11. Ivy
Chapter 11
Ivy
E xhaustion weighs heavy on me after a sleepless night. I tossed and turned, imagining all the faces I had seen at Wes’s welcome home party. Flashes of people, like a heartbreaking highlight reel. I knew them, and had grown up to see them as the community I loved. And one of them had hurt me, deeply and with malice. To what end?
My bare feet patter across the kitchen floor, my pumpkin adorned pajama pants getting caught under my heel every so often. I reach my coffee maker and toss a scoop of grounds in before sliding the sweater weather mug beneath and pressing start. It’s not long before my apartment is filled with the blissful aroma of a freshly brewed cup.
Tripp had texted me earlier, setting a time to meet today, and sending flutters of anticipation through me in an instant. I was getting dangerously comfortable interacting with him daily like this.
But first I had to get the guest list. I lean my elbows on the kitchen counter and call my mother.
“Good morning, dear. How are you?” She is chipper for such an early hour.
“Morning, I’m good. I had a question that might be a little weird. Can you email me the guest list you kept for the party last weekend?”
“Certainly, what for though?”
Silence hangs on the line between us. I had spent hours thinking about that list all night. And I didn’t think to come up with an excuse for why I need it? I was failing as an investigator this morning.
“I was just curious about something and had been talking to my friends about it.”
“I see,” my mother hums. “Well, I’ll send it to you as soon as we get off the phone.”
I can hear it in her voice that she’s not buying my vague response and I’m thankful she doesn’t press the issue. “I appreciate it!”
“Do you have time today to go shopping? I was thinking we could find you some fun antique tables for the store displays. Maybe anything else to make it feel more normal for you again.”
“I’d love that, but I think I am going to take today to be away from store things. I actually have plans. Can we go tomorrow?”
“Absolutely dear, enjoy those plans.”
We end the call and its mere seconds before the chime of my email sounds. Checking my screen, I see the notification from her. I officially have the guest list.
Three raps sound against my door, but I already knew he was here. I’d spent my morning pacing, sitting in my window seat watching for him, and pacing some more. I open the door and there is Tripp before me, a dark green sweater under his suede jacket today. Wearing this shade of green, his eyes look closer to hazel than true brown. Interesting.
“Good morning, Sherlock,” he says with a playful smile.
I try to scowl at the nickname, but the corner of my lip betrays me, tipping up into a smile. “Where did you say we were going?” I ask, grabbing my coat and stepping through the door.
“I didn’t.” His smile widens as we start down the hall. “But it’ll be private enough to run the list.”
The idea of having privacy with Tripp sends a thrill through me. And the excitement keeps me on the edge of my seat for the entirety of the drive. But when we pull into a public parking lot for the lighthouse standing tall before us, I start to wonder what his definition of privacy actually is.
Manchester Point consists of an open field that leads to a rocky shore and wooden catwalk stretching out past the water’s edge. At the end of the catwalk is the crisp white lighthouse. We stand at the path’s start and watch the tall grass of the fields, now a fawn color late in the season, dancing in the breeze.
“It’s always so beautiful out here,” I breathe, trying to remember the last time I’ve come up to the point. It has clearly been too long.
Placing his hand between my shoulder blades, he gently nudges me forward. “One of my favorite spots. Pops and I used to fish out here.”
Surprised, I turn to look up at him. “Do you still fish? I don’t think I knew that about you.”
“I do, I set up right off the point here,” he says, nodding out towards the sea.
Following his gaze, I absorb this new piece of information. I’m desperate to see these other sides of him, the things I might not know.
As we cross through the field, he adds, “I’ve only ever come out here with Pops, or alone. I try to get out when I need my brain to quiet.”
“What things are you trying to quiet?” I murmur, allowing him to guide me in front of him out onto the catwalk.
“Mostly this job. Living up to it, doing it in a way that would make Pops proud.” His voice is soft, and I nearly miss his words in the breeze off the water. I spin to face him, coming to a stop and causing him to pause just inches from me. He stretches his hands out on the railings of the catwalk around me and leans forward, gaze settling on my face.
“I think he’d be very proud of you,” I whisper, unable to look away from his disarming, warm eyes. My heart pounds in my chest when he brushes the curls that have escaped my scrunchie back behind my ear. Just like each of his other touches, my skin explodes with a heated sensation where his fingers trail along my temple.
