Chapter 8 Ivy
Ivy
The last time I started a job before I began working at Sunny Stitches, I was a ball of nerves, anxiety, and the strongest urge in the world to throw up. Not a fun combination.
It was my first big-girl job, too, in Manhattan of all places.
Me, who came from a small town in western Vermont, had landed a marketing position at one of the most prolific IT companies in the country.
I went from bartending at a sketchy diner to a high-rise office with free coffee, just like that.
It had been a nice bubble to live in for a while, but it didn’t take me long to realize that what they say is true—New York City isn’t for the weak; therefore, it wasn’t for me.
I was there for a reason, though. I needed to save up as much as I could for Joe’s flight school, and I wasn’t going to quit because I didn’t feel like I belonged in the city.
Excuses weren’t something I could afford.
Then came Sunny Stitches. And while I had my fair share of reservations about working with Fran because I didn’t want to disappoint my grandma’s best friend, I wasn’t anxious to start.
I am now.
Between my savings and my job with Fran, I have enough to cover our bills, grocery runs, keep us clothed, and splurge on some video games for Joe once or twice a year. We’re doing okay.
The issue is flight school.
No—I don’t want to call it an issue. It’s not; it’s Joe’s dream, and I swore years ago that I would do everything in my power to help him achieve it.
He deserves the easy life I didn’t have.
He deserves to get all the opportunities I didn’t.
There isn’t a smarter, more kindhearted, funny boy out there.
The world would lose one hell of a talented pilot if he doesn’t go to flight school, and I refuse to let that happen.
If I have to take two or three or four jobs to pay for his education, I damn well will.
Hence the ball of nerves jumping around in my stomach now. I can’t screw this up.
The Harmony Grove Cabin Resort—or The Harmony Grove, as we locals call it—looks straight out of a fancy interior decor magazine. I had heard of it because I don’t live under a rock, but I’ve never seen it in person until now.
The main lodge looks like an oversized two-story cabin in the woods. It has a wraparound porch, where some guests are reading at the tables with a mug of coffee, checking their maps, or posing for pictures.
Inside, rich wood paneling covers the walls, except for the fireplace—that’s stone.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the mountains surround the comfortable couches and coffee tables full of activity brochures in the waiting area.
Above my head, a huge chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, casting a warm glow that gives the lodge a cozy yet glamorous atmosphere.
A man is sitting behind the reception desk. His name tag reads Mitchell, and his face reads “Don’t bother me because I don’t care.” I can respect that.
“Hi.” My smile poses a contrast to his bored expression, but I don’t let it deter me. “I’m Ivy, and this is my first day working here. I’ll be cleaning the spa room.”
He types something on his computer. “Yeah, I know.”
I blink. “You do?”
Mitchell doesn’t miss a beat. “I remember your face from your job interview.”
“Impressive memory.” I don’t even remember the last names of the people I worked with in New York. “Well, I was wondering where I should go.”
He points to the waiting area with the comfortable couches. “Over there.”
“Great. Thanks, Mitchell.”
He grunts before going back to his computer.
My nerves go away momentarily as I stand in front of the huge windows, watching the sun disappear behind the rolling hills. If I squint, I can even spot Harmony Hills in the distance.
I’ve only just gotten here, but I’ve seen enough for me to decide that The Harmony Grove is one of the most beautiful and peaceful places I’ve seen.
“Hey, there. You’re Ivy, right?”
I turn to find a man who seems to be in his early thirties looking at me with a friendly smile on his face. The longish hair, the backward baseball hat—I recognize him from the resort’s website.
He’s Nash, the owner.
“Yes! That’s me. Hi.” Hoping it’s not too sweaty, I hold out my hand. “It’s great to meet you, sir.”
He gives it a firm shake. “None of that ‘sir’ stuff, please. Makes me feel old as hell.”
My smirk matches his. “Noted.”
“I’m Nash Hayes. I run this place and usually conduct the interviews myself, but I was away when you came in—sorry about that. I did go over your résumé, though, and I’m excited to have you join our team. It’s pretty laid-back out here, as you’ll see.”
“It’s a beautiful resort,” I tell him truthfully. “It was recently renovated, right? I saw something on the local news.”
