Icing Ivy by Evan Marshall Page B

he’d been handed and scowled.
    The right rear door of the taxi opened, and an immense bouquet—no, two bouquets—of red and yellow roses emerged first.
    What on earth . . . ?
    After the roses came a pair of pudgy legs.
    No. It couldn’t be.
    It was.
    With difficulty, Bertha Stumpf extricated herself from the cab. She pulled down her tight dress with a shimmying movement, then slammed the car door shut. Erol backed out and drove away up the street.
    Bertha looked appraisingly up at the house, eyes narrowed. Then she saw Jane, her face bloomed into a solicitous smile, and she started up the path to the front door.
    What was she doing here?
    â€œSurprise!” Bertha cried, clip-clopping up the steps in her heels. “Bet I’m the last person you expected to see, huh?”
    â€œThat’s for sure.” Jane made herself smile. It occurred to her that she should have seen this visit coming. Over the course of their working together, Bertha had made several references to the possibility of their getting together sometime “in Jane’s neck of the woods.” Jane had found the idea repugnant. Not only did she find Bertha tiresome at the best of times, but she never socialized with the writers she represented. Even if she did, the last thing she would ever do would be to invite one to her home.
    Years ago, when Jane and Kenneth had both worked at Silver and Payne, the large old literary agency where they had met, Beryl Patrice, the agency’s president, had given Jane a piece of advice : “Don’t ever wear your mink to lunch with a client, and whatever you do, don’t ever let a client see where you live. Either the client will feel you live too lavishly and have achieved this affluence off her back, or else the client will feel you live shabbily and will decide you’re a loser. Either way, it causes resentment. It’s a no-win situation.”
    It was the only thing of any value Beryl had ever said to Jane. She wondered which category Bertha would fall into.
    â€œJane, darling!” Bertha cried dramatically, bearing the vivid bouquets up the steps like an Olympic torch, and threw her arms around Jane. “Please forgive my dropping in like this, but how could I leave town without knowing you were all right?”
    â€œHow did you know where I live?”
    â€œYou’re in the book, Jane.” Bertha trotted past Jane into the foyer. “What a fabulous house. So old-fashioned and cozy. And so big! What do you call this style?”
    â€œChalet, mock Tudor.” Jane shrugged. Was this really happening?
    â€œWell, it’s adorable. Here,” Bertha said, practically shoving the flowers in Jane’s face. “These are for you, darling. I figured you could use some cheering up after what happened this morning. I’m so sorry.” Jane took the flowers, and Bertha shrugged out of her coat.
    Florence and Nick appeared from the kitchen and stood staring. “Bertha—oh, sorry,” Jane said.
    â€œNo, my real name is fine here, silly,” Bertha said with a wave of her hand. “This is family.”
    Family. Hanging up Bertha’s coat, Jane felt as if she were going to be sick. “Bertha Stumpf, I’d like you to meet my son, Nicholas, and this is Florence.”
    Nick said a quick hi. Florence looked bewildered at this unexpected guest but stepped forward graciously and shook Bertha’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said.
    Bertha gasped. “ Love the accent,” she said, as if it were something Florence had selected and purchased. She gave Florence and Nick an arch smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you two.”
    Still they both stood there, staring. Jane gave Florence a quick wave of her head that meant Beat it.
    Florence relieved Jane of the roses, then took Nick by the hand and led him back toward the kitchen.
    â€œMy word,” Bertha said, watching Nick nostalgically. “Such a