Chapter 31
Ivy
With how crazy things have been lately, I’d forgotten that I emailed Diana’s niece until she emails me back later that week.
To my surprise, she’s accepted my quote and has confirmed that she wants to work with me for her next book. I quickly scan the references she’s sent me for her characters and let her know I’ll send her a sketch in the upcoming days.
I can’t believe this is my life. Me, making money from my art. All because I drew half-naked firefighters. How is this not a hidden camera situation?
The thought of half-naked firefighters inevitably makes me think of Ford and our night together. I don’t regret it, or him, although my circling back and forth between friendship and something more is dumb and tiring. I’m painfully aware of that, and I think it’s time we revisit that conversation.
Focusing on the present, I double-check that my email went through and then head inside The Harmony Grove.
I wave at Diana by the spa room but don’t stay to chat. Aside from Ford, there’s something else occupying my mind that’s barely letting me sleep.
What the hell should I do with Mom’s money?
Dad did spend most of it, given that there’s not even twenty grand left. And while that’s a lot of money, it’s still not enough to reach my goal for Joe’s flight school.
Not that it matters anyway. I would gladly pay for it in full, but he’s with Aunt Sherry now. If that’s where he wants to be, if she really is the best guardian for him, nothing has to change. We texted for a bit yesterday, and he didn’t have any complaints about his new living arrangements.
Still, it would be best if I saved it for Joe or for any future emergencies. I wouldn’t do it if it were Dad’s money, but Mom wanted us to have it. Joe and me, specifically. I’m not going to let my pride disrespect her last wish.
Also yes, finding twenty grand and getting to keep every penny is great. Sue me.
As I’m getting my podcast ready to start my shift, my phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number. Thinking something happened to his phone and this is Joe, I answer without thinking.
“Hello?”
There’s silence from the other line. No, not a complete silence—heavy breathing.
My pulse jumps. “Who’s this?”
More silence. Until someone says, “Ivy?”
I let out a shaky breath at the sound of Alma’s voice. It’s as soft and gentle as I remembered, but there’s something else to it. She sounds… scared? Worried?
“Alma. Are you okay?”
It takes a few more beats of silence, and I have to triple-check that she’s still on the other end of the line, before she finally says, “I’m in Washington, D.C.”
Not exactly the answer I was looking for, but it’s better than nothing.
Also, Washington, D.C.? What is she doing there? The last time we spoke, she was in New York City with no plans to move. That she told me about anyway.
But now isn’t the time for an interrogation. Not when she sounds like she’s hiding somewhere, or from…
I freeze into place. Lowell, our boss, was an asshole. He would shout at us, fire people for petty reasons, and make our lives miserable at work. Next to him, Aunt Sherry is a saint.
Alma has been his assistant for three years, but I never saw him treat her like crap. If anything, she was the one employee he seemed to treat like a normal person.
But what if things have changed? I’ve never seen or heard of Lowell physically harming anyone, but would I put it past him?
No. No, I wouldn’t.
“Did he do anything to you?” I ask Alma, hoping to get a two-letter answer but knowing I won’t.
Back when we worked together, I wasn’t shy about telling Alma that messing around with our boss was a bad idea.
They kept it on the down-low, yet Alma told me about their affair after an entire year of secrecy.
He’s older, rich, and I’ve always gotten the impression that he wasn’t looking for a partner—he was looking for a fan.
But Alma was and still is her own person who has to make her own choices. As her friend, it was my job to express my concerns; she was well within her right to ignore me. And now, it’s my job to pick up the pieces in the aftermath I always dreaded would result from this relationship.
She might not have answered my texts in months, but I don’t hold it against her. I could never. Not when I have a feeling I know why. Or rather, who is responsible for her radio silence.
“Alma,” I try again when she doesn’t answer. “Did Lowell do anything to you?”
“I’m alone,” she answers, stalling.
But I won’t relent. “Does he know where you are?”
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m pregnant.”
The line goes silent. Is this…? Did I hear…?
Holy shit.
“Okay,” I start slowly. A million questions race through my head. Is it Lowell’s? It must be. Does he know? How far along is she? Instead, I go for what she needs to hear right now: “What do you need?”
“I’m sorry, Ivy. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have called you. I’ll find someone—”
“No, Alma,” I cut her off quickly. “I want to help. Tell me what you need.”
“Ivy—”
“You’re my friend. You called me because you need my help, and I won’t kick you to the curb when you’re clearly in distress. Do you seriously think I would?”
“I don’t know,” she admits quietly. “I haven’t been a good friend.”
“That’s not true. Alma, please. Tell me what you need.”
“I can’t ask this of you.”
“Try.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “I need… I need a place to stay. For a few months. And I need a job. With… with health insurance.”
