9. Ivy
IVY
T he kitchen chaos had become my favorite kind of madness.
Sammy sat in his high chair, mashed sweet potato smeared across his cheeks and forehead, while Chrissy attempted to feed herself with a spoon that seemed to have a mind of its own.
Elena, ever the perfectionist at three years old, carefully picked up each piece of cut-up chicken and examined it before deciding whether it met her standards.
"Mama, Sammy's making a mess," Elena announced, pointing at her brother who had discovered that sweet potato made excellent finger paint on his tray.
"That's what baths are for, sweetheart," I said, wiping Chrissy's face with a damp cloth. She giggled and tried to grab the washcloth from my hands.
Lauren sat cross-legged on the floor beside Elena's chair, making airplane noises as she guided a forkful of green beans toward the little girl's mouth. "Come on, Elena. The airplane needs to land in the hangar."
Elena opened her mouth and accepted the vegetables, then clapped her hands together. "More airplane!"
"You're so good at this," I told Lauren, grateful beyond words that she had stayed late again.
The third week of June had been brutal. Mom's treatments left her exhausted and nauseous, barely able to leave her room most days.
Dad had been walking around the house carrying a storm cloud above his head, snapping at everyone and retreating to his study whenever the children got too loud.
"I love these little monsters," Lauren said, tickling Elena's side until she dissolved into giggles. "Besides, you need the help. Your mom's having a rough go of it."
The reminder made my chest tighten. Mom had thrown up three times today and couldn't keep down even the bland crackers I'd brought her. The oncologist said this was normal, that we had to push through the difficult weeks to get to the other side, but watching her waste away felt unbearable.
"Mama sad?" Chrissy asked, reaching for my face with her messy fingers.
I caught her hand and kissed her palm. "Not sad, baby. Mama's okay."
But she wasn't wrong. The constant worry, the sleepless nights, the pressure of keeping everyone fed and clean and happy while my mother fought for her life—it all pressed down on me every waking moment.
These dinner times with my children were the only respite I had, the only time when their laughter could drown out the fear.
Sammy banged his sippy cup against his tray and babbled a string of nonsense syllables that sounded remarkably close to actual words while simultaneously sounding like a language he was making up.
"Buddy…" I said sighed, hoping he'd focus on his food and stop making such a mess.
"Ba-ba-ba," he responded, then threw his cup on the floor.
Lauren burst out laughing. "I think he's saying 'bye-bye' to his cup."
The doorbell rang, cutting through our laughter. I looked toward the hallway, expecting Dad to answer it as he usually did, but he appeared in the kitchen doorway instead, his expression darker than the thunderclouds that had been gathering outside all afternoon.
"Dad, someone's at the door," I said.
"I'm not in the mood for company." His voice carried the edge it had held all week. "Handle it yourself." He turned and stalked toward his bedroom, leaving me staring after him as the doorbell rang again.
"I'll watch the kids," Lauren said, already standing up. "Go see who it is."
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and walked to the front door, wondering who would be visiting at dinnertime. Through the peephole, I saw a figure I recognized immediately, even though my brain refused to process what my eyes were telling me.
Duncan stood on the front porch, wearing dark jeans and a navy button-down shirt, his hair slightly mussed by the evening breeze. In his hand, he held a single white rose.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I unlocked the door and stepped outside, pulling it closed behind me. I couldn't let him see the children, couldn't risk the questions that would follow.
"What are you doing here?" The words ejected out of my mouth like an accusation and panic made my voice sharp.
He held out the rose, and I noticed the stem was freshly cut, the leaves still damp. "I picked this from your mother's garden. I hope she doesn't mind."
"Duncan." I took the flower, my fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. The simple touch sent electricity racing up my arm. "You can't be here."
"I wanted to see you." His blue eyes searched my face, and I saw something vulnerable there that made my defenses waver. "I was planning to use the excuse of checking on Barbara and Bill, but I'll be honest—I came to see you."
The sweetness of the gesture, the way he'd thought to bring me a flower from my own mother's garden, made my chest ache. I brought the rose to my nose and inhaled its delicate fragrance.
"Mom and Dad aren't in the mood for company tonight," I said, my voice softer now. "Mom had a bad day, and Dad's been…"
"Difficult?"
"That's putting it mildly."
Duncan stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne, could see the concern etched in the lines around his eyes. "How are you holding up?"
The question nearly undid me. When was the last time someone had asked how I was doing? When had anyone thought to wonder if I needed support too?
"I'm fine," I lied.
"Ivy." The way he said my name, gentle but knowing, told me he saw right through the pretense.
"I'm managing," I amended.
"Would it be okay if we talked for a while? Outside, I mean. I don't want to impose on your family."
I hesitated. The children were still eating dinner, and Lauren was watching them, but I couldn't stay away long. If Dad discovered Duncan was here, if he found out we were talking…
"If we get caught, Dad will literally kill you," I said.
Duncan's mouth quirked up at one corner. "I'll take my chances. I'll wait in our spot."
Our spot. The words sent heat flooding through my body.
He meant the shadowy area beneath the old apple tree in the backyard, hidden from the house by overgrown hedges and the garden wall.