He nods. “We updated the decor of the cabins and made some changes to the restaurant menu. All for the best, I hope. Follow me for the grand tour?”
During the next few minutes, I learn two things.
One—The Harmony Grove is my new favorite place. The main lodge boasts a huge restaurant with a breakfast buffet, a spa and massage room, and an outdoor and indoor pool. I want to move here.
And two—I like Nash. Not in an “I’d drop my panties for him any day” kind of way, but in an “I want to be him when I grow up” sense.
Unlike my boss in New York City, Nash is warm and treats his employees like human beings. Like equals. It’s in the way he greets everyone we pass, how he talks about this place as if it were his baby, and in the smile that never leaves his face.
I have a good feeling about this job.
“Your main task is to clean the spa room after we close at eight,” he explains when we get to his office, a smallish room by the restaurant.
Much like the rest of this place, his office also reminds me of a cabin, with its wooden furniture and landscape pictures hanging on the walls.
He keeps the door open and sits perched on his desk while I stand.
“It’ll just be you cleaning the room, so it should take you around four hours. Does that sound good?”
“It sounds great.” I was already familiar with what the job entailed when I came in for the interview. I also don’t mind working by myself—it will be nice to be alone with my thoughts for a while.
It may only be a part-time job, but it pays well, and it’s much, much better than nothing at all.
“I’ll admit I know next to nothing about cleaning spas,” Nash says with a sheepish smile.
“But I’ll introduce you to Diana before you start.
She supervises the cleaning staff and will tell you exactly what to do.
She’ll give you your uniform too. It’s just a T-shirt.
You’re wearing black already—that’s great. I see you came in ready.”
When I accepted the job, the email said I should wear black pants of any kind—thankfully, they allowed my beloved leggings—and comfortable shoes. So here I am.
My smile widens. “Always.”
“Feel free to take as many bathroom and snack breaks as you need to, as long as the job gets done by midnight.” How does he manage to sound firm but friendly? Must be some kind of special talent. “Any questions? Concerns? Shoot.”
I debate whether to tell him about my occasional fainting, but I decide against it. My previous boss threatened to fire me after I passed out at the office earlier this year unless I “learned to control my own body.” Fuck you very much, Lowell.
Despite getting a good feeling about Nash, I don’t want to risk my position on the first day. What if he’s secretly an asshole and fires me for my condition? It’s not always an easy one to explain. I was surprised Ford knew what it was.
“No questions for now. Thank you for the opportunity. I’m excited to start.”
“We’re excited to have you, Ivy. Let me introduce you to Diana so you guys can get started. She’ll show you the ropes until you get the hang of it,” he explains. “But if you need anything at all, you know where to find me.”
The next four hours go by in a blur. Diana—a woman about Fran’s age—is patient as I write down every product and procedure, not wanting to bother her every two seconds because I forget something.
“Bother me all you want. That’s what I’m here for,” she reassures me. “Let me show you to the spa room.”
It’s not very big, and I confirm it’s totally doable for me to clean by myself.
She explains everything I’ll have to do—remove used linens, clear any remaining trash, sanitize all surfaces, vacuum, and mop, among other things—and says I don’t have to worry about the spa tub because a specialized crew comes in to take care of it.
Even though it’s past midnight by the time I finally pull into our driveway, and despite the fact that my body is weighed down by exhaustion, the good feeling floating around in my chest doesn’t go anywhere.
I feel happy, productive, and like I’m making tangible efforts toward that flight school tuition.
Finally, things are looking up.
The first thing I hear when I push the front door open is Joe’s voice—or more accurately, his yell—in the quietness of the house, confirming he’s not asleep.
Someone’s playing video games despite having school tomorrow. Again.
“No, no, no! Shit. I didn’t see him coming,” he shouts.
After locking the front door, I drop my backpack on the couch and head to his bedroom.
His back is to me, and the clicking of his mouse hasn’t stopped, so I know he hasn’t heard me over whatever loud noises are coming out of his headset.
Leaning on his doorframe, I flip the light switch and watch, amused, as he jumps from his gaming chair.
“Holy shit. You scared me,” he hisses, taking off his headset.
“I could literally be a serial killer. You could be dead by now.”
He massages his chest right over where his heart is. “And if I had wheels, I would be a bike.”