She doesn’t have any of those things now? Did Lowell fire her?
“Done and done,” I tell her without hesitation. “I’m in Harmony Hills, my hometown in Vermont. You can come here, and I’ll get you a job.”
Nash is the first person to cross my mind. If he can’t give Alma a job at The Harmony Grove, I’m pretty sure he’ll know if someone in town is hiring. He knows everybody.
“Just….” She hesitates. “You can’t tell anyone I’m pregnant.”
Or they won’t hire her. Not exactly a legal thing to do, but I get where she’s coming from. Lowell himself was disgustingly vocal about not hiring pregnant women or women with babies because they’re “distracted” and “not giving their job the attention it needs.” Fucking asshole.
“Pregnant, you said? What’s a pregnant? I’m not familiar with that word.”
“T-Thank you,” she says, her voice breaking. “Ivy, thank you so much. I don’t deserve this.”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “Yes, you do. Do you have a way to get here?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. I’ll text you my address. Is that safe?”
“Can you text me at this number? It’s new. I’m not using my other phone.”
“Of course.” I pause, taking in the past few minutes. Yet another thing in my life that doesn’t feel real. “Be careful, Alma. And call me when you get here or if you need anything along the way.”
“Thank you,” she says again, sounding a little less anxious than at the start of our call. “I will.”
When we hang up, a heavy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. I’ve always felt protective of Alma due to her soft nature, and this call has made it worse.
Pregnant. She’s pregnant. And possibly running away from Lowell, who could be the father of her baby.
She will be okay. I will help her when she gets here. There’s nothing else I can do right now.
I take a deep breath, make a mental note to ask Nash about that job, and try to push it all away for now. I’m already behind schedule, and the spa looks like a war zone today.
Dirty towels are scattered all over the floor, the candles on the counter are still burning, and a diffuser has been knocked to the ground, the essential oil spilling out. Nobody has bothered to clean that up, which is just rude.
I blow the candles out—talk about a fire hazard—and press Play on my podcast.
Unlike on other nights, I can’t seem to shut my brain off. There are too many things running around it—Joe, our mom’s note, my visit to Dad in jail, my confusing situation with Ford, and now Alma. On top of everything, I haven’t slept well in weeks.
I’m in the bathroom of the spa room, rinsing my cleaning cloth, when a weird smell makes my nostrils flare. It smells like something is burning, but that doesn’t make sense. Didn’t I blow out the candles?
Thinking it’s just the soot from the wicks, I grab the clean sheets from the dryer to put them on the massage table later.
But then I hear something over my podcast—fireworks.
There’s no way. This room is soundproof. Also, it doesn’t make much sense to add that sound effect to a podcast that has nothing to do with fireworks or parties. So, what the…?
My stomach sinks.
It doesn’t smell like a candle.
It smells like fire.
I rush out of the bathroom and see what the fireworks really are—loud explosions of white light coming out of a socket. A floor lamp is connected to it.
It’s also by the door, blocking my way out unless I’m planning to get fried tonight, which, to be honest, I’m not.
Despite wanting to curl into a ball and cry, I reach for my phone and dial 911. The sparks catch one of the towels hanging from the towel warmer, lighting it on fire, and a scream gets stuck in my throat.
“911, what’s your emergency?” asks a woman on the other end of the line.
“Fire. There’s a fire,” I rush out as I lock myself in the bathroom and soak all the towels I can find. “I can’t get out. It’s by the door.”
“Where are you, ma’am?” she asks in a controlled voice.
“The Harmony Grove. The cabin resort in Harmony Hills. I’m in the spa room. I-I work here. I’m in the bathroom at the back.”
I grab the wet towels and put them on the floor, blocking the door gaps. Am I making a mistake by hiding in here?
“Okay. Firefighters are on their way. Is there a window you can use to escape?”
“There are no windows, and the door is blocked,” I explain, my mind drifting to Ford.
If something happens to me and he finds me, he will never recover.
But—Joe. No. Fuck this fire. Nothing can happen to me. He needs me. I can’t be another adult in his life failing him in such a traumatic way.
I turn on the fan inside the bathroom, then make sure the door is unlocked. I run the small shower nobody ever uses, press a wet towel against my mouth, then lie flat on the ground.
“Okay. Help is on its way, ma’am.”
Then she proceeds to list all the safety procedures I’ve already done, but I can’t listen.
Cold sweat drenches my back despite the heat in this room, and my eyesight gets blurry.
I know what’s happening to me. Damn it. Thirty seconds, and I will… I will…
“I’m going to pass out,” I croak out to the dispatcher.
“Ma’am—”
I tune her out. With shaky fingers and a miracle, I manage to send Joe a single text before the world turns dark.
I love you.