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“You’re asking a college dropout,” says Jane, then isn’t sure what affect to adopt when Ivy looks at her curiously. I’m okay? I’m not okay? I feel stupid? Back off, my aunt died?
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” says Ivy. “There’s nothing wrong with being a college dropout.”
“It doesn’t feel very good, though,” says Jane.
“That doesn’t mean it’s wrong,” says Ivy thoughtfully.
That sounds like something Aunt Magnolia would say, though she’d say it in ringing tones of wisdom, whereas Ivy says it as if it’s a new possibility she’s considering for the first time. They’ve come to a door at the end of the corridor, made of unfinished planks, with a heavy iron latch instead of a knob. Ivy pulls it open to reveal a landing with elevator doors straight ahead and stairs leading up and down. She flicks a switch on the landing and the room above brightens. “West attics,” she says before Jane can ask. “The workshop is up there.”
“Mrs. Vanders said I wasn’t allowed in the west attics, either,” says Jane. “She said it’s dangerous.”
Ivy snorts, then starts up the steps. “Come see for yourself. If it looks dangerous, we won’t go in.”
“Okay,” says Jane, pretending to be the rule-breaker she isn’t, because she doesn’t want to lose Ivy’s respect. “Wow,” she adds as her climb brings an enormous room into view. It’s filled with neat rows of worktables, almost like a shop class. With tall windows and high, wooden rafters, it’s as big as the entire west wing, rich with the smells of oil and sawdust. Rain drums against the roof. Through the windows Jane can just barely make out the spire on the house’s east side, puncturing the storm clouds.
It’s a tidy, open, barn-like space, with no loose nails or shaky beams. Jane wanders, Ivy following. An unfinished chest draws her attention. It’s walnut—Jane knows her woods. It has a carved top depicting an undersea scene of sperm whales (Jane also knows her whales). Above the whales, a girl floats in a rowboat, oblivious to the creatures below.
“Who made this?” Jane asks.
“Oh,” says Ivy, looking embarrassed but pleased. “That’s mine.”
“Really? You make furniture too? It’s beautiful!”
“Thanks. I haven’t touched it in forever. I don’t get time for the big projects. Though my brother and I did finish a boat recently.”
“You and Patrick made a boat up here?”
“Yeah. A rowboat. We had to lower it to the ground on ropes through a window. There’s a freight elevator to the outside, and a dumbwaiter,” Ivy says, waving a hand back toward the stairs, “but it was a boat, after all.”
A DIY rowboat. Jane tries to make her umbrellas watertight, but it’s not like anyone’s going to drown if she screws something up. “Do you take the boat out?”
“Sure,” says Ivy. “It’s a great little boat.”
Who builds a boat, in her spare time, with her own hands, then slaps it onto the ocean and rows around in it successfully? Probably while announcing winning Scrabble words and being bold and daring.
“There’s a rotary saw in the back somewhere,” Ivy says, “and we have a few different lathes.”
“Thanks,” says Jane, feeling a bit desolate.
“You should help yourself to whatever you need.”
“Thanks,” Jane says again, hoping Ivy won’t ask her what she needs them for.
The house moans and grumbles, almost as if in sympathy with Jane’s feelings. As old houses do, Jane thinks to herself. She imagines this house curled up with its back to the sky, shivering around the center it must keep warm, holding its skin against the driving rain.
A tiny, self-contained glass room sits near the stairs. There’s a table inside, on which is propped a large painting of a white man with sloping shoulders, wearing a beret with a great, curling feather. Brushes, bottles, and light fixtures surround the painting.
“Is someone a painter?” Jane asks, pointing.
“Rembrandt’s a painter,” Ivy says, grinning. “That’s a Rembrandt self-portrait. It’s one of the house’s pictures. Mrs. Vanders is cleaning it. She has a degree in conservation, among other things. Maybe you can smell the acetone—sort of a sharp smell? She uses it sometimes.”
“Oh,” Jane says, feeling silly for not recognizing a Rembrandt. “Right.”
“That room is her conservation studio,” Ivy says. “It’s sealed, so the art is protected from sawdust, and the glass is a fancy kind that shields it from outside light.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” says Ivy, understanding. “This is a house of serious art lovers. And Octavian has more money than God.”
A door at the back end of the attic opens with a scraping sound, startling Jane. Spinning around, she sees a flash of yellow wallpaper in a bright room beyond. A man with a pert mouth steps from the room, notices Jane, and clicks the door shut quickly. He has dark hair and East Asian features and wears a navy blue suit and orange Chuck Taylors.
Pulling latex gloves from his hands and shoving them into his pockets, he walks across the room toward them both. “Hello,” he says.
“Hi,” says Ivy, her voice carefully nonchalant again. “This is Philip Okada,” she tells Jane. “He’s visiting for the gala. Philip, this is Kiran’s friend Janie.”
“Nice to meet you,” says Philip, speaking with what sounds like an English accent.
“You too,” says Jane, glancing at the gloves dangling from his coat pocket.
“Forgive me,” he says. “I’m something of a germophobe and I often wear them. How do you know Kiran?”
“She went to college in my hometown.”
“Ah.” He smiles a polite smile, his face creasing into lines that make Jane think he must be at least thirty. Thirty-five? Even older? When do old people get laugh lines?
“How do you know the Thrash family?” asks Jane, deciding to be nosy.
“The New York party scene,” says Philip, his expression pleasantly bland.
“I see,” says Jane, wondering what that means, exactly, and how a germophobe manages a crowded party “scene.” Is there more here than meets the eye?
“Well,” he says, “see you later, no doubt.” He bends down to give Jasper a vigorous rub behind the ears. Then he descends the stairs, sliding his hand along the metal railing.
“You’d think a germophobe would avoid dogs and railings,” says Jane.
Ivy’s face is expressionless. “Take whatever you need,” she says, turning away. “Our attic is your attic.”
Definitely more here than meets the eye.
* * *
In the end, Jane borrows a rotary saw, a small lathe, a tarp, some beautiful birch rods, a can of stain, a can of varnish, and a worktable that’s a good height for her sewing machine. The workshop contains a thousand other things she could use, but she’s already embarrassed enough by her riches, especially when she needs to take two trips to get them downstairs.
While Jane is balancing her first armload, Ivy’s phone makes a noise like one of the horns in Lord of the Rings. “Sorry,” she says, glancing at it. “That’s Cook. You’ll be okay? Leave the worktable. Someone’ll bring it to you later.”
“Okay,” Jane says, “thanks,” wondering when she’ll see Ivy again, but too shy to ask.
Jasper follows Jane back and forth from the attics to her rooms, stumping along cheerfully behind her, waiting patiently at the base of the attic steps each time. “I like you, Jasper,” says Jane.
