Chapter 6 Ivy
Ivy
One of the things I missed the most about small-town life is that Harmony Hills throws a festival for any and every given occasion. Literally.
We have the Carrot Festival, the Ice Sculptures Festival, the Pumpkin Chucking Festival, Sleigh Weekend… and the list goes on and on.
Nobody knows why half of them are a thing in the first place, but nobody ever complains either. Any excuse is a good excuse to get together and have fun, and this weekend is no different.
The first day of fall, local restaurants and shops take over the town square to participate in the Harmony Hills Fall Festival. Food stands and shop booths pepper the gardens around the square, bustling with activity as we get ready for the start of the festival in the afternoon.
I’ve always loved how fall makes its presence known in subtle ways—leaves start to fall on the grass and over the wooden benches, the days become shorter and the air a little colder.
The wind carries the sound of water hitting the pool on the fountain in the center of the square. It’s warm, the air smells of apple cider, and I’m confident there’s no place in the world like Harmony Hills.
I’m so happy to be back.
“Careful. Don’t hurt yourself,” Fran tells me for the fifth time in the two minutes I’ve been putting together the canopy tent for our market stand.
Sunny Stitches, just like every other local business, will be participating in the festival.
Fran and I have spent the past couple of weeks making all sorts of cute things for the occasion, including fall-themed tote bags, zipper pouches, some stuffed animals, and wool hats perfect for the impending Vermont cold.
“I’ve got it, Fran,” I reassure her.
Yet her face is still the perfect picture of skepticism even as I pull the outer frame legs and extend the tent with ease and zero injuries.
“And done. See? A toddler with superhuman strength and good coordination skills could’ve done it.”
Fran ignores my joke. “Just be careful. I’m not feeling like driving you to the hospital today.”
“Bummer. It would’ve made such a fun memory.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but it’s all in good fun. I’m also not bothered by her concern—not really. I’m the exact same when it comes to Joe, so I understand where she’s coming from.
I get all our market stuff out of the boxes, then place them on our table following Fran’s instructions. I don’t mind doing all the work, but when I feel myself getting lightheaded, I take a break to drink some water.
As much as I joked before, I’m not feeling like paying the doctor a visit today either.
Fran takes over while I rest and make sure I don’t pass out again. Fainting in front of people is mortifying enough, but doing it in front of my neighbor who thought I’d been flirting with him since our first meeting? That makes it just a tiny bit worse.
I’m glad we cleared the air like the adults we’re supposed to be. And while I agree that it was dumb of Ford to assume I was flirting when I was simply being nice, it’s good that we’re starting over.
We saw each other briefly yesterday as I was leaving to get some groceries and he’d just gotten back home. We waved at each other, he threw a smile into the mix, and we moved on with our day. I call it progress.
“Looks good, don’t you think?” Fran asks, taking a few steps back to admire our booth, which is now fully decorated and ready with fairy lights and colorful pennant flags.
“We’ll totally sell out, Fran. Bet you a chocolate chip cookie from Jill’s.”
“Make that a cookie and a coffee.”
“Deal.”
We smirk at each other just as my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. Joe is hanging out with Ethan and other friends today, but I told him to call me if they decided to grab their bikes to go out of town.
It’s not Joe on the other side of the line, though.
“I need to take this,” I tell Fran distractedly, eyeing the caller ID every two seconds as if I hadn’t read it right.
When she nods, I head toward the grass, pressing the green button with a shaky thumb.
“This is a collect call from Burlington Penitentiary,” says a robotic voice. “All calls from inmates are recorded. To accept charges, please say, ‘Accept call.’”
Despite my throat going full Atacama Desert, I manage a weak “Accept call.”
The machine beeps once, twice, three times before I hear a familiar voice through the speaker.
“Ivy?”
I swallow. “Hi, Dad.”
“How are you?” he asks, and maybe I’m imagining the caution in his voice. “How’s your brother?”
“We’re fine.”
To an outsider, I must seem like the worst daughter in existence. Poor incarcerated Dad wants to talk to me, and here I am, embodying Ford’s pre-apology conversational skills.
