Ivy in Stills

Ivy in Stills

By Ka Hancock

One—Mia

L

ullaby warned me that he’d be late, and he was. Lawyers. So, I asked for another Pepsi and watched the lunch crowd at Mo’s dwindle. Then I pulled my camera from my backpack and busied myself scanning the digital images I’d taken last night at the cemetery. They were for a project I was working on. My uncle Giff died in Vietnam, and I’d wanted some pictures of his headstone. Colonel Gifford Leland Sutton had been my father’s only brother—and Dad had been a sport when I’d asked him to come along. He’d even brought the flowers.

Some of my pictures were completely stellar, if I did say so myself—just Dad’s long, Levi-clad legs, a fifty-year-old granite marker in the foreground sporting a tattered flag, and gerbera daisies hanging from my father’s old veined hand—all captured in black and white, of course. I was pleased with almost all of them. Those that didn’t make the cut, I deleted from my SIM card.

As I was admiring my work, a raised voice outside the window—the streaked window—next to me, caught my attention. It was a woman, agitated, pacing up and down the sidewalk and dragging a little boy in her wake. She was wearing heels, a full skirt and she was arguing loudly with someone on her cell phone. What fascinated me was the child at her side, who had a fist full of that skirt in his hand. He was a tad grubby compared to the woman. There was a story there, and I couldn’t help it; I pulled the blinds up just high enough to get the shot. Then I focused my lens, zoomed, and clicked off what I knew would eventually pare down to just that little hand grasping that wad of skirt. What did it mean?Don’t leave me? Stop yelling? Please don’t fight with Dad again?It didn’t really matter, I guess. Whatever it was made for a great photo, especially from behind dirty glass.

When she finally hung up, she was crying, and thankfully she bent down and picked up the little boy. He was still clinging to her skirt and brought it with him up to her shoulder, so for a moment before she walked away, she was skirt-tugging and child-hugging and defeat-weeping in equal measure. That might have been the money shot…but taking it, without her permission, suddenly felt exploitive, so I didn’t. A little hand buried in his mom’s dress was one thing. Capturing someone at their worst moment without their knowledge was something else entirely. I watched her, neck craned, as she turned the corner. Then I stowed my camera.

When the waitress asked me if I wanted a refill, I realized another twenty minutes had passed, and I started to get annoyed. I ordered a grilled cheese and large fries—to go. As I waited and thought about the rest of my afternoon, my phone pinged. It took me a minute to find it in the massive bag in which I haul around my life. If it was him canceling, I was going to scream.

But it wasn’t the attorney. It was a text from Sophie.

My three best friends were backpacking across Europe this summer, and I was living vicariously through them—and their cruel texts and even crueler pictures. Today they were at the Roman Coliseum. ‘Wish you were here,’ Soph texted.

‘Beware of adorable Roma kids! One robbed my dad blind, exactly where you’re standing,’ I texted back.

I’d wanted desperately to go with them, but I was stuck in Monterey completing my final semester in advanced photography before I graduated in August. So, Bryn, Sophie, and Liz left me, ever so rudely, and were off experiencing cheap food, intercontinental men, and hostel life while I responsibly wrapped up my degree, missed and obsessed about one Derek Lehman, and housesat with my brother, Bo. By the end of the summer, we’d all have stories to tell, and I was absolutely certain mine would win. My girls would have their exploits through the canals of Venice, the streets of Madrid, the halls of Versailles. But I’d have Bo. And adventures with my brother’s OCD would surely trump anything they could experience. It usually did.

I sighed, feeling a little sorry for myself, and looked up to find my probable lunch date looming over me. “Miss Sutton?” said a rather good-looking, older-ish man trying to look young.

A bit surprised, I sized him up and wondered how long he’d been standing there waiting for me to acknowledge him. He had short, mostly silver hair, a dark beard, was crisply dressed and reeked of wealth…and arrogance. He also looked like he worked hard to look that good. I almost asked him for a cheeseburger just to be funny. Instead, I smiled. “It’s Mia. Are you Mr. Proctor?”

“Daniel Proctor,” he said. “Thank you for meeting me. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long,” he said. “I had a bail hearing that ran a little over. My apologies.”

Yes, you kept me too long! I head-screamed. Forty-five minutes is a yoga class! But I just fake-smiled and said, “My aunt warned me that you’d be late.”

He eyed me with no amusement as he sat down across from me.

“That sounds like Lullaby. How is the old gal these days?”

“Deliriously happy, I’m sure,” I said. “She got married last month and is on her honeymoon.”

He lifted a brow. “Really? I guess that explains why I’ve been relegated to meeting with you .” He said this looking the tiniest bit irked. “Lullaby owns my building. We’ve been friends for years—though not good enough friends to justify an invitation to her wedding it seems.”

I shrugged, not sure what he wanted me to say to that brilliant observation, so I just said, “I guess not.”

He continued to look perturbed.

“My aunt’s email said you were interested in renting her pool house for a few days,” I said. I didn’t tell him that Lullaby had warned me not to be bullied by this man. I also didn’t mention that my aunt had in no way indicated that she considered Daniel Proctor to be a friend, which led me to believe he was working me.

He regrouped. “Probably more like a few weeks, although I hope not that long. I’m sure I mentioned that to her. She helped me out once before with an out-of-town client. I was hoping she’d be willing to do it again. But apparently, that’s up to”—he spread his hands— “ you. ”

Now he just looked condescending. I didn’t like Daniel Proctor.

Thankfully, the waitress showed up, so I didn’t have to be rude in return. She set down my to-go order and my bill. The attorney eyed me icily, then ordered a cup of coffee and a chef’s salad.When she walked away, he said, “You can’t stay?”

