Chapter 2
Ivy
Tate drops me at the end of the drive with a quick squeeze to my shoulder. The taillights fade, and the quiet of the Bennett Tree Farm settles around me. It smells like pine and cold and the faint sweetness of sap. Gravel crunches under my boots as I follow the path toward the house.
Remy’s place sits back from the lot, sturdy and square, the kind of farmhouse that looks like it has weathered a hundred winters and plans to meet a hundred more.
There is a stack of split logs under the eave, neat as a picture.
A child’s pair of glittery purple mittens is clipped to the railing with a clothespin, forgotten and waiting. My chest warms at the sight.
I slow on the last step and just stand there, taking it in.
The windows glow honey-gold. Somewhere out by the trees, a saw hums and then stops.
Wind moves through the rows and the whole farm stirs.
I search for signs of chaos or company. No extra cars.
No boots scattered on the mat. No music. Only quiet and light.
My breath fogs the air. I rub my palms against my jeans nervously. Donna said it was fine. Maybe she meant well. Maybe she nudged me right where I am supposed to be. Or maybe I am about to knock and regret this.
I study the door like it holds an answer. The paint is scuffed near the bottom, the handle shines from a thousand turns. Home. That is what it looks like. Not imposing. Not grand. Just a place where people hang up their coats and stay warm.
I raise my hand to knock and hesitate. What if he looks surprised, and I hear that pause people make when they are trying to be kind. I picture my suitcase by the step, me backing away with a laugh that is not real. I could call Tate back. I could be gone in three minutes.
I knock anyway. Gentle first, knuckles to wood. Then the bell gives a small chime. Silence answers.
I wait, listening hard. Heat ticks in the baseboards. I knock again, a little louder. My heartbeat counts off the seconds. I can smell woodsmoke drifting from the chimney, and something like cinnamon if I let myself believe it. I rest my palm against the door to steady myself. The wood is warm.
Please let him want me here. The thought moves through me like a prayer I have not said in years.
I knock a third time and press closer, ear tilted to the quiet. “Remy,” I call, softer than I meant to. “It’s Ivy.”
“Maybe they’re not home,” I say aloud, because talking to myself is a hobby at this point.
The front door opens, and Donna looks out, with her pencil tucked behind her ear. “Ivy!” she calls and opens her arms for a hug. “There you are. Come on in.”
Donna is probably in her mid-fifties if I had to guess. She has a silver bob of hair, bright green eyes, and they are the kindest eyes I’ve ever known. Donna has been friends with my mom since before I could remember, and she’s always been kind to me and my sisters.
I give her a hug and a big smile. “Hey, Donna.”
She looks out toward the big barn at the front of the property. “I’m glad you’re here. Junie will be so excited to see you after school.”
Of course she has school. I forget tiny people go to school.
I glance past her at the house, and it’s a complete disaster.
It still has Fourth of July decorations everywhere and bags of fall decorations in bags along the wall like they never got put up or got put back in a hurry.
But I’m guessing they never got put up. And now it’s the middle of the holiday season.
There are piles of things everywhere with boxes, bags, and random ornaments and streamers in weird places. And it’s chaos.
“As you can tell, Remy desperately needs your help,” she says with a grimace.
She moves to the dining table where a notebook waits, open beside her laptop, pages flagged with sticky notes.
She lifts her coffee, her lipstick stamped on the rim like a signature, and takes a sip while her gaze sweeps the room.
I glance around, too. The boots by the door. The cereal bowl abandoned on the counter. The stack of unopened mail. She looks weary and also determined, like a general taking stock before a battle.
I hover near the chair and tuck my hands into my sleeves. “I’m happy to help. I just want to be clear on what you want me to do.”
“Good,” she says, and the word sounds like relief. She picks up a pen and draws a neat line down the center of a fresh page. “You are here as Junie’s nanny first. Not a housekeeper. Not a maid.”
She writes NANNY on one side and OTHER HELP on the other. “Let us start with Junie.”
She ticks items as she talks, her voice settling into a rhythm.
