Chapter 11
11
Ivy
December 22
Kauai, Hawaii
The rooster’s crow at dawn feels like an aural ice pick in Ivy’s temple. She grabs a pillow and holds it over her head, but the shrill crowing continues. Memories from the night before swirl in her head like she’s hit the start button on a blender. Janis Joplin. Bobby McGee. Spicy pineapple juice. Mezcal. Manapua Man. Oliver. Larry. Trying to forget. Bing Crosby. A mop in my hand.
Had she…danced on the bar at one point the night before? She remembers a delighted Oliver finally getting his wish and Larry putting on a Bing Crosby album. Larry had whispered to Ivy that she always let him do this when she wanted the bar to clear out a little so she could go home early, but they had ended up staying late, hanging out and drinking a few more of those strong, spicy cocktails. Eventually, Ivy remembers telling Larry that she likes to clean while drunk—which is patently not true; she just needed something to occupy herself so she didn’t stand staring at Oliver, besotted and googly-eyed in her drunken state, despite her promise to herself to keep this trip focused on art only.
She has a dim memory of stumbling back home with Oliver and Larry, laughing as she stumbled up the stairs to her apartment. She sees that her clothes are strewn from one end of the apartment to the other. A glass of water, half empty, sits beside the bed—good intentions, at least. The blinds are wide open and the early-morning sun streams through. But, she tells herself, she’s not going to close the blinds and go back to sleep, because that is not why she’s here. She’s here to work —and that’s what she’s going to do, regardless of her hangover, or her confused emotions for a guy named Oliver.
Ivy stands, and the room spins for a second, but she makes it to the bathroom, where she brushes the taste of the spicy pineapple bonfires away with minty toothpaste. In the shower, she lets the water run icy cold at the end, and emerges feeling much better.
In the kitchen, she brews her coffee as strong as possible, and—after two cups, gulped straight—the hangover releases some of its grip on her. But she’s still feeling too rough to attempt an ambitious day trip, so she packs her art supplies with some water and fruit, thinking she’ll simply wander down the beach until she finds scenery that inspires her.
She’s halfway down the steps to the beach when she hears a male voice.
“Morning, sunshine.”
She looks down and sees Oliver through the slats in the steps. He’s sitting on the terrace of the apartment below at a small table covered in breakfast remnants: a coffee carafe, an orange juice jug, pastry crumbs, a butter dish, a pot of jam. Larry, wearing a short black silk kimono robe, steps out onto the terrace holding a water jug and two glasses. Her bed-mussed black curls tumble down her shoulders; her tanned legs go on for days.
“Ivy!” She flashes a delighted, toothy smile. “You look gorgeous. This is not fair. You do not look like someone who consumed several of my bonfires last night and danced on my bar top.”
“Oh, boy. I was kind of hoping that was just a dream,” Ivy says.
“Meanwhile, I—” Larry shakes her head and laughs, swiping her hands up and down her gorgeous self. “I’m a disaster.”
She is decidedly not a disaster. She looks like she’s just stepped off the runway of a Victoria’s Secret show, and Oliver, in his white T-shirt and rumpled beige linen shorts, looks like her extremely sexy consort. But he’s not. They are not a couple, just two very attractive best friends. And now that Ivy doesn’t have the Hawaiian bonfires as armor, thinking about Oliver and the night before causes a flood of nerves to wash over her. She forces a smile she hopes doesn’t betray her way-too-complicated attraction to Oliver. “Cold shower, strong coffee, tons of water. That’s my hangover cure. And I’m sorry, I hope I wasn’t too much last night.”
“You were the most fun,” Larry says. “Also, you insisted you love to clean while drunk, and so I had the bar closed in a fraction of the time I usually do. I appreciate it. Gave me more time to hang out with you.” Another smile. “Now, come, sit. Let me show my gratitude by sharing some of our malasada pastries. I promise, all the sugar, butter, and cream will be the final nail in the coffin of your hangover.”
Ivy glances at Oliver, whom she notices is being very quiet, just sitting still, smiling at her weakly from behind his Ray-Bans. “I don’t want to interrupt…I was planning to go down the beach and do some drawing.”
“ Please , Ivy. We’re stuffed, and the cream filling means these are never as good day-old.”
Ivy sits opposite Oliver, and Larry pours her water and offers her juice or coffee.
“Larry, we’re not at your bar,” Oliver says. “You’re at home. You don’t have to serve everyone.”
