Chapter 17
The G.O.A.T.
Ivy
I’ve committed to doing something brave today, and I’m not about to let this cat situation derail me.
So I pilot Dash down the hill to Rudy’s Roadhouse on the edge of town, plotting my next moves.
Rudy’s is an after-midnight kind of place, and it’s never busy during the day.
By the time we’ve walked the length of town, his face is almost back to normal and he’s stopped sneezing.
The jukebox plays something twangy and mournful. Appropriate.
Rudy himself comes out from the back to take our order. Dash stares down at his phone, most likely watching the photo go live in real time, so I order for both of us. I keep it simple: two glasses of water and an order of poutine.
Rudy takes the laminated menu and leaves. Dash is still scrolling. His jaw gets tighter with each swipe.
“Comments?” I ask, although I don’t really want to know.
“Mixed. Some people are calling it out as unfair. Others are ...” he trails off, but I can fill in the blank.
Others are gleeful. The mighty Dash Pine has fallen. Again. My heart aches for him. This is the exact spiral he came here to avoid.
“Will you be okay if I hit the ladies’ room?”
He finally looks up, distracted. “What? Sure.”
“You should wash your hands, too.”
He gives me a blank expression. “Why?”
“Because you’re obviously allergic to cat dander.” I drop this truth bomb on him, slide out from the booth, and beeline to the restrooms before I lose my nerve.
Inside the ladies’ room, my heart pounds as I pull out my phone and tap in the digits I scribbled on my arm when Dash recited them for Autumn. I lean against the wall and listen to Rachel Pine’s phone ring on the other end, silently practicing what I’ll say.
“This is Rachel Pine.” She answers her phone in business-like manner, the way Holly does.
“Hi, Ms. Pine. My name is Ivy Jolly. I'm ... I'm with Dash.”
“Has something happened to him? He is okay?”
Oh, Kris Kingle. She thinks he’s hurt.
I hurry to reassure her. “He’s fine! Better than fine. He’s great. I'm calling because he’s spending some time with me and my family in Mistletoe Mountain, and I thought you might like to join us for part of the holiday month.”
There’s a long, silence. Just as I’m about to ask if she’s still there, she speaks.
“Dasher asked you to call?”
I chew on my lip. “Well, no. He doesn't know I’m calling. But he mentioned that you and he never really had a chance to celebrate Christmas together, and if there’s one thing this town does well, it’s celebrate.”
Another pause. Then she says, “Where is this town of yours?”
Yes. I make a victorious fist and give her the broad strokes about Mistletoe Mountain. She tells me she’ll text me her flight information, and I hang up feeling almost giddy. A surprise visit from his mom ought to cheer Dash up, regardless of what happens with the cat drama.
As I’m hurrying back to the booth, Griselda Alexander sweeps into the roadhouse like a tall, thin tornado in athletic shoes. I lock eyes with her and break into a full sprint. She still beats me to Dash.
Dash
I’m several pages deep into the online discourse about whether I hate all cats or, as an impassioned minority insists, have a fear of black cats.
A poster with the handle VladDaddy4 is explaining this fear is called mavrogatphobia, and I’m wondering how that’s pronounced when I glance up to see a tall, severe-looking woman marching straight toward me.
She wears a velour sweatsuit and a scowl.
“I have an idea,” she informs me as she takes Ivy’s vacated spot, uninvited.
I eye her warily, trying to get a bead on her so I handle this the right way. The actual last thing I need right now is to get caught being snarky with a delusional fan. I casually scan the bar in search of any photographers trying to blend in with the nonexistent crowd.
“They’re outside.”
“Pardon?”
“The press. Well, the press and Shane Nottingham.” Her voice is cool, almost bored.
“Do I know you?”
As I’m asking the question, Ivy races to the table. “This is Griselda Alexander,” she pants.
The woman, Griselda, shoots her a withering look. “You wouldn’t be out of breath right now if you didn’t skip my Showstopper Cardio class on Wednesday mornings. And your pace would be better.”
Ivy takes a deep breath before responding, “One, it took me so long because I got stuck in a puddle of a mystery substance that I am praying was gum. And two, you know I love that class. But it’s hard to swing it while I’m trying to get my flower shop off the ground. I honestly don’t always have the time.”