But I don’t care. Joe hasn’t accepted any of his calls.
He refuses to talk to him, and I won’t be the one to reopen the door back into his life.
My brother is old enough to decide what kind of relationship he wants to have with the man who hurt him in more ways than one.
A man who hasn’t apologized for anything that he’s done, including the reason he’s in jail.
“How are you?” I ask him to fill the silence.
“Can’t say I love it here, kid. Hopefully I’ll get out fast enough. I’m optimistic.”
My first instinct is to snort, but I hold it in.
I don’t know in what world he thinks being arrested for driving under the influence of drugs and running over a police officer before pulling a hit-and-run with my brother in the goddamn car won’t get him locked up for a few years. And I’m too tired to ask.
I’ve spoken to his lawyer, who’s pretty confident he’ll spend at least four or five years exactly where he is now. Dad can be as optimistic as he wants, but real life has other plans for him.
All I care about is that Joe and the officer he ran over are okay. If something worse had happened…
No. I refuse to even entertain that possibility.
“Are you coming to my hearing?” he asks when I say nothing.
“Joe has school.” I also don’t want him to witness how you’re thrown in jail for attempted manslaughter, among other shit. “And I have to work.”
I head down Main Street, away from the crowd that’s starting to gather at the square, and hope that my fingers won’t fall off one by one from how tightly I’m gripping my phone.
“He can skip a few classes, and you can use a sick day or something,” he insists.
“We’re not going, Dad,” I tell him more firmly, each second that passes testing my patience.
“Have it your way, then,” he mumbles.
I hate that I’m letting the disappointment in his voice affect me, but I’m not going to apologize or change my mind. If nothing else, I’m staying strong for Joe.
“Aunt Sherry called, by the way.”
Oh, look, today just got a million times worse.
“Cool,” I say, my tone bored despite my pulse jumping like it’s competing in the Olympics.
Aunt Sherry. His older sister who married rich, became a Boston socialite, and threatened to take Joe’s custody from me after our dad went to jail because I’m not “a fit guardian.” Big words from a woman we see once every five years and barely knows us.
That she didn’t manage to take him from me was only because he was old enough to decide who he wanted to live with. And, according to CPS, I do qualify for guardianship just fine.
The fact that she called Dad doesn’t have to mean anything for us, though. She’s his sister; maybe she called to try to bail him out or pay for his fines.
“She said she’d be dropping by Harmony Hills one of these days to pay you guys a visit,” he adds.
Well, fuck me.
“She really wants to see you,” he insists.
Oh, I’m sure. In my twenty-six years, I have yet to see her step foot in this town. What I have witnessed are her many comments calling it an “unglamorous mountain hole” and arguing that the hotels and cabins around here aren’t classy enough for her standards.
“Did she say when she was coming?” I ask, not because I can’t wait for a reunion but to be prepared.
I wouldn’t put it past her to drop by at the most inconvenient time, then proceed to criticize our house—which, I’ll admit, needs some TLC, but it’s not falling apart by any means—my jobs, the food in our fridge, and the way I’m raising Joe.
Back when Mom was still with us, we would visit Aunt Sherry in Boston every summer.
Her estate was immense, out of an interior design magazine, and I liked that she had a pool.
What I didn’t like were her many comments about my weight, my poor grades, and how I was never going to amount to anything because I wasn’t sure about going to college.
I was thirteen.
“She called from Paris, so I’m not sure.”
Figures.
“Is Joe with you? Can I talk to him?”
“I’ve told you before, Dad. If you want to talk to Joe, you need to call him. He isn’t here anyway.”
“I have called him,” he argues.
“Then you need to accept that he may not want to talk to you just yet.”
“That’s why I’m telling you, so you can convince him.”
“I won’t do any such thing.”
“Ivy—”
“I have to go,” I cut him off, reaching the end of my very long patience. “Take care, Dad. We’ll talk soon.”
A pause. Then the line goes dead.
