Chapter 3
3
Ivy
December 18
Kauai, Hawaii
Ivy is on a propellor plane from Honolulu, circling the island of Kauai—the fourth-largest Hawaiian island, called the Garden Island because of its lush greenery, which she can see from above. The plane descends, lands with a screech, and speeds down the runway. For a moment it feels like the plane might plow straight into a pair of green-covered mountains in the near distance—but then it slows and stops. The pilot makes his announcement, and Ivy breathes a sigh of relief.
The temperature in sunny Kauai, the pilot says, is currently seventy-nine degrees and rising, with no rain in the forecast for days—unusual for this time of year. He signs off with a jaunty “Mele Kalikimaka,” and soon Ivy is descending the roll-up stairs onto the tarmac. She fumbles in her purse for sunglasses, then pauses and raises her face to the brilliant blue sky, soaking in the feel of the sun on her face. It’s the perfect antidote to the stretch of bone-chillingly cold December days that had swept through New York City for weeks. She pulls her phone from her canvas carryall, turns off airplane mode, and texts Holly to see how she’s doing. The reply comes in immediately.
Almost at cabin, just stopped for gas. I’m as fine as I can be. Don’t worry about me! Have fun!! xo
Ivy soon emerges from the long and low one-story building back out into the warmth of the late afternoon, expecting to see a uniformed driver standing beside a white sedan, holding two leis and a sign that says “Mr. she can smell the ocean, even if she can’t see it yet. She snaps a photo with her phone of a particularly arresting mountain range, then reflexively attaches it to a text to Holly—but stops herself. Holly wants to be alone, nursing her broken heart. She doesn’t want to be tormented with photos of what would have been her honeymoon. Ivy puts her phone away and focuses on staying in the moment, watching the scenery speed by, feeling the breeze on her face.
The car climbs a hill, then swings around a corner. The coast comes into view, and Ivy is dazzled again. The vivid, verdant green of the tree-covered mountains melts into the ocean. She takes in the yellow-white color of the sand on the beaches, the milky froth of the waves as they churn like butter against the shore, and, best of all, the kaleidoscope of blue, turquoise, green, aqua, cobalt, and indigo that makes up the ocean.
She feels a familiar surge of excitement; her fingers start to tingle from it. She imagines using her oiliest pastels to paint these scenes, their soft, oozing colors melting onto the paper the way the mountain ranges and cliffs seem to be melting into the sea. She already knows which colors she’d use for this afternoon’s views: English blue for the sky. Prussian blue for the distant depths of the ocean, and cerulean, turquoise, and celestial blue closer to shore—with maybe a touch of emerald, olive, and cinnabar to catch the way the water lightens and glimmers as it touches the land. The sand will be tricky to get just right. She can already tell it isn’t like the sand in Aruba, for which she used a mix of white and rose ocher. As the car climbs higher and the view stretches out in every direction—an intoxicating jumble of trees and cliffs, mountains and ocean and beach—she searches her mental color palette until she has it, the perfect color from the many pastels she has carried to Hawaii with her: Naples yellow washed over with transparent medium. She can’t wait to get to the hotel and get started, and feels a wave of gratitude for Holly, for being so generous, for knowing, even in the midst of catastrophe, how much Ivy was going to love this island.
The car turns down a winding driveway that looks like a long gray ribbon leading up to the imposing main building of the Hoaloha Ocean Club Resort she can’t blame him. “Don’t say anything. Don’t call them over here. Please. ”
“Of course,” he says, eyes wide and slightly terrified.
“Are they gone?”
He nods that they are, and Ivy releases his wrist. “I’m sorry about that,” she says. “Please don’t call security. I’m just…” She’s trying hard to process what she has just witnessed: Matt is here. With Abby. The Abby. And they call each other “baby.” She squeezes her eyes shut. He and Abby arrived a day early. On what was supposed to be Matt and Holly’s wedding day! He wasn’t having an emotional affair; he was clearly having an affair -affair—and it’s such a monstrously awful thing to do that Ivy has to fight the urge not to chase after Matt and Abby and confront him head-on. Except she can’t see Matt right now. She can’t trust herself not to murder him.