“I know that, Ollie,” Larry says. “But I like Ivy, and I want her to be happy.”
Meanwhile, Ivy notices that after he speaks, Oliver rubs his temples. Larry follows her gaze. “He’s regretting his nightcap last night. Or perhaps I should say night- caps . You were wise enough to say no to one and take yourself to bed.”
“I barely remember doing it, so I’m not sure ‘wise’ is the right word, but you’re right that I seem to have fewer regrets today than you do, Oliver.”
“Good bourbon is never a bad idea,” Oliver says, accepting a tumbler full of water from Larry after she pours Ivy’s and drinking half of it in one gulp. “But apparently, sometimes it is a bad idea.”
“Yes, well, you were talking my ear off before bed,” Larry says dryly, glancing at Ivy.
“I’m sure it was just gibberish,” he says quickly. “No need to discuss anything I may have said in present company. Anyway, I’ve got to get myself feeling better for work.” He rubs his head again and groans. “This is an important day.”
“Busy day at the hotel?” Ivy asks.
Oliver shakes his head. “I’m off for the next two days. I’ve got a camping trip planned at Nā Pali, a state park. I need one more shot for my National Geographic assignment. I’ve got all the wave images I plan to include, but there’s a waterfall there I’ve been trying to catch the perfect image of for years. Maybe I’m just used to getting pounded by waves, but it’s elusive, and it was part of the pitch to the magazine.”
“I keep telling him the shots he has are incredible, but Oliver is a perfectionist—which is probably why National Geographic is always beating down his door with assignments.”
“I need the shot, not just a shot,” Oliver insists, gulping more water. He stands. “I also need Advil.”
He ambles inside, still rubbing his head. Larry watches him go, then turns back to Ivy. “What did you say your plan was for today? Just walking up the beach, looking for inspiration?” Ivy nods. “You should go with him! Talk about inspiration. Nā Pali is gorgeous.” She grabs her phone from the tabletop and scooches her chair closer to Ivy’s. “Hang on, let me find the album from the last time we camped there.” She scrolls for a moment before turning the screen toward Ivy as she thumbs her way through photos of jagged cliffs and pristine beaches with otherworldly colors as Ivy looks on, dazzled.
“Wow,” Ivy exclaims as she looks at a photo of a cliff range that appears to have been hand-carved by some mysterious god. The sharp angles rise into peaks that resemble castles; the colors tumble and pitch from deep forest green to sunshine yellow. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Not even here, and I’ve seen a lot of beauty on these beaches already.”
“Nā Pali is really something else.”
The next photo is of a waterfall that flows down the side of a cliff like the water is made of delicate spiderwebs. It’s not especially big or powerful, but the way it flows is almost ghostly. “And here is Oliver’s waterfall.”
“The water looks like strands of silk. I can see why he might be finding capturing it so challenging.”
“He’s become a bit obsessed, but I don’t blame him.”
Ivy imagines what it might be like to try to draw those spun-silk strands of water, let alone capture them in a still photograph. She’d love to try, she realizes.
Larry scrolls to the next photo; it’s of a campsite at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. Shira is there, holding up a tin camping mug. Larry has her arm around her, and they’ve both been caught mid-laugh. “You know, I can’t believe I ever thought you were with Oliver,” Ivy says with a laugh. “You and Shira are clearly perfect for each other.”
Larry smiles down at the image fondly. “I can’t wait to see her—she’s been back in LA, finishing postproduction on a film. She’s a director. Her arrival is why I can’t go camping with Ollie. I have to work so I can hand the reins over to a few of my staff and take some time off to be with her over the holidays.” Larry is scrolling again through the photos. “Look at that view, Ivy. That’s the Hanakāpī‘ai Valley. It’s beautiful here near Hanalei, yes, but being out on this more rugged coastline is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“I can’t,” Ivy says firmly.
“Why not?” But then Larry stops scrolling through photos and puts her phone down on the table. “Sorry. I shouldn’t pressure you. Shira is always saying that just because my ideas seem great to me and I think everyone should always do what I say so the world would be a better place”—she laughs and so does Ivy—“does not mean that everyone else has to agree.”
“No, it really does seem like a great idea. I just…”
“I get it. You don’t know Oliver well enough to want to go off camping in the wilderness with him.”
“I guess so,” Ivy says, but she knows this is a half-truth, that she’s always been an adventurer and that she feels she knows Oliver well enough to go camping with him. “It’s not that.”