“School bus comes at eight-ten. Drop-off is at three. After school snack. Homework check. Play time. Bath and bed by eight if she is melting, eight-thirty if she is wide awake. She loves stories. She will try to talk you into two. You can give her as many as you can tolerate.” Donna looks up, eyes kind. “You can handle that.”
“Yes,” I say. “That part I can do.” I love to read, and I know that Junie does, too.
“Good. Now, Remy.” She writes his name in the margin and taps it with the pen. “He works until he cannot see straight. You are not his housekeeper, but if you can help keep the day from falling apart, that will help Junie.”
She marks a few bullets. “Light cooking is welcome. Family dinners are not required, but they make life easier. Toss a load of Junie’s laundry in when it piles up. Wipe counters if they are sticky. That sort of thing.”
“So nanny first,” I say. “Light household support second.”
“Exactly.” She circles both columns. My shoulders loosen a notch.
“Where you will live.” She flips to another page.
“There is a small bedroom down the hall across from Junie’s.
There is a dresser, and a closet, too. The bathroom is shared.
If this does not feel right after a week, there is a studio over the garage that can be made comfortable, but I would like you close to her at first.”
“That’s totally fine,” I say. The thought of being near Junie makes me happy.
“Money.” She closes the notebook and reaches into her tote.
She sets an envelope on the table and slides it toward me.
“Your first week’s pay in advance. A prepaid card for groceries and household items. A little cash for incidentals.
Don’t use your own money. If you need more on the card, I will add it. ”
I blink. “Thank you. That is more than fair.”
She smiles back, then sobers. “Two more things. Boundaries and communication.”
I nod, tense again.
“Remy is not caught up on this plan,” she says gently.
“That is on me. He would never ask for help, and he is stretched too thin to see straight. I will talk to him tonight and make that clear. In the meantime, you are allowed to take up space here. You are not a secret, and you are not a burden. If he bristles, it is only habit. He is a good man who loves his daughter. He will adjust.”
My stomach flutters, but I breathe. “All right.”
“Communication,” she continues. “Text me if you have questions. Call if it is urgent. Here are the school numbers. Here’s the pediatrician. Junie has no allergies beyond a mild dislike of broccoli. The EpiPen in the kitchen drawer is mine. Don’t worry about it.”
She writes her number again on a sticky note and sticks it to the edge of the notebook like a mother hen planting a flag.
I listen and let the plan wrap around my nerves like a blanket. This, I can do.
From down the hall comes the distant clank of the heater kicking on.
The house settles around us. Donna tucks her pencil behind her ear and slides the notebook toward me.
“Look this over tonight. Add notes if you think of them. In the mornings, Remy leaves by six if the trees need him. You can be up by seven. Make Junie’s lunch or let her buy. She is adventurous on pizza day.”
I tuck the envelope and the card into my bag. “I’ll make it work.”
“I know you will.” Donna picks up her coffee again, then sets it down without drinking. She studies my face as if checking to see how I’m feeling about all this.
“I’m not trying to push you into the deep end. I’m trying to give you the job you’ll be good at. Help Junie feel steady. Help Remy remember that life is not only work and worry.”
“I can do that,” I say quietly.
Her smile warms. “I picked you because you are sunshine with a spine. Remy needs both.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Where do you want me to start today?”
“Start with groceries,” she says. “Take Remy’s truck. Keys are on the hook by the door. Use the card for whatever you need. If you run into anything strange, call me.”
She finally lifts the mug and finishes the last swallow. The lipstick print touches her lip in the same place. She looks less weary now, like sharing the weight lightened it. She squeezes my hand. “You are not here to clean up our mess. You are here to keep our family from crashing.”
I nod. “Understood.”
“Good.” She collects her tote and her laptop, then pauses at the door. “Welcome home, Ivy.”
The word home lands soft and bright in my chest. I tuck it away and walk her to the door, keys chiming, a plan in my pocket and a little girl to meet at three.
I watch her speed down the driveway, and I turn and take in the house that looks like a tornado went through it. Glitter everywhere, toys, and half-completed art projects. Dishes piled high in the kitchen sink, and the dishwasher was also full and open. I think every single dish he owns is dirty.