Griselda’s face softens and she scoots over to make room for Ivy.
I just stare at both of them until Ivy explains, “Griselda owns Maple Twist Fitness. Her classes are out of this world, but she also used to be a child star. Like you.”
Griselda Alexander? I search every crevice of my brain and come up empty. “Sorry, I’ve never heard of you.”
“I’m not surprised. My fame peaked before you were born. But I’ve done it all—Broadway musicals, dancer on concert tour, a recurring role as the precocious daughter of the married sleuths in a long-running detective comedy. So I know a thing or two about managing a public image.”
I sit back. “Huh. Okay, what’s your idea?”
She gives me a satisfied smile before answering, “Stillwater Animal Rescue has been kicking around the idea of doing a Santa Paws fundraiser to benefit the cats, dogs, and other animals in their sanctuary. Henry Stillwater was planning to wait until next year, get all his metaphorical and literal ducks in a row first—”
“The rescue has ducks?”
Ivy laughs lightly. “It’s a sanctuary farm. It has everything. Cats, dogs, ducks, pigs, an adorable tripod goat.”
“A three-legged goat?”
“Simone is the greatest.”
Griselda grimaces at this detour from her plan. “But in light of recent events, Titus has offered the Cat Cafe as a venue this year. It would be damage control for him and good publicity for the rescue. Henry agreed.”
“That sounds smart for both of them. I’m not sure how it helps me. I could write a check, I guess.”
“No. You’ll emcee the event.”
I stare at her. “You want me to host a pet adoption event after I just went viral for hating cats?”
“You don’t hate cats. You’re allergic to them.
There’s a difference, and we’re going to make sure everyone knows it.
” She’s already typing on her phone. “We load you up on allergy meds and get photos of you with adoptable dogs, cats, even the goat. We turn this into an opportunity to highlight shelter needs. We control the narrative. And you and Titus both get the halo effect of supporting the cause.”
It’s not a bad plan. Actually, it’s a good plan. Even Brody would like this plan. But I remain confused on one point.
“Why would you do this?” I ask. “Help me?”
She looks up from her phone, genuine surprise on her face. “We take care of our own here.”
“But I’m not—” I start, then stop.
“Not what? Not from here?” She waves the idea away. “You’re with Ivy. That’s enough.”
Under the table, Ivy finds my hand with hers and squeezes.
This is not how things work in Hollywood.
I know better than anyone. In Hollywood, when you screw up, people distance themselves.
Your agent stops returning calls. Your friends suddenly have other plans.
Everyone waits to see if you’ll survive before they decide whether to acknowledge they know you.
But here, in this quirky Christmas town, they stand together and problem solve. They care about each other. And, it seems, me.
My voice is rough with emotion when I say, “Let’s do it. When?”
“Day after tomorrow. That gives us time to promote it and for you to get started on a course of allergy medication.” Griselda’s already texting someone. “I’ll coordinate with the rescue and Titus. You just show up and be charming.”
“I can do that,” I promise. I’d better do it.
My phone buzzes. I glance down at the display. Brody’s calling. No doubt he’s seen the picture of Dash Pine, feline hater, and has some thoughts he’d like to share. I silence it.
For the first time since Shane snapped his photo, I can breathe.
“Thank you,” I say to Griselda.
Griselda doesn’t look up from her phone. “You’re welcome. You’re dismissed.”
Ivy squeezes the woman’s arm. “You’re the best, Grizz. Love you.”
She keeps her eyes glued to the screen but a small smile creeps over her face.
We settle up with Rudy for the congealed poutine fries and walk out into the late afternoon. The sun has begun to dip low, painting the snow pink and gold.
“So this is how Mistletoe Mountain operates, huh?”
“Call it the Mistletoe Mountain magic.”
But this is more than that. This is Ivy’s community. She’s woven into the fabric of this place—knows everyone’s names, remembers their stories, shows up when they need her. And by standing next to her, I’m being woven in, too.
The photographers’ cameras click as they walk backward up the hill in front of us. But I’m not performing. I’m just walking alongside Ivy. Where I belong.