Deep breaths, Ivy. I’m not sure those will do much at this point. My chest is heaving as if I’ve just been chased by a bear instead of talking to my dad. My knuckles hurt from how tightly I’ve been gripping my phone, and my ears are ringing. Why did this have to happen to us?
“Ivy!”
I was so distracted by the call that I only now realize I’m at the end of Main Street. And right there, just across the street, is Ford. Waving at me.
He’s wearing his firefighter gear minus the jacket and the helmet.
Suspenders attached to his pants wrap around his wide shoulders, and his upper body is clad in a blue T-shirt printed with the logo of the fire department.
I try extremely hard not to stare at the size of his biceps, but I fail catastrophically.
The call with my dad must be messing with my good judgment.
Ignoring my reaction to him, I smile and wave back.
He says something to the other firefighters standing by the truck and crosses the street in my direction.
“Hey. Everything all right?” he asks.
“Yeah. All good.”
We’ve just started being friendly; I’m not going to dump all my family issues on this unsuspecting man.
“You and Fran are participating in the market?” He sounds genuinely curious. Or maybe he’s making an effort. Either way, I appreciate the fact that he’s not running away from me anymore.
“Yep. If you’re in desperate need of a fox plushie, come find us.”
“Actually, Lexi would really like that,” he says, referring to his niece.
That reminds me: “How was her exhibition? Did it go well?”
“It did. I was on duty, so I couldn’t go, but my brother sent me pictures and videos. Remind me to show you some other time; I left my phone in the engine.”
“I sure will. So, how come they sent you guys to the festival?”
“Nothing ever happens at these things, but you never know with the food stands. Also, the fire department is participating in the fundraiser for Gloria.”
The restaurant that burned down not long ago, I remember. Joe really liked their chicken sandwiches, and he was bummed out to hear about the fire. I was too—Gloria is the nicest lady. Sunny Stitches is also participating in the fundraiser, as Fran and Gloria are old friends.
“Selling hot firefighter calendars again?” I tease him before it hits me. I quickly add, “I’m not calling you hot.”
I mean, he is. But objectively.
His voice sounds easy when he says, “Don’t sweat it. We’re past that.”
Huh. I don’t know why I’m surprised that he kept his word, but this is a nice change. At least we’re not having one-sided conversations anymore.
“But we’re not selling calendars this year.” He fake shivers, though the mortification on his face looks pretty authentic. “I’m done with that shit. We’re selling merch this time. Hoodies, T-shirts, hats, all that.”
“That’s cool. I’ll check it out later.”
“Please do. I can’t pose butt-naked in front of a camera again and end up on the fridges of every house in town.”
“Scared of some old ladies lusting after you?”
“Don’t even joke about that.” He fake shivers again. “If I see your brother around, I’ll give him some cash to grab something from their booth. My integrity depends on that merch selling out.”
Taking advantage of his good mood and our newfound friendship, I bring up something I’ve been curious about for a while.
“Speaking of my brother. I had no idea you had him on lawnmowing duties.”
“I promise I’m not overworking him,” he says. “He just wanted some extra cash, and I’m happy to help. He does a good job.”
“It’s just…. Well, I don’t want him to get distracted from school. That’s all,” I explain, deciding to be honest with him.
He watches my face carefully. “I get that. I had a job when I was his age, handing out newspapers. It wasn’t fancy, but it made me feel productive.”
“They haven’t handed out newspapers in Harmony Hills in, like, fifty years. How old are you?”
His lips tilt into a playful smile. “Fifty years might be an exaggeration. I’m thirty-five. Why, do I look older?”
“Pretty much octogenarian.”
My stomach takes a downward dive when my phone buzzes again. This time, though, it’s just Joe asking where I am.
“I need to get back,” I tell Ford, hiking my thumb in the direction of the town square behind me. He’s still smirking. “See you later?”
He nods once. “I’ll be around. Have fun.”
“You too. Hope nothing catches on fire.”
“Hope not, but I’ll be there if it does.”
His subtle confidence makes my stomach turn for a completely different reason—that I shut down immediately.
Confident men in uniform are universally attractive, that’s it. Ford and I are just neighbors—friendly ones. Nothing more, now or ever.