Chapter Twelve
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Iverson
What the outside of George’s building lacks in color, personality, and charm, the inside more than makes up for.
“What is this?” Maple breathes as we step through warehouse shelves stacked high with more art products than most people will ever see in their lifetimes.
“This is George’s,” I answer. “A few years ago I realized there was probably a better way to source your art supplies than what we were doing. You remember when you ran out of those blue pencils you like using for your sketches? And we couldn’t find any, even though we went to practically every store in the city? ”
She nods, eyes wide as a tentative finger reaches for a stack of spiral-bound mixed media sketchbooks, then retracts before touching them.
I tip my chin at George, whose long-limbed stride guides us steadily through the maze of shelves.
“A week later, you had the pencils. That’s thanks to George.
I found him through Aubree Waltz’s people, and after the Great Pencil Incident, I offered him a sourcing job.
He gets the supplies you like, and supplies he thinks you might like, and he stores them here.
When you’re running low, we replace. When you’re getting bored of a medium, we have a meeting to discuss what might reignite the spark for you.
I had to agree to let him continue his work with Aubree, but otherwise he spends his days managing this warehouse and curating a stock specifically for you. ”
“My goodness,” Maple whispers. “Ivy, this is…”
“I know,” I agree. “It’s a bit much, which is why I hadn’t mentioned it.
I send anonymous donations to the stores you used to frequent, especially the small businesses, so that they don’t feel the loss of your patronage too much.
And of course we still go on our shopping excursions sometimes so they get you then.
This is just… problem solving. I didn’t like it when you wanted something and couldn’t have it.
So now we have the warehouse, and we have George. ”
George, who might have been an Olympic runner in a past life, actually. I’ve never known the man to be so speedy, but my own long legs are having trouble keeping up, and I’m practically dragging Maple through the warehouse aisles.
“You’re mentioning it now, though,” Maple points out.
“Yes,” I agree. “Because all of the greatest romances have a grand gesture, and I couldn’t think of any I hadn’t already done.
I had to resort to one I’d secretly done, which also got rid of a secret between us, something I have learned recently you Do Not Like. Two birds, and they’re wedding doves.”
“In the saying, the birds die,” she educates, my little scholar.
“Do you like your warehouse?” I ask, refusing to be educated. Our doves are flying high and lovely in the sky, thank you very much.
She huffs, then sniffs. Her adorable princess nose plants itself firmly in the air.
Her hair flies as we rush to catch up to George after he rounds a corner and disappears from sight.
“I suppose I like my warehouse,” she offers magnanimously.
“It’s thoughtful. I’m also grateful that you told me about it.
I would definitely prefer it if we don’t keep any more secrets. ”
“This was my last one,” I assure her. “Unless you count what I’ve ordered for your Christmas gift.”
“You’ve already ordered my Christmas gift?” she asks. “Ivy, it’s June.”
Yes, well, elephants don’t rent themselves, do they?
We finally make it to the corner that ate George, and suddenly we’re no longer in a dim jungle of metal shelves and towering boxes.
We’ve reached the middle of the warehouse, where I asked George, with the help of Birch, to set up a picnic for Maple and me underneath the building’s only redeeming architectural feature—a large, triangular skylight designed to shed natural light on a show floor where George tests all of our products before they can touch one of Maple’s studios.
I halt, and Maple halts with me.
“Wow,” she whispers.
“Wow, indeed,” I agree. I catch sight of George, sneaking away through shelves on the opposite side of the showroom with a sly smile on his face.
He knows as well as I do that what he’s created here is about five thousand times more magical than what I requested of him.
This is pure fairyland beauty, and I have an inkling I know who Ivory—formally known as Azalea, Malcolm’s wife and our shared assistant—and Malcolm consulted on some of the wedding ball details that didn’t come from me.
As I survey the picturesque picnic, I do the mental math to figure out how much I could increase George’s end-of-year bonus without going bankrupt myself.
“Ivy, this is beautiful,” Maple mutters.
I have to agree.
Sunrays shine down on the beauty, framing the circle of romance in a triangle of golden glow.
Our tablecloth of memories sits in the middle of the scene, topped with cozy cushions and tasseled pillows in an array of jewel tones.
A picnic basket overflowing with Birch-provided goods sits amongst the fluff, offset by a plastic-lined wicker bucket full of ice and champagne.
Easels of varying sizes surround the picnic.
Each one holds a canvas-printed photo of Maple and me through the years—us as babies, toppling over on my parents’ lawn; us at our high school prom, Maple smiling hugely while I glare at a male classmate who couldn’t keep his eyes off the low cut of her bodice; us in the garden, photographed by a sneaky Birch while Maple sketches me, a bush strategically placed for the sake of my modesty.
More photos sit in golden frames atop upturned wooden crates as bottles of paints and pencils and brushes fall from their depths, the colors of all complementing the woodsy and jewel tones throughout the space.
Where photos leave vacancies, candles take up residence. Tall, tapered wax intermingles with shorter, stout pillars. The sweet scent of pomegranate fills the air. I breathe it in, letting the fruity perfume assure me that this is real—that I’m not dreaming.
It’s so beautiful and so perfectly tailored to Maple that if she isn’t wooed by the end of this date, then at least I’ll know it’s not because of what I’m doing. It’s just because of who and how I am.
What an incredibly relaxing thought, that one.
“Come, Maple,” I murmur, shaking off the vestiges of my nerves as I lead her to the pillow with the best view of her painting me in our garden. “Our courtship begins.”
And so it does.