Epilogue
“This has been a wonderful second honeymoon,” Ivy declared as she and Dax strolled through Central Park. “I’m glad we’ve been able to see New York for the first time together.”
They had gone to San Francisco for a week last November after their wedding, taking in the sights and even dining with Arlo one evening. It had been a perfect trip, but this one was proving to be even better.
They had been in the city five days, playing tourist, before her art exhibition opened at Clive Crutchfield’s Soho gallery. Going out to Liberty and Ellis Islands. Visiting the 9/11 Museum. Walking the length of both the High Line and the Brooklyn Bridge. Even seeing a Broadway show. Their favorite place, by far, was Central Park. This was the third time they had walked through it. Ivy couldn’t wait to paint different aspects of it, from The Mall and Literary Walk to Belvedere Castle.
“We need to come back sometime when the leaves are changing,” Dax suggested. “I’ll bet it’s gorgeous then.” He smiled at her. “But not as gorgeous as you, Professor.”
Her husband of ten months kissed her, and Ivy felt cherished, basking in the warmth of the September sun and his love.
They continued strolling, heading back to The Plaza, where they were staying, at Clive’s expense. Her parents had flown in last night for her art exhibition. Harper, who was seven months pregnant, had decided to sit this one out, and was home in Lost Creek, busy as ever with Weddings with Hart.
The Plaza came into sight, and they entered the Fifth Avenue hotel’s lavish lobby, stopping at the desk to see if they had any messages. The clerk indicated a beautiful arrangement of roses sitting on the counter.
“These just arrived for you, Mrs. Tennyson. I was about to have someone bring them up to your suite.”
Ivy thanked her and pulled the card from the arrangement. Opening it, she smiled as she read the message from Harper.
Wish I could be there to see you conquer NY. We’re so proud of you, Ivy.
Love, Harper Braden
Tucking the card into her purse, they went to the elevator, Dax bringing the flowers. Once inside their suite, she gazed up at her husband. Dax slipped an arm about her waist. His other hand went to her belly, his palm warm against the small bulge.
“Are you ready to give your parents the good news?” he asked.
She nodded. “I thought we could tell them at tea. Tonight will be too hectic.”
They had decided to wait for six months after they married before they began trying for children. Ivy was almost at the twelve-week mark. The only other people at this point who knew about the baby were Harper and Braden. The two sisters were happy they would be first-time moms together, with Harper’s little boy due in mid-November and Ivy’s baby in mid-March.
Changing out of their casual clothes, they put on something more appropriate for taking tea in The Palm Court and returned downstairs, where her parents had already been seated.
“Isn’t this the most marvelous place?” her mom asked.
Soon, they were sipping hot tea. Though Ivy would have preferred sampling the Lavender Oolong or Sencha Superior, she chose the caffeine-free Rooibos du Hamam, easily picking up the notes of berries and green dates.
They spent an enjoyable hour at tea. Ivy couldn’t decide what her favorite had been. Musing aloud, she said, “I loved the cranberry orange and truffle scones and the meringue tarts, but that Jivara chocolate cake was also divine.”
Dax laughed. “I’ve already texted Emerson a picture of that and sent her the cake’s description. Chocolate sponge. Crunchy hazelnut pralines. Milk chocolate ganache with milk chocolate Chantilly. I told her by the time we get back to Lost Creek, I want her to have created her own version of it for us to taste.”
Once tea was almost over, Dax slipped his hand around hers, squeezing it encouragingly. Their gazes met, and then she looked to her parents.
“We’ve got some news to share with you,” she began, immediately seeing tears spring to her mother’s eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Cecily said. “You’re pregnant.”
“We are,” she confirmed. “The baby is due next spring. We’ll have a sonogram to determine the gender next month, but my gut tells me it’s going to be a girl.”
“Congratulations, you two,” her dad said, beaming with pride. “I can’t believe we’re going to be grandparents twice over.”
“It will be wonderful for you and Harper to have your babies so close in age,” Mom told her. “A new generation to be raised in Lost Creek.”
Her dad generously paid for tea, and they told her parents they would see them at Crutchfield’s gallery in a few hours. Dax took her back to their room and made slow, sweet love to her.
As they cuddled together in the afterglow, he kissed her belly, saying, “You are a very lucky baby because you’re already so loved.” He glanced to her. “You told your parents you think it’s a girl.”
“It just came to me. This feeling. Something I can’t really explain.” Ivy paused. “I know we haven’t talked about names yet, but if it is a girl? I’d like to call her Kristina. With a K. That was my mom’s name.”
He kissed her belly again. “I think that’s a terrific idea.”
They showered, with Ivy changing into a midnight blue sheath cocktail dress. Clive was sending a car for them, and they went downstairs, finding it already waiting for them. The gallery owner had been incredibly supportive of Ivy, not rushing her as she felt Jameson Polk had. She’d continued painting at a steady pace, FaceTiming with Clive, wherever he was in the world, after she completed each painting. He had personally flown to Texas in order to look over the paintings she believed should appear in her show, selecting what he termed the best of the best, personally wrapping and seeing them crated for transport to Manhattan.
She and Dax arrived in Soho, being greeted by Clive’s personal assistant. This was the first time Ivy would be seeing how her paintings had been staged. Clive had told her to trust him, and she did completely. Now, she walked the entire gallery, amazed at the placement of each painting and the lighting which showed each one to its full advantage.
Once she had made a complete turn about the gallery, Clive came to her, kissing her on both cheeks.
“What do you think, Ivy? Have I done your art justice?”