Four years ago, on a warm night in late spring, we had crossed every line that should have remained sacred between us.
"I have to take care of a few things first," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I'll wait."
I slipped back inside, closing the door behind me and leaning against it for a moment to catch my breath. My pulse hammered in my throat, and my hands shook as I touched the rose petals.
"Who was it?" Lauren called from the kitchen.
"Nobody important," I called back, hating myself for the lie but knowing I had no choice.
I walked back to the kitchen, where Lauren was helping Chrissy drink from her sippy cup while Elena and Sammy entertained themselves by throwing pieces of chicken at each other.
"Can you do me a huge favor?" I asked Lauren. "Would you mind giving them their baths and getting them ready for bed? I have a quick errand to run."
Lauren studied my face, her eyes narrowing as she noticed the rose in my hand. "An errand? At seven o'clock at night?"
"I'll be back in an hour."
"Ivy Whitmore." Lauren stood up and crossed her arms over her chest. "You're practically glowing, and you're holding a rose. What's going on?"
Heat crept up my neck. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. That's the face of a woman who's about to do something either very stupid or very romantic." She grinned. "I'm hoping for romantic."
"Lauren…"
"Fine, I'll watch the kids and get them ready for bed. But I want all the juicy details when you get back."
I kissed each of my children on the forehead, breathing in their sweet, innocent scents. "Be good for Lauren."
"Bye-bye, Mama," Elena said, waving her tiny hand.
I slipped out the front door and made my way around to the backyard, staying in the shadows cast by the tall oak trees that lined the property. The sun had begun to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, and the air carried the scent of jasmine from Mom's flower beds.
As I approached the apple tree, I saw that Duncan had been busy.
A soft blanket was spread on the ground beneath the branches, and he'd arranged a small bouquet of flowers—roses, jasmine, and baby's breath—beside a bottle of wine and two glasses.
His phone sat on the edge of the blanket, playing soft jazz that mixed with the evening sounds of crickets and rustling leaves.
He looked up as I approached, and the expression on his face stole my breath. There was tenderness there, and hope, and something deeper that I didn't dare name.
"You did all this?" I asked, gesturing to the romantic tableau he'd created.
"I wanted tonight to be special."
I sat down on the blanket beside him, careful to maintain some distance between us even as every cell in my body urged me to move closer. He poured wine into both glasses and handed one to me.
"You're doing an incredible job at work," he said, raising his glass. "I hope you know that."
"Thank you." The wine was smooth and rich, warming me from the inside out. "I'm trying my best."
"I want to keep you on permanently, if you're interested. We can discuss the details later, but I wanted you to know that I think you're invaluable."
The praise made my cheeks warm. "As long as we can keep things professional at the office, I'd love to stay."
"Professional," he repeated, and there was something in his tone that made me look at him more closely.
"Duncan, we can't complicate this. Not at work."
"I know." He took a sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving my face. "But sitting here with you now, away from the office, away from everyone else—it's hard to pretend I don't feel what I feel."
My pulse quickened. "What do you feel?"
"That you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. That I've missed you every day for the past four years. That being in your presence makes me remember what it feels like to be alive."
The words washed over me, each one a small shock to my system. I wanted to believe him, wanted to let myself fall into the fantasy he was weaving, but the rational part of my mind screamed warnings.
"Tell me about Bar Harbor," he said, apparently sensing my internal struggle and changing the subject. "You mentioned you did an internship there."
The safer topic allowed me to relax slightly. "I worked for a small nonprofit that focused on marine conservation. It was incredible—I got to help with research projects, work with local fishermen, spend time on boats documenting whale migrations."
"That sounds perfect for you."
"It was." I took another sip of wine, feeling the alcohol begin to loosen the tight knots in my shoulders. "I loved waking up every morning and walking to the harbor, seeing the boats come in with their catch. The community there was so close-knit, so genuine. Everyone looked out for each other."
"Is that what you miss most? The community?"
I considered the question. "I miss the simplicity of it. Life there was slower, quieter. I could think clearly there."
"And you can't think clearly here?"
"Not when you're around."
The admission slipped out before I could stop it, and I saw Duncan's eyes darken in response.
"Ivy…"
"We should probably stick to safe topics," I said quickly, but even as I spoke the words, I found myself leaning closer to him.
The wine was making me bold, or maybe it was the way the fading sunlight caught the silver in his hair, or the way he was looking at me as if I were the only woman in the world.
We talked about everything and nothing—books we'd read, places we wanted to travel, childhood memories that made us laugh until our sides ached.
The sky deepened to purple, and stars began to appear overhead. The jazz music continued to play softly, creating an intimate cocoon around us. I found myself relaxing for the first time in weeks, the constant anxiety about Mom and the children and Dad's anger fading into the background.
"I should probably go inside," I said eventually, though I made no move to stand up.
"Stay." Duncan's voice was rough, and when I looked at him, I saw heat burning in his eyes. "Please. I don't want to go home alone tonight."
Before I could respond, he moved closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. His thumb traced across my skin, and I felt myself melting into his touch.
"Duncan…"
"I've missed you," he whispered, his breath warm against my lips.
And then he kissed me.