“You sound confident about that,” he rasps.
“I am confident about it. And he’s not the only one.”
He nods, his throat bobbing. I get the sense that this openness isn’t commonplace for him. And a familiar spark of hope tugs at me.
I turn around again before doing something embarrassing based on that hope and continue to the lighthouse. “So, is there a place to sit out here?”
“There is up there,” he leans over me and points up at the gallery.
“And we can go in there? Isn’t it locked?”
“As sheriff, I have the key.”
Unlocking the door, we come face to face with a spiral staircase that carries us up through the damp brick structure. We reach a plateau, standing in a wide room encased in glass. Circling, I take in the unobstructed views that are simply breathtaking.
On one side of me, the sea stretches on for miles—pale blue, calm water, and peppered with vessels along the coast. On the other side, I look out over the gorgeous fall foliage that surrounds town. We’re above the treetops, looking down on a canopy of russet, crimson, and glowing orange. Town hall’s clock tower peaks through, a sharp white against the color.
“Wow,” I sigh, pressing a hand against the glass. Tripp stands silently behind me, but he’s near enough that I can feel his presence. I cast my eyes across the scene once more before turning back to him. “What is this place?”
He looks more relaxed now, with a lazy smile, he says, “This is the watch room. It’s where the door leads out to the gallery. You can’t tell that it’s here from the ground. The glass looks like it’s a part of the lantern room above us.”
“I guess there are some perks to being the sheriff.”
“A few,” he chuckles. Leading me across the room to a wooden bench built in along the curve of the windows, he asks, “This list—how many people are we working with?”
Sliding my tablet from my tote, I open the attachment my mother sent me and hold it between us. “There were sixty invited, fifty-two attended. And she updated it in live time, so there are no last minute walk-ins that wouldn’t be listed.”
“Really appreciating Ruth’s organization right now,” he says, leaning in and bowing his head to see the screen. We are huddled close together over the tablet, his knee grazing mine with how he’s angled. My heart is like a firecracker, sparked by each time we touch.
Inhaling to settle my nerves, it has the opposite effect when his woodsy scent mingles with the salty sea air. “Right,” I squeak lamely, absorbed in the intoxicating smell.
“Have you looked at this yet? Anyone stand out to you that would raise a red flag?”
I blink up at him, the gruffness of his voice surprising me. “It’s all family and friends we’ve known for years. I mean it’s Stevie’s dad, and the pastor that volunteers with Mom, and our next-door neighbor that used to babysit for my parents. I just… the faces keep flashing through my mind and it’s unbelievable. I can’t imagine it would be any of them. I’m sorry.”
He lifts his hand and rests it on my forearm. “Don’t be sorry, that’s understandable. None of us want to think this could be someone we know and trust.”
I sigh and begin scrolling through the names. “There was one person. But my own opinion of him could be clouding my judgment.”
“The new lawyer,” he says tensely.
“Yeah, Reid. But that doesn’t make sense with the past vandalism. Only my store.”
“Well frankly, that’s the one I’m worried about solving right now. So, I’ll look into him. It could be Reid using the past vandalism to point us away from him.”
“But nothing happened between us that was this big of a deal,” I counter. “It still doesn’t make sense.”
He drags his hand down his face and leans back against the wall of windows behind us. “Honestly, if it is him, this is my fault.”
“How so?” I glance over my shoulder.
“When I heard him talking about you at the bar… I physically threw him out of the party. And then I threatened him with significantly more physical harm and mentioned something about not worrying about hiding behind my badge.”
“ Tripp !” My jaw falls open and I whirl around. “What did he say? You could have gotten in trouble! You can’t do that just to defend some girl’s honor!”
His hand comes to my waist and holds me there, his smoldering eyes pining me in my place for added measure. “You aren’t some girl, Ivy. Got it?”
“Got it,” I whisper. Like a doe caught in headlights, I don’t dare move. Whatever has the air heavy between us, I refuse to be the one to break this moment.
“Good,” he says, his deep voice thick. And then with a blink, his gaze clears once again. “We have Reid, does anyone else on the list stand out?”
I pick the tablet back up off the bench and hand it to him. “Not for me, but you take a look.”