“I’m over the moon, Clive. It’s as if I just walked through a wonderland of art. I can’t believe everything on display is one of my creations.”
“Your exhibition runs the gambit of all four seasons, which creates a lovely mood. They show off the Hill Country at its best.”
When they had met the first time and Clive had viewed her work, he had conceived the idea of showing the Hill Country at various times of year. With that theme in mind, Ivy had painted different seasons, along with different times of day. She was thrilled with the outcome and had high hopes for this show.
“You’ll meet many important people this evening,” Clive continued. “None more important than Winston Bartholomew.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, he scrolled a minute and then handed his cell to her. “Read this. It’s an article which will appear in the Sunday New York Times arts section.”
Ivy read Bartholomew’s critique of her work, excitement building within her. By the time she finished the article, tears stun her eyes at the renowned critic’s review.
Whipping out a handkerchief, Clive passed it to her. “No crying at your exhibition,” he said lightly, looking pleased. “Winston is measured in his praise. He practically gushed over your work, though. You are going to be quite the success, Ivy.”
Her fingers found Dax’s, threading through them. He squeezed hers in return.
“We should have brunch tomorrow morning to discuss tonight’s success and the next steps in your career,” Clive proclaimed.
“Why do I feel as if you’ve already booked reservations?” she asked, laughing.
He reeled off a name she was unfamiliar with but knew it would be world class. “Can you be there at ten-thirty tomorrow morning?”
“We’ll be there,” Dax assured Crutchfield.
Invited guests began flowing into the gallery, filling it within minutes. She took one of the canapés from a passing waiter and then thought better of it, handing it to Dax to eat.
“Getting queasy again?” he asked.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” she promised.
Where most women suffered from morning sickness, Ivy’s came on about eight o’clock each evening. The only thing which settled her stomach was peanut butter. Usually, Dax went into the kitchen to make her half a sandwich. Tonight, she adjourned to the ladies’ room and opened a pair of peanut butter crackers, something she carried in her purse these days in case of emergencies. Harper had been sick every morning during her first trimester, but her stomach had calmed, and she had blossomed during the second trimester, finding waves of energy during these months. Ivy hoped she, too, would hit a sweet spot now that her second tri was almost upon her.
She ate two of the peanut butter crackers and sipped a sparkling water she’d snagged from a passing waiter. The combination did the trick, and her nausea passed.
Returning to Dax, she assured him she was fine now and enjoyed the rest of the evening immensely. Clive introduced her to art critics, numerous artists he represented, clients of his, and various movers and shakers in Manhattan.
Finally, she came face-to-face with Winston Bartholomew, saying, “Clive let me read your critique which will appear this weekend.”
The art critic thoughtfully stroked his salt-and-pepper goatee. “I have never been one for heaping praise on regional art. Your work is different, however, Miss Hart. It possesses a beauty in the starkness of some of your landscapes, with an undercurrent of violence as nature molded those cliffs and valleys. Then you bring a calm in your sunrises and sunsets, as well as your views of the water. The mesas rise majestically. The wildflowers call out playfully. A painting should evoke strong emotions. Yours certainly resonant with me. In fact, your work has convinced me that I must come to Texas and see your Hill Country in person. I’ve visited both Dallas and Houston but never the heart of Texas.”
“We would be happy to have you come and stay with us, Mr. Bartholomew,” glad she could offer him their hospitality, thanks to the large home they had purchased in the spring. “I can drive you around and show you some of the very spots I’ve painted.”
He smiled broadly. “I may take you up on your offer, Miss Hart.”
It seemed a bit odd for Ivy to hear herself addressed that way, but Dax had insisted she keep her maiden name and sign it to her paintings. He told her that she could be Mrs. Tennyson around Lost Creek, but when it came to the art world, Ivy Hart simply had a ring to it like no other.
She found herself growing suddenly weary, having been on her feet the last two hours.
Dax was by her side immediately. “Are you all right?”
“I’m plain tuckered out,” she said, her Texan shining through. “Let’s slip away.”
Catching Clive’s eye, Ivy nodded to him. He excused himself and came toward them.
“Leaving?”
“Yes. I’m tired. I think the past several days of non-stop activities has finally caught up to me.”
“Growing babies will do that to you.”
She blushed furiously. “You knew?”
Clive smiled. “I suspected. You have a glow about you which I’ve seen my sister wearing three times now.”
Patting her belly, Ivy said, “A glow—and a growing bump.”
“This is the perfect career for a working mother,” he assured her. “I will never rush you. I may nudge a bit, but you will not feel pressured by me to produce, produce, produce.”
His words only verified that she had done the right thing in separating from Jameson Polk and signing with Clive.
He added, “By the time we do a London show for you, you’ll have to bring the little one along. It’s never too soon to introduce a child to proper tea and biscuits.”
Dax escorted her to their waiting car. Ivy snuggled against her husband, relishing his warmth and feeling such tremendous love for him as the bright lights of New York surrounded them. The driver told them he would return at a quarter past ten in the morning to take them to brunch, and they told him goodnight.
In their hotel room, she went to stand next to the floor to ceiling window, gazing out at the vibrant city and park below them. Dax came and slipped his arms about her waist, nuzzling her neck.
“You’ve conquered Texas—and now New York,” he said. “What’s next?”
“Motherhood,” she responded, turning and slipping her arms around his neck. “I can’t wait for us to become parents.”
Smiling at her, Dax said, “We’ve got a wonderful life ahead of us, Ivy. But until our little one arrives, let’s enjoy these special moments between us.”
His kiss let Ivy know that no matter wherever they were in the world, they would always be home.
Because they had one another.