“Miss, you seem very upset. Is there anything I can do to assist you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m fine. No. I’m not at all fine.” Ivy decides to be honest. Well, half honest. “Gerald, that’s my ex-fiancé. He broke off our wedding, and I decided to come on our honeymoon by myself, but now it turns out he’s here, too. With another woman. The woman he was cheating on me with.”
Gerald’s mouth drops open. “Why, that’s terrible.”
“It’s the most horrible thing that has ever happened to me.” She wipes at her eyes and hopes Gerald thinks that she’s shaking from sadness, not rage. “I have no idea what to do. I have nowhere to stay.” Now her voice does wobble, and Gerald shakes his head, eyes full of empathy. He types something into the computer, then nods his head and looks up again.
“You’re in luck. We had a cancellation, and so I have a garden-view room left just for you.”
“Oh, thank you.” She sags into the counter with relief. At least she has somewhere to stay. But can she really stay at the same resort as Matt and Abby?
“At our superior-value rate: four thousand dollars a night.”
“A…night?” There’s no chance she can afford to stay here—not even for a single night. Her heart sinks all the way to the toe straps of her gladiator sandals.
“Miss—I’m so sorry. You look a little ill. What an ordeal this is. Would you like some refreshing cucumber water?”
Gerald is being so nice, and his kind brown eyes are still wide with care and concern, and she loves cucumber water, but she sighs with despondence. “What I need is to get a taxi back to the airport and a flight out of here,” Ivy says, sadly taking in the gorgeous surroundings. But Gerald shakes his head.
“There are no more flights from this island until tomorrow.”
“Okay…then any good spots you can recommend to sleep on the beach? Or perhaps you have an empty broom closet I can curl up in?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “There are a lot of beach villas and houses for rent around here that are in a lower price range than this hotel. Why don’t you go down to the beach bar, enjoy something stronger than cucumber water if you like, get something to eat—all on the house, please—and use the hotel Wi-Fi to find somewhere nearby to stay.”
She feels almost overwhelmed by his kindness, and says so.
“I’m heartbroken for you,” he says. “And besides, ’tis the season,” he concludes.
“I have a feeling you’re nice all year round, Gerald.”
“Oliver at the beach bar makes a killer mai tai. It’s just beyond the pool—look for the beautiful kiawe tree that offers the perfect shade while having a drink.” He comes around the desk and wheels her suitcase away, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll keep your luggage in my office, you just let me know when you need it. Good luck to you, Holly.”
Keeping her hat pulled low and her head bowed, just in case she runs into Matt and Abby, Ivy hustles through the pool area toward the beach. The sun is close to setting now, the western sky warming to a golden pink—rose ocher mixed with geranium lake light, to be precise, but knowing the exact colors of the spectacular scenery just makes her heart ache. She reaches a charming tiki-style bar sheltered behind the sprawling branches of what is indeed a very beautiful kiawe tree. Its many branches point skyward in what looks like a celebratory dance. Ivy takes off her sandals and stands in the sand in front of the tree for a long moment, trying to memorize it. Then she turns and walks toward the tiki bar.
A bartender is serving an older couple. He catches her eye as he flips a martini shaker in the air and catches it, like he’s Tom Cruise in Cocktail . Despite the bleakness of her situation, Ivy finds herself momentarily mesmerized. Of course the bartender at this ravishing resort, on this exquisite beach, beside this majestic tree, is gorgeous, right down to the shirt unbuttoned just that little bit extra, revealing a smooth, toned chest. He shoots her a smile, revealing a dimple on his left cheek—just one, because of course he has a dimple on one cheek only, turning his sexy smile crooked and disarming. He mouths One sec , and Ivy sits down, dragging her gaze away from him and sighing at the unfairness of it all. This place is absolutely lovely in every way. And she can’t stay.