Larry’s voice is soft now. “What is it, then? Are you okay?”
“Sorry. Those cocktails are coming back to haunt me. My head’s a bit foggy.” She sighs. “But no, I’m not okay. I’m being a bit ridiculous about something. And I need to quit it. Nā Pali looks like a landscape artist’s dream. When else will I ever get the chance to draw scenery like that, from real life?” She reaches for Larry’s phone again and looks at the kaleidoscope of colors in the state park, the waterfalls, the streams, the breathtaking cliffs. She can feel her fingers tingle and itch with a yearning to translate all that onto paper with her pastels. It would be her best work, and she knows it. Maybe even good enough to want to tell the gallery owners who still call her sometimes that she has work she wants to show.
The next photo she scrolls to features a flock of seabirds flying through the sky as a lone fish jumps out of the dawn-flat ocean below.
“Wow, that’s a great shot, Larry!”
“Every once in a while I take some of the stuff I’ve learned from being friends with Oliver and catch something special on my phone’s camera,” Larry says. “He’s right that it takes patience. And a bit of luck.”
Ivy gazes down at the photo—and all at once, a line comes into her head from the one romantic movie, other than Meet Joe Black , that she has always had a weak spot for: Ever After , the “Cinderella” retelling featuring Drew Barrymore.
She can see Drew’s lovely, sweet, heartbroken face, hear her voice as she utters the line “A bird may love a fish, but where would they live?”
But she’s not in love with Oliver. That’s ridiculous. They’ve just met. It’s chemical, a physical attraction. That’s all . Okay, maybe a tiny bit intellectual, too, and maybe he’s turning out to be one of the sweetest, weirdest, quirkiest, most thoughtful men she’s ever met. And maybe she also likes his sense of humor. And his dedication to his art. But she can fight it.
Can’t she?
Perhaps a night camping in the middle of nowhere with him could serve as some sort of inoculation against her feelings, she tells herself—could help ensure that she gets through the rest of the trip keeping him at arm’s length.
“I think it’s a really good idea, actually.”
“What’s a really good idea?” Oliver is back. “Ivy, you looked like you were very deep in thought just now. My head was hurting just looking at you.”
“I suggested Ivy go with you on your camping trip so I can be sure you don’t slip on a rock in your hungover state and tumble down a cliff, never to be heard from again,” Larry says.
Oliver shrugs. “Sure. You’re welcome to come along.” He seems to have almost no reaction to this idea, which makes Ivy feel somewhat relieved. Maybe last night was all in her head. Maybe Oliver is just a harmless flirt.
“I really wouldn’t want to impose,” Ivy says. “I don’t have any camping gear—”
“No worries, you can use mine,” Larry says. “I have doubles of everything for when Shira is here—most of it is practically brand-new because she’s more of a five-star-hotel girl, though she’s always game to humor us and try new things.”
“I’d be happy to bring you along, Ivy,” Oliver says. “You’ll love it. You won’t be able to draw fast enough. I’ll be working the whole time, trying to get that damn shot, so I can’t promise to entertain you personally—but I can promise you’ll get what you came here for.”
She pulls her gaze away from his blue eyes and looks down into her water glass. What you came here for.
“Okay. Sounds great.” But she finds she can’t look at him again, because she’s afraid of what he might see in her eyes.
Larry leaps from the table. “I’ll grab my gear. And thank you , Ivy—I think I would have just worried about him out there on his own—”
“I’m not a kid, Larry,” Oliver protests. “I’ve camped alone dozens of times.”
Larry waves a hand at him as she walks inside. “And you shouldn’t. No one should camp alone. Thanks again for being my wing-woman on this, Ivy. I can’t wait to see what you come back with.”
Ivy dashes off a text to Holly, checking in and telling her she’s going camping off-grid for a couple days with a friend she met. She decides to wait until later to unpack why she hasn’t mentioned anything about Oliver. There’s no time, anyway.
“Ready?”
“Yep.” Ivy tucks her phone in her pocket and throws her pack into the back of Oliver’s rust-speckled Jeep Wrangler before getting in. He unrolls the windows, and the warm breeze tousles her hair as he starts the engine.
Larry stands on the deck and waves goodbye to them as Oliver reverses down the driveway. Out on the road, he turns on the satellite radio, which is tuned to a Christmas music station. Ivy finds herself smiling at the incongruity of the sun-dappled ocean, lapis lazuli sky, and lush greenery all around—as Trisha Yearwood and Garth Brooks sing a duet about a marshmallow world, and Oliver sings along happily.