“Sorry.”

When I offered no explanation, he cleared his throat. “So, about the pool house…”

I grimaced a bit to make my refusal look heartfelt and said, “Mr. Proctor, I really don’t think I can help you. Like I said, Lullaby is traveling for the foreseeable future, and my brother and I are just housesitting. I’m not sure we’re what you’re looking for, my brother is kind of a… handful , and I’m at school most of the day. I’m not a maid or anything.”

The man stopped me with his lifted hand. “That would not be the expectation, Miss Sutton. I’d be renting the pool house for a young woman who is very self-sufficient. It’s for my daughter, Ivy, actually. She’s visiting from Georgia. She’s had a rather traumatic experience. She’s here… recuperating .”

“How traumatic?” I blurted. “Sorry. I mean…how traumatic? Did she witness a triple homicide, or did her cat just die?” I lifted a brow and didn’t let go of his eyes. “I mean, you’re asking if she can live with me. I think I have a right to know what I’m looking at.”

He studied me, seemed curious, maybe a bit surprised. Then he nodded. “I’ll paint you a picture. Her wedding day. Back yard full of people. Vows being spoken. Officiator says, ‘anyone object to this union, speak now blah blah blah. ’ Not-so-ex-girlfriend—apparently—stands up and announces to the world that she’s pregnant with the groom’s baby. You can imagine the rest.”

I stared at him, felt my shoulders sag. “Oh. My. Gosh.”

“Exactly. That was May 3rd—five weeks ago. And I’m at a loss. Ivy came home with me from the wedding, and now she says she’s never going back to Savannah, and I’m growing very concerned for her. Her mother is there and misses her terribly. Ivy needs to go home. And sooner rather than later. I know she’s depressed. I got her a therapist, but that doesn’t seem to be helping. I think she’d probably feel better if she lost some weight, but we can’t really talk about that without her crying,” he said with annoyance.

His words made me cringe, and I’m sure my face said so.

The attorney looked pointedly at me. “I’ll be honest—I think she’d feel a lot better if she looked a little like you.”

Again, the cringe. But I didn’t have to look down at myself to know what he was seeing: Thin girl, nicely proportioned in a black tank top, blond hair pulled back in a messy bun, earrings bigger than my head. Decidedly bohemian style. Daniel Proctor didn’t offer details about his daughter’s size, but I could imagine the dad of the year had been unkind in his remarks if not his attitude and I was suddenly sad for Ivy. On so many levels.

Oblivious to where my mind had wandered, the attorney rambled on. “I don’t know what else to do, Miss Sutton. I’m traveling next week, and I need to get Ivy out of the company condo. We have a client coming to town to testify in a trial and I need that condo .”

“Where will she go? I mean, since the pool house probably won’t work out?”

He sighed, looked again perturbed. “I guess a hotel, which isn’t ideal. She’d be infinitely more comfortable at Lullaby’s.”

“Why hasn’t she been staying with you?” Again, the blurt I’m rather famous for .

Daniel Proctor narrowed his eyes at me. “It’s… it’s complicated.” He held my gaze for a cold beat, then unnarrowed his eyes and softened his expression. Actually, he suddenly looked incredibly tired as the waitress set down his food. When she walked away, he sighed and attempted to regain neutral ground with a smile that seemed forced. “So, you’re a student?” he said, I suppose in an effort to keep me seated.

I nodded.

“Where?”

“MPC.”

“Monterey Peninsula. Good school. What’s your major?”

“Art Photography. I’m done in August, but I’ll graduate in the spring.”

“Really? Then what? Photography sounds very competitive,” he said. “Do you have an emphasis?”

“I do everything, but I love imperfection. Black and white, mostly.”

“Interesting,” he said, looking less than impressed.

“I think so. I think it’s fascinating, actually. Perfection isn’t real, you know. It’s a big lie, and yet the world worships it.” I took in this aging man trying to stop time by dying his beard. “But that leaves the raw stuff, the honesty of imperfection wide open. For me.” I lifted a shoulder and gave him an exaggerated smile.

He looked skeptical as he bit a carrot. “And you think there’s a market for that, huh?”

“I do. I think there will always be a market for honesty, Mr. Proctor.”

He fought a smile as the waitress refilled his coffee. “Touché, Miss Sutton.”

“You’d be amazed how beautiful flaws can be,” I said, refusing to be put off by him.

He filled his mouth with salad and shrugged. “You’d have to convince me of that. ”

I scooted to the end of the booth. “Well, some of my best work will be on display Monday night at the campus library. Maybe you could bring Ivy by to meet me. I think it should be up to her if she wants to live in my aunt’s pool house.” What I didn’t say was I suddenly thought I’d do just about anything to help that poor girl.

The attorney cocked his head. “So…are you saying we have a deal?”

“No. I’m saying maybe we have a deal. I think it should be up to Ivy. And if she decides she wants to, I’ll have to warn her about Bo—my brother is a bit persnickety . He’s not dangerous or anything, he’s just extraordinarily high maintenance. But that shouldn’t affect your daughter. And you’ll have to work out all the money details with Lullaby—I won’t be doing any of that. But…other than that, let’s just let Ivy decide what she wants to do.”

Daniel Proctor studied me for a moment. He didn’t say anything, but finally he lifted his coffee mug in a bit of a toast, which I took to mean we’d come to an agreement. I stood. “Good,” I said picking up my lunch. Then I slid my bill across the table to him with a forced smile. He had kept me waiting for forty-five minutes, after all. And he was a bit of a jerk.

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