As she waits to be served, she tries to breathe in a sense of calm along with the fragrant sea air. But instead, she feels indignation rising inside her again. How dare Matt do this to Holly? How could he? Ivy’s parents raised her to believe violence is never the answer, but right now she’s imagining finding Matt, tackling him, and holding his head under an ocean wave just long enough to scare the shit out of him but not do any permanent damage. She shakes her head from side to side, trying to dispel these dark, dark thoughts. She has never been so angry with someone in her entire life.
“Hey.” It’s Hot Bartender, and the dimple is gone. “You look like you’re having some dark, dark thoughts.”
“Oh.” Ivy is startled. She looks away from the ocean, and her distracted gaze collides with turquoise-blue eyes framed by the faintest of feathery smile lines. The bartender’s dimple keeps disappearing and reappearing. His eyes are an immersive experience. “I’m fine,” she manages.
“I can tell that’s not true.”
“I heard you make a good mai tai,” she says, trying to smile convincingly, wishing she, too, had an endearing dimple to distract him with.
He tilts his head. “Hmm,” he says.
“Hmm, what ?”
He looks at her for a long moment, and Ivy feels her cheeks grow warm.
He rolls up his shirtsleeves now, revealing tanned, muscled forearms covered in a mist of golden hair. She tries not to look at his muscles, but lands back on his sea green eyes. No help. Lime, turquoise, and light blue blended gently with the tip of her finger would get them just right, if she were to draw him. Which, of course, she will not be doing.
He’s still sizing her up.
“I’ve got it.” He holds up a finger, turns, bends down— I will not look at his ass, I will not look at his ass —and rummages in a cupboard before bringing out a bottle with no paper label, and the words “Grand Rhum Hawaii” embossed on the glass. “This rum,” he says, lowering his voice, which she feels rumble all the way down to the base of her pelvis, “was bottled in 1925. Almost a hundred years ago. It has seen earthquakes and floods. Forest fires.” He sighs. “And it has survived. Which means you can survive the bad day you’re having.” He lifts a hand and taps a cocktail glass down from a row of them hanging over his head, catching it just before it smashes on the bar top. She tries to keep her expression impassive. “Come on, that was impressive.”
She shrugs. “I’ve seen better.” She definitely has not. “How do you know I’m having a bad day?”
“Trick of the trade,” he says, filling the glass with ice, pouring in a generous shot of the rare dark rum, mixing it with white rum and fresh lime juice, pouring orange cura?ao as the top layer. “Bartenders know things.” He puts the cocktail on a mat and slides it toward her. “Try that out. It just might heal your broken heart.”
Before she can reply, he moves off down the bar to serve two couples. Ivy takes a sip of the cocktail; it’s delicious. She puts it down and calls up the VRBO app on her phone. But every villa apartment she clicks on is booked. “Damn it,” she mutters. It’s the Christmas holidays. She’s never going to find a place to stay. She sips the drink again and puts down her phone to stare out to sea, feeling her heart sinking as low as the sun. The clouds on the horizon turn purple and orange as she watches, the sky around them darkening to dusky blue as the sun hits the water. “ Fuck , it’s gorgeous here.”
“Isn’t it?”
Hot Bartender is back. She lets out a morose sigh. At this point, not even that one dimple of his can raise her spirits. “So, you said this drink could help mend a broken heart. What makes you think I have a broken heart?”
“Again, trick of the trade. Bartenders know things. And you look like…” He bites his lip, narrows his eyes, sizes her up. “Someone who has just been left at the altar.” She nearly spits out her drink.
“Come on, what is going on here? You can’t just know that.”
He laughs. “Okay, fine, Gerald called me from the front desk to tell me your situation and make sure I treated you well. Your ex-fiancé is here with another woman when he’s supposed to be here with you? That’s dark, Holly. That’s terrible. It definitely requires the hundred-year-old rum.”
“I actually don’t deserve the expensive rum,” Ivy says, sliding the drink back across the bar. She can’t do this anymore. “It’s my friend who does. I can’t lie to you.”