Oliver glances at her sidelong. “What’s so funny over there? The world isn’t your snowball?”
“This is just one of the most unusual holiday seasons I’ve ever had, that’s all.”
He turns left onto a dirt road. “Unusual in a good way?”
She thinks for a moment. “Yes, actually. It’s nice meeting new people. New friends. Larry seems great, and you…”
“Yes? I’m waiting.” His eyes are on the road, but he’s grinning, and she can see the dimple out of the corner of her eye.
“I’m glad we met,” Ivy says. “It’s great to have another artist friend on a trip like this, someone who is just as serious about their work as I am.” But as soon as those words are out, Ivy feels something creep over her. Something that almost feels like shame or embarrassment. Oliver senses the shift in her mood.
“Hey, what’s up? You okay?”
Ivy sighs. “It must have sounded a bit ridiculous for me to say I’m just as serious about my art as you are. You’re working on a big assignment for National Geographic . I’m just…doing little drawings for the sake of it.”
“And that makes your art less meaningful than mine? Just because mine is for public consumption and yours isn’t? On the one hand, I think maybe that makes your art purer. On the other, though…”
Now Bing Crosby is crooning about being home for Christmas.
“On the other, what?” she prompts.
“Ever since you explained to me why you were on this art honeymoon, I wondered why you had to compartmentalize things so much. Why can’t your art be a bigger part of your life? Why does it have to be confined to two weeks per year? That first moment I saw you, you were standing in the shade of that tree you love at the hotel, looking like you wanted to memorize it—looking like you were in love with it. I’ve thought about that a few times, how passionate you are about your work.”
They’re driving down the highway now. On one side of the vehicle are the verdant green mountains; on the other, sand and glittering ocean as far as the eye can see. To Ivy, all at once, the vastness of the scenery, the almost incomprehensible beauty of it, compares to the way she feels about art. How big a role it could play in her life, if she could only let it. Too big. It would take over everything. “It’s hard to explain” is all she is able to offer him, her tone closed and curt. He doesn’t press her further, and she is silent and thoughtful for most of the rest of the drive to the state park.
Ivy wipes her brow with a bandana she tucked into the back pocket of her jean shorts, and takes a long swig of water. “Well, I think I may have found the ultimate cure to the Hawaiian bonfire hangover—a fourish-mile hike to a campsite in the Nā Pali park.”
“Yeah? You think you’re cured?”
“Absolutely. I was either going to be cured or die somewhere back there.”
He laughs and swigs water, too. “You’re right. I feel like a million bucks now, out of pure survival instinct.”
They get to work setting up camp, and Ivy finds it just as satisfying as drawing. She likes the way she knows exactly what to do, from years spent camping as a child and teen, as she sets up her tent and then helps Oliver find a flat rock to set up their camp stove, solar-battery-powered cooler, and a plastic bin filled with their provisions.
The sun is high in the sky by the time they’re finished.
“Hungry?”
“Yes! Especially after that hike.”
“Hang on, I packed some sandwiches and fruit in the cooler. Let’s have those, and then let’s both head off and get to work.”
She watches him as he sorts through the cooler. He seems perfectly at home out here, too, and incredibly happy. He’s got a bandana tied around his hair, and his flannel shirtsleeves are rolled up. Music is playing on the small speaker he brought—not Christmas music this time. She recognizes the same Leon Bridges song that was playing the day he showed her around the apartment.
“Can I help?”
“Nope. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Thanks, I’m just going to go change, then.”
In her tent, Ivy peels off her sweaty hiking clothes and puts on her favorite Roots sweatpants and the only T-shirt she brought, from John’s of Bleecker Street.
Oliver grins as she emerges from her tent wearing it.
“John’s! The best pizza in the Big Apple.”
“Glad you agree. Holly and I go back and forth between John’s and Joe’s, but I think John’s wins the prize on ambience alone.”
“Makes me miss NYC, seeing that shirt. I’ll have to get out there for a visit next year.”
She sits down in a camping chair he’s unfolded and accepts a small plate with a sandwich and some cut-up pineapple.
“Wow, if this is roughing it with you, I think I like it!”
“I’ve never understood why ‘roughing it’ means freeze-dried food or jerky to some people. I even have wine for tonight, to go with my famous campsite pasta,” he says, pulling a soft-sided flask from the cooler box near his chair, then two foldable glasses, which he unfolds and shows off. “Still ice-cold. That is, if you’ll be able to handle it after last night.” He puts the flask and glasses back into the cooler.
