Chapter Eighteen #2
Ivy agreed to go to the market with the promise that they would pack some boxes when they got home.
The Grange Hall parking lot was full, and volunteers wearing high-vis vests were directing traffic to overflow lots.
The four of them had decided to take one vehicle, so Brad was squished in the back seat while they circled, searching for a parking spot.
“It’s worth it, I promise,” Sophie said.
Ivy shook her head and mouthed, No, it’s not.
They finally found a spot so far out, Paul joked it would have been easier to walk into town. Ivy didn’t disagree. They picked their way through the snow berms left by the plows and tried not to get hit by cars trying to park or leave.
“This is like the Midwest version of Bryant Park,” Brad whispered to Ivy as they got in line to enter the Grange Hall.
“It’s worse,” she told him. “At least in New York, no one wants to talk to you. It’s crowded, but everyone keeps to themselves. Here, everyone is in everyone’s business.”
“Is it like work or worse?”
“So much worse.”
As if to prove her point, Paul turned around to show Ivy off to her third grade teacher, who was standing in front of them in line. By the time they made it inside, Brad had been introduced to her Sunday school teacher, her mom’s hairdresser, and their mail carrier.
The Grange Hall looked like it had been set up for the county fair with as many booths as they’d managed to squeeze into the building.
There were knitted and quilted goods, candles, art, soap, seasonal decorations—basically, anything that was handmade and could conceivably be given as a present had been crammed into the rows.
“I think this place might be over fire code,” Brad said, having to shout a little to be heard over the din of people talking.
“The food and cocoa are out back,” she told him.
“I have to go outside again?” Brad groaned. “But I just got inside.”
“I didn’t say you had to, but the Catholic women’s group used to have a cranberry-apple pie that was almost good enough to convert.” She wiggled her eyebrows invitingly.
“I should’ve stayed at Tony’s,” Brad complained as Ivy led him toward the exit.
The back door opened into a large white tent filled with long tables and tall propane heaters. Booths from restaurants and church groups lined the perimeter, and almost all of them had a line.
“How long does this thing go on for?” Brad asked, sticking to Ivy like glue.
“Only for the weekend. A lot of these groups make a good portion of their annual budget during the market. My mom was the chair of the Episcopal women’s group one year, and this is how they paid to get the church van fixed.”
“I’m from the South. I am well aware of what church ladies can do with a bake sale.”
They got in line at the St. Mary’s booth, which seemed longer than the rest. As they got closer, Ivy realized why: Grace had put Austin to work taking orders.
He looked like death that had been reheated in the microwave, but that didn’t stop his adoring public from wanting to take pictures with him.
One of the firmer church ladies stood next to him to make sure his fans ordered something for the privilege of meeting him.
Austin brightened through what had to be a skull-smashing hangover when he caught sight of Ivy. He whispered something to the church lady, who conferred with his mother, who nodded. Austin left the booth and joined Ivy in line.
“Hey, can we go talk?” He glanced at Brad and added, “Alone.”
“This is my best friend, Brad,” she said, refusing to indulge Austin’s rudeness. Not after his drunk self had used her lap as a pillow.
“Of course, I’m sorry—it’s great to meet you, Brad,” Austin said, extending a hand to shake. Brad was using his best first-class-cabin smile to mask the internal conniption he was probably having.
“You wanna grab us some pie and find a seat? I’ll be back in a minute,” she said to Brad.
He nodded and gave her hand a squeeze before she followed Austin out of the tent, past the humming generators, and into the part of the parking lot that had been reserved for vendors.
“Nice apron,” she said, pointing to the red Thank Cod It’s Fryday apron he was wearing.
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
Flashes of her intense fantasy about Grant sprang to the forefront of her mind. She pushed them as far back as she could.
“First, I want to apologize for how drunk I was last night, and thank you for taking such good care of me.”
“Are those both first, or does one take precedence over the other?”
Austin looked so unamused that it made Ivy want to laugh.
“Sorry. Go on. You were telling me what a wonderful person I am.”
He tugged down the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “I…I really need someone to talk to and I kept thinking about our date and what a good listener you are and… My show got canceled.”
The gentle breeze whispering through the parking lot almost blew Ivy over.
“What? Are you serious? When did you find out?”
Austin stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Last night at the bar. My agent called, and I answered because we’ve been waiting to hear back about some other projects. I thought maybe he had good news. It was not good news.”
“Oh god. I’m so sorry.”
He looked so defeated that Ivy couldn’t help but wrap her arms around him and squeeze tightly. Austin hugged her back and held on longer than she was expecting. If her sixteen-year-old self could see her now, she’d have screamed, then fainted.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, loosening her arms with hopes he’d get the hint.
Austin shrugged without letting her go. “I don’t know yet.”
“What did your parents say?”
He finally released her. “I haven’t told them. I wanted to have some kind of plan to present, but I don’t. Yet.”
“You should probably get ahead of it before they find out on their own,” she warned him.
He covered his face with his hands. “I know, I know.” He pushed his fingers into his hair.
“I was really hoping that even with the studio dragging its feet, we’d manage to get renewed for at least another season.
It wasn’t a bad show.” When she didn’t immediately jump to his defense, he asked, “Was it?”