“What?”
“Since I’m leaving here anyway, you might as well know, I’m not really Holly Beech. She’s my best friend. She got left at the altar, then gave me her honeymoon because she is the kindest person in the world and wanted me to spend two weeks here making art. But now her philandering fiancé and his new girlfriend are here. Staying in what was supposed to be my room. How could he do something so low?” She flops her head down on the bar top.
The bartender’s dimple has not gone anywhere. If anything, it’s just deeper now. “If it’s not Holly, what is your name?”
“Ivy.”
“Yeah, right. Holly and Ivy.”
She lifts her head from the bar. “That’s really my name, and my best friend is named Holly, and yeah , yeah , we have heard all the jokes about the stupid Christmas carol. You know who loves to make jokes about our names? Matt does. And then he sings the carol, and it gets stuck in my head, and I hate him even more.”
“So you’ve always hated your best friend’s fiancé, even before he turned into the philandering ex?”
“Okay, maybe I didn’t hate him. But I always knew he wasn’t good enough for Holly. She’s the best person. Her one flaw was blindness when it came to Matt’s true character. I kept thinking she knew something about him I didn’t. But now…” She trails off. In the silence, there it is again, almost as if she’s conjured him: Matt’s voice.
“Hey, bartender!”
“ Shit. ”
Hot Bartender clocks her horrified expression and quickly pushes open the swinging half door leading behind the bar, whispering “Down there” out of the corner of his adorable mouth. Ivy ducks down and clambers behind the bar, pressing herself against a surfboard leaning there. Because of course Hot Bartender surfs. She can just picture him hanging ten, his washboard abs encased in a tight wetsuit, nothing about his perfect butt left to the imagination. And then, all at once, the backside she has just been picturing is directly at eye level, and even through slightly baggy khaki shorts, she can tell it’s perfect. She can hear him speaking, above the bar top: “Sorry, man, we’re out of fresh lime juice. Oh, that? No, that’s gone off. Nah, we’re out of white rum, too. Mai tais are off the menu for today. Sorry. Maybe try the pool bar?”
His upper leg brushes against her shoulder, his calf against her arm. She feels her hairs stand on end and moves away a few inches, shifts her focus. Through the small space between the little swinging door she’s crouched behind and the bar, Ivy can see another kiawe tree down by the ocean. It’s not as large and gnarled as the one that shelters the tiki bar, but from this angle she can see the way it’s leaning toward the ocean like it wants to dip its arms in. She would so love to draw that. Suddenly, Ivy feels frustrated tears rising to her eyes.
“Ivy? They’re gone.” She straightens up as he points in the opposite direction of the beautiful tree. “They went that way.” Then his voice grows soft. “Hey—are you okay?”
She blinks her eyes, fast. “I’m totally fine,” she says, even though she isn’t, at all.
“No, you’re not. You have the look on your face people get when it’s their last day here. And you’ve barely been here an hour.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up endearingly. “It’s just not fair.”
She manages a wobbly smile. “At least I got to see Hawaii at all, right? And I’ll come back. Someday. Plus, I got to hear you pretend to Matt that you didn’t have any rum or lime juice left. That was pretty good.”
“I’m not serving that jerk again if I can help it. Excuse me a sec.” Another couple has approached the bar, quickly followed by a group of men in golf clothes. Ivy takes her seat and finishes her drink as she searches for flights on her phone. With any luck, there will be one that leaves first thing in the morning; she can sleep in a chair at the airport.
Hot Bartender returns and leans his forearms against the bar.
“I’m just looking for flights,” she murmurs.
“This is not right,” he says. “It’s the holiday season, which to me means nice things are supposed to happen. That the good guys are supposed to win—not the shitty guys like Matt.”
“Yeah, well, it’s nice that there are guys out there like you, but sometimes shitty guys like Matt do win.”
“No way.” He shakes his head. “Not on my watch, Ivy. I think I have a solution to your problem.”