“Last night,” Ivy repeats. “It actually feels like that was days ago. I think I’ve hiked enough and sweated enough that my system is entirely reset. Bring on the wine.”
“ After we get our work done.”
“Exactly. The perfect reward.”
“Glad Larry convinced you to come out here yet?”
“I’ve been glad since the moment we set off. This place is incredible.”
“It is. I’ve learned over the years that Larry’s ideas are generally good ones.”
“How long have you two been friends?”
“About a decade,” Oliver says. “She came to Hawaii for a surf trip once—she’s from Mexico City—and decided to just stay. I admire that so much. She saved up, bought the dive bar she worked at, and made it into something awesome, earned enough to buy the house. She’s tough and resourceful. She’s been a godsend for me over the years, making sure I have a home base when I’m here, rather than just wandering around the world, aimless.”
She listens to what he’s saying, nodding along—but with every word, the more she learns about him, she finds herself growing more attracted, and it goes beyond the physical. The electricity is back, just the way it was last night. It wasn’t just the strong cocktails, or the cozy bar setting, or the mood she was in. It’s him. She likes him—way too much. She gets up from her chair and takes his plate from him, brushing it off with a napkin along with hers before putting it back in the cooler.
“Should we get a move on? I’m eager to get to work.”
“Absolutely. Hey.” Oliver stands up, too. “Here.” He leans down and pulls something out of his pack: it looks like a bulky black plastic watch. “You’ll need this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a solar-powered satellite communicator. It means we can track each other’s location, and you can find your way around.” He turns it on, and a flashing beacon appears on a tiny map. “And we can communicate.” He holds up his own device and presses a button. “Basically, it’s a walkie-talkie, and means neither of us is ever really alone out here. I’d hate to lose you in the wilderness,” he says. “Also, these are fun.” He hits the communication button, then speaks into the watch in a comical growl: “Hello, Jovie 92, this is Buddy 90.”
She laughs. “You are such a Christmas junkie…”
He ignores her. “I’ve got an APB on a mynah bird at eleven million lat and 8.3 trillion longe. Please confirm you see it, too. Roger.”
Ivy hits her own button. “You’re an idiot,” she says.
He speaks into his device again. “That would be, ‘Copy that, Buddy 90, this is Jovie 92, I read you loud and clear and you’re an idiot. Over and out.’?” They both laugh, and then he explains to her that there aren’t any dangerous snakes or predator animals in Hawaii; it’s mostly just the terrain she needs to be careful of.
“So, I’m going to hike out to the waterfall now and see if I can get a few shots in this late-afternoon light. You could head here.” He points to a location near the ocean on her map. “It takes a bit of effort to get there because of the elevation, but it’s worth it for the views. You might like those elevated spots as a start for your drawings.”
“Actually, I’m kind of dying to see that waterfall, too,” she says. “Mind if I just come along with you?”
“Oh…” He looks away. “Ivy, would it be horrible of me to say no? I’ve really got to focus this afternoon, and I think I might just need to be alone for a bit.”
She feels her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. “Of course. No problem at all. I totally get it.”
“See you later, okay?”
He can’t seem to get away from her fast enough, calling over his shoulder that he should be two to three hours, and they can meet back at their campsite for dinner later. “My famous pasta is on the menu, don’t forget!” he adds over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.
Ivy sighs, then turns and starts to hike in the direction he showed her—but as she walks, she can’t help but think of their conversation in the truck on the way to the park. Oliver is clearly a true artist, and she’s a hack in comparison. Which is supposed to be fine with her. Only now she doesn’t like the way she feels. Oliver has made her question why she needs to compartmentalize the thing she loves most in the world into a mere two weeks every year—something she has forced herself to ignore for a long time.
Because that’s the way it has to be , she tells herself as she hikes toward the lookout point Oliver recommended.
This place of otherworldly beauty doesn’t really exist in her life. She wishes she could talk to Holly, who is always a steadying influence, but there’s no cell service out here. This is all just a fantasy , she tells herself. This is not real life. I don’t want to live the way Oliver does, flying like a dandelion seed in the wind, not really grown up, not really accountable. I have a life in New York City, and that life relies on my having a steady job, a steady paycheck. Maybe I don’t love my job at Imagenue, but I also don’t hate it. I like my life. This is all just for fun.