I survey the rooms and sigh. Well, Remy definitely needs help.
The house is beautiful and updated. But the house appears sad and colorless.
Basic. Not homey at all. However, Junie has her artwork proudly displayed on the fridge.
I open the fridge, and it’s full of old takeout containers and condiments.
I can’t really see any ingredients here to make meals.
The freezer is about the same with some frozen food, quick meal stuff.
I quickly make a list of my top favorite meals I can make and what I would need from the store and take a quick walk through the rest of the rooms. Junie’s room is tidy, with a few toys out.
She has a twin bed with stuffed animals around it and the unmade bed as if she had gotten up in a hurry.
Her laundry basket is overflowing, so I take that and pull it towards the laundry room and get a load going.
I walk down the hall to what looks like Remy’s room at the end of the hall.
I’ve never seen a sadder beige room. No personality at all.
Plain. Also, an overflowing pile of clothes in the corner.
He apparently doesn’t like to do laundry or has no time.
I bet it’s the latter because from what I’ve seen and noticed about him, Remy’s a great dad.
Every time we’ve been at dinners and other places, he’s always taking care of Junie, and she always seems like a happy and solid kid.
I head out and get in Remy’s truck since Derek was nice enough to keep the car he had leased under his name that I paid for. I make my way to town, jamming out to Taylor Swift—I can do it with a broken heart.
Because fuck Derek.
I can do anything with a broken heart. And honestly, I’m not so sure my heart is broken. I feel free.
I get to the market and pop in and get everything on my list and some extra fun things for Junie. This kid and I are going to have a blast. I glance at my watch. Perfect. I still have plenty of time to get home, get everything put away, and get the house cleaned up.
I quickly grab a peppermint mocha from the coffee shop on the edge of town and make my way back outside of town to Remy’s tree farm.
The wheels crunch over packed snow as I pull up the long, winding drive, with a bag of groceries bouncing in the passenger seat and my drink sloshing dangerously in the cup holder.
Bennett Tree Farm stretches out in front of me like something off a vintage Christmas card with evergreens dusted in powdered-sugar snow, the wooden sign at the entrance hand-painted and slightly crooked, like it’s been there forever and doesn’t need to prove anything.
Row upon row of trees stand tall and proud.
A row near the barn has branches twinkling with half-lit strands of bulbs, as if someone started decorating and never quite finished.
I bet he could use help at the tree farm, too, when Junie’s at school.
And luckily for him, I have plenty of retail experience.
But it’s the house that really gets to me.
It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. It’s a classic white farmhouse style with navy shutters, a wraparound porch, and a wide front door the color of cranberry jam.
There’s even a swing hanging from one of the porch beams, creaking slightly in the winter wind. But something about it…
It doesn’t feel like a home. Not really.
There’s no wreath on the door. No twinkle-lights in the windows.
There’s no holiday-themed mat in front of the door.
The curtains are all drawn, and no one shoveled the driveway.
It looks lonely. It looks like a place someone’s staying, not somewhere they live.
A place to sleep, eat, and exist. When I dream of having a home someday, I want all the cozy vibes.
I want to dance in the kitchen with upbeat music always on.
I want to leave love notes on the fridge and forget a mug on the windowsill.
I want to make memories and have traditions.
This house has so much potential for life.
My fingers tighten around the grocery bag, full of cookie dough ingredients, hot cocoa mix, and the ingredients to my top three favorite dinners that I hope they love.
This family’s been through something. I can feel it in the walls, even from inside the truck.
And I don’t know how long I’m staying here. I don’t know if Remy Bennett even wants me here.
But I know one thing for certain. I’m going to make this place feel like it has Christmas magic again.
It will be filled with the smell of fresh cookies, warmth, and glittery chaos.
I’ll string lights and hang mistletoe in inconvenient places.
I’m going to make that little girl feel like she’s the star of her own holiday movie.
And maybe I’m going to make the grump in the flannel shirt remember what joy feels like.
Even if he fights it every step of the way.
Because I have a feeling he will.