Ivy had slept little, dreamt a kaleidoscope. She arose early, leaving Derek in his own unquiet sleep.
Such a night, it had been. Over coffee, Ivy ran over last night's performance, found a couple of moments to tweak. Thought of her "Good nights;" she had kissed Jimmy when she thanked him. She could not have given the performance she had without him, his work, his stalwart, unvoiced support. His love. She knew Jimmy loved her; not erotically, but like a little brother, like a colleague, like a friend. Ivy loved him back.
Porter Mallory had kissed both her hands, as he had done that first day, at his audition. "Dearest Ivy, my one regret is there was no opportunity of working closely with you. I do hope we may do that sometime soon, if you are not unwilling." Unwilling? To work – to sing – with Porter Mallory? It would be an actress-singer's heaven. They'd woven a tapestry of music with "Some Enchanted Evening." Eileen had hinted at post-Gatsby plans (the Broadway transfer was an all-but-done-deal), but no specifics . . .
With Sam, Ivy had needed no words – they knew each other too well. Ivy was beyond proud of her friend – indeed, pride seemed presumptuous, in the face of Sam's performance. He had the hardest job of any of them, he carried the show, or very nearly. And he had aced it. With such presence, with so strong a delicacy.
Derek. Ivy knew the enormity of Derek having said – acknowledged - what he had. She had seen change in his work, and his working, but had had no idea the change had been so profound, gone so deep. Had had no idea she was at all responsible. Responsible. Responsibility. It was disquieting, a little. To have caused profound change of outlook in so formed an individual as Derek Wills.
She'd done it twice. The first time – when she was in early pregnancy – had not troubled her – not much, anyway. Ivy had been stunned, at first, to see Derek doing the right thing, in public and on purpose. Too much so, to wonder why. When she had realized, knew what she said to him had impact, she was glad – she counted it a good turn, to someone she loved, human to human. Basically.
But to have changed his work – that was different. He was Derek Wills. He was the best – she knew it, he knew it. Would change make a stronger, more fruitful tree? In the long run? Or something mis-grafted? How could they know? They couldn't. Time would tell.
But it would be a self-lie to to deny that, deep-under, she was gratified. Validated. Vindicated. Which vied with something not guilt, but akin. Rusty blood-roses of feeling.
Ivy went very still. She didn't know these flowers. New hybrid. Ivy rippled, quivered. Heart thudding, eyes shut. Held the roses. Breathed, floated in the scent. Something sweet, clingy, like lilyflower, something sharp, clear, bright – fall morning-y. Something dark, cold - dank ash.
Reached for her script. Flipped. The climactic New York scene. Jay Gatsby confronting Tom Buchanan. Daisy avowing love for Jay. Refusing to deny she had loved Tom. Here. Yes. The sweet, for Jay, bring the ash under sweet - Pammy. The sharp bright – oh, for getting it right, at last. Telling the truth. Ash under sharp – for Tom. Pure ash – foreshadow - how fatal that truth.
Click . . . click . . . click . . . click . . . and click. Into place. The magic cave opened. She'd mix metaphors if she wanted to. It suited, anyway. You cracked the safe – and found the magic. Theatre's gift. Even if you were never. Never ever. The "magical" one. You hugged the magic in secret.