Curling my knees up on the bench, I settle in and watch him scroll. It’s methodical, his facial expression unyielding as he reads each name. Until he comes to a stop.
“Jackson.”
“Who? Jackson Mills? I didn’t even realize he was there.”
“He’s on the list. And I do remember seeing him at one point. But Fitzy told me once that Jackson applies to his business grant every year. And has never received it. But you have.”
“What about the other businesses? Were those funded at any point by the mayor?”
“I plan to find out,” Tripp says, sending the list to himself and handing me the tablet back. “Now about that key…”
My face floods with heat. About that key, the one I left at home. “I swear, I didn’t forget it on purpose,” I offer hurriedly.
He loosens a sigh and rolls his neck, tension radiating off him. “You can’t have that. It’s not safe.”
“I’ll give it to you, I swear.”
He studies me, as if deciding whether he believes my forgetful blunder or not. “You realize that you’re tampering with evidence, right?”
“I don’t think I’d go that far.” I flash him an innocent smile.
“This isn’t safe for you,” he urges, frustration laced in his words.
“For me? Just because of New York, no one thinks I can handle anything.” I can feel my bottom lip jut out like a pouting child, but I can’t seem to find the energy to care.
“What does New York have to do with anything?”
I look up at him and see genuine confusion in his eyes. “Why don’t you think it’s safe for me to have some keychain then?”
“ Because ,” he grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Someone broke into your store, while you were there by the way, and destroyed everything in sight. You think he wouldn’t have caused you harm if he found you? I guarantee you—” Tripp drops his head in his hand, letting out another deep sigh. “I guarantee you he would have done something awful to you, Ivy. And I can’t focus if I’m worried about you walking around with his keys. Because he’s going to want those back.”
“You’re worried about me?” I ask, leaning towards him.
“Is that a serious question?”
“Yes.”
“I was out of my fucking mind when you texted me that night. Please, give me those keys and let me keep you safe. Please.”
I’m not sure what comes over me. Maybe it’s the desperate look in his deep, warm eyes. Maybe it’s the soft plea in his voice. But I reach out and trail my hand down his arm, resting my chin on his shoulder.
It should feel foreign and wrong, snuggling up to Tripp like this. But it only feels natural. I want to stay up here, above the town and the people that would judge me for this need to be near him.
He shifts his arm from my embrace and loops it around my shoulders instead, pulling me into his side. “I’m coming up to get them,” he murmurs, “when I drop you off today.”
“Okay,” I agree, nuzzling in tighter.
He holds onto me, tucked against him like I belong. Tripp is comfort, and safety, and I want to belong here with him, more than anything. Neither of us talk for a moment, staring out at the endless sea.
Then he whispers, “What happened in New York?”
“Two years ago, my dad had a heart attack.”
He stiffens beside me. “He… what?”
“Wes doesn’t know. It’s just been between my parents and me this whole time. When it happened, I came home to help him. And then I stayed.”
“That’s why you left New York.”
“It is, but not completely. I think it was my excuse at the time. My dad didn’t need my help after a while. By that point though, I didn’t want to go back. New York was hectic, and I felt lost. And my job was awful. Even only being there a few months, it wasn’t at all what I had expected, being in publishing. The job duties, the ways we interacted with the work; they weren’t what I expected. Then I came home, and it was like I could breathe again. I was happy again. Foxport is everything I was missing—comfort, support, that close knit feeling.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be home instead, wanting something different than what you thought. You know that, right?” he asks.
“I do, as long as that really is the reason. I’m worried I used my dad’s health scare to back out.”
“You don’t seem to shy away from things, case in point.” He motions to the tablet beside me.
“This is different,” I counter.
Rolling his eyes with a grin, he continues, “My point is—I’m over here begging you to be more worried. If you ran away from things, this would be the same way. You should run away from this. Actually, I would prefer it if you did.”
Relief works its way into every part of me. I’ve never told this to anyone. It would have clued them in to my father’s heart attack. And maybe telling Tripp before Wes is wrong. But saying it all aloud, it’s like a weight has been lifted from my chest. I feel lighter.
“Sorry to disappoint, but you aren’t getting rid of me.”
Tightening his arm around me, he says, “That’s far from disappointing.”