angel again' — Philip was talking very fast, as if he could avoid her anger by saying the word quickly—'but that's what he is. I didn't know it was him till he told me today.'
Ivy rubbed her hands over her bare arms.
'He must still be there with that other one,' Philip said.
'That other one?' she repeated.
'The other angel,' he said softly. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a creased photograph. It was a picture of them that had been taken at Old West Photos, but not the same one she had been given. Something had gone wrong with the developer, or perhaps the film itself. There was a cloudiness behind him.
Philip pointed to it. 'That's her. The other angel.'
Its shape vaguely resembled a girl, so Ivy could see why he might say that.
'Where did you get this?'
'Will gave it to me. I asked him for it because she didn't get into the picture he gave you. I think she's a friend of Tristan's.'
Ivy could only imagine what Philip's active mind would create next — an entire community of angel friends and relatives. 'Tristan is dead,' she said. 'Dead. Do you understand?'
'Yes.' His face was somber and knowing as an adult's, but his skin looked baby smooth and golden in the evening sun. At that moment he reminded Ivy of a painting of an angel.
'I miss Tristan the way he used to be,' Philip told her. 'I wish he could still play with me. Sometimes I still feel like crying. But I'm glad he's my angel now. Ivy. He'll help you too.'
She didn't argue. She couldn't reason with a kid who believed as strongly as Philip did.
'We need to go,' she said at last.
He nodded, then threw his head back and shouted, 'I hope you like it, Tristan.'
Ivy hurried ahead of him. She was glad she was dropping him off at Sammy's for a sleepover. With Sammy back, maybe Philip would spend more time in the real world.
When Ivy arrived home she found a note from her mother reminding her that she and Andrew had gone to the dinner gala that was part of the arts festival.
'Good,' Ivy said aloud. She'd had enough strained conversations for one day. An evening with just Ella and a good book was exactly what she needed. She ran upstairs, kicked off her shoes, and changed into her favorite T- shirt, which was full of holes and so big she could wear it like a short dress.
'It's just you and me, cat,' Ivy said to Ella, who had chased her up the steps and down again to the kitchen. 'Is mademoiselle ready to dine?' Ivy set two cans out on the counter. 'For you, seafood nuggets. For me, tuna. I hope I don't get them mixed up.'
Ella rubbed back and forth against Ivy's legs as Ivy prepared the food. Then the cat mewed softly.
'Why the fancy dishes, you ask?' Ivy got down a matched set of cut-glass plates, along with a crystal drinking glass and a crystal bowl. 'We're celebrating. I played the piece, Ella, I played the movement all the way through!'
