Chapter 5
5
Ivy
December 18
Kauai, Hawaii
Ivy gazes into the resort bartender’s arresting ocean-hued eyes as he repeats that he’s found the perfect solution to her problem of having no place to stay in Hawaii.
“There’s a beach house just around the corner from here, a ten-minute walk that way. I rent there when I’m here in Kauai, and I happen to know one of the rentals fell through just this morning. Meaning there’s a vacant, reasonably priced apartment right on the beach, and I’m sure Larry, who owns it, would be thrilled for you to use it.” He sends a text, and his phone bings a response straightaway. He sends one more, then looks up at Ivy. “Two hundred a night sound okay?”
“But…” Ivy shakes her head. “I can’t just go stay at some random beach house with two guys. I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Oliver.” The one-dimple smile is back. “And Larry’s a woman,” he says with a laugh. “It’s short for Larisa.”
She tilts her head. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Because I’m nice . And you seem nice. And because, like I said, Matt seems like the ultimate dickbag.” He holds up his phone. “You can chat with Larry yourself, see how you feel after that?”
She accepts his phone and chats for a few minutes with Larry, who has a warm voice, lightly laced with a Mexican accent, and insists she’d be delighted to have Ivy rent the now vacant apartment in her villa. Ivy hangs up and hands the phone back to Oliver.
“So, it’s sorted?”
She hesitates, but only for a second. “I’m really grateful,” she says.
“Honestly, it’s what anyone would do. My shift is over in half an hour, and then I’ll walk you down the beach and show you your new accomodations, okay?”
He serves a pair of women as she turns to watch the final glimmers of her first Hawaiian sunset disappear over the lip of the horizon. The constellations begin to wink on, one by one, above the bar and the kiawe trees—like Christmas stars that have lost their way and found themselves suspended above a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific. Ivy takes out her phone and snaps a few pictures, and feels her heart filling with joy. She doesn’t have to go home. She gets to stay here and draw this gorgeous scenery. At least one thing feels right in her world.
“Oliver, this place ,” Ivy says. Even at night, she can see how charming her surroundings are: There are steps leading down from the villa’s deck into a grassy little garden bordered by palm trees, then a solar-light-lined path to a beach with sand lit up by moonlight, showing itself to be the color of fresh-cut straw. The beach house is tucked into a bay at the foot of gently hulking mountains, which are clad head to toe in green velvet, like they’re getting ready to go to a Christmas party. There’s a hammock on one side of the deck, a small wooden table and chairs on the other. The deck is the perfect size for her to sit and draw.
“And you haven’t even seen inside yet, come on,” Oliver says, beckoning her forward.
The apartment is airy and open-concept. Ivy spins slowly to take it all in: There’s a small kitchen at the back with a view of another tree-filled garden, and a trail that leads out to the road; the board-and-batten walls are painted sea-glass green; a slatted wooden bed covered in white linen sits invitingly beside the biggest window; there are a few simple rattan rugs on the floor; a small gallery of framed photographs, all striking water and ocean-wave close-ups, decorate one wall; a coral-patterned fan quilt hangs on another. Salty, tangy air flows in through the windows at the front, and a floral-scented breeze drifts in from the back. “This place is like a dream. This is really kind of you, Oliver. And Larry.”
“I’m glad you like it. But I feel bad—it’s Christmastime, and there are no decorations in here.”
Ivy shrugs. “Christmas is just okay,” she says. “No need to find me any decorations.”
He does a double take. “Just okay ?”
“I’m kind of ambivalent about Christmas.” She shrugs, and he looks amused.
“What exactly is it you think is ‘just okay’ about Christmastime?” he asks, then starts listing items off on his fingers. “The heartwarming music? The atmosphere of giving? The great food? The surprise gifts? The look of wonder on children’s faces?”
“I think it’s pretty clear where you stand on Christmas,” she says with a laugh. “My parents are very anti-capitalist, to say the least. And say what you want about Christmas—it is a capitalist’s dream.”
“Well, bah, humbug, Ivy,” Oliver says, but he’s still smiling as if nothing can dampen his festive joy. Then he snaps his fingers. “I’ve got something that will get you into the spirit, guaranteed.” He tilts his head and his sea green eyes twinkle even more. “Hey, Alexa, please play ‘Mele Kalikimaka.’?” The speaker at the side of the kitchen counter lights up, and the upbeat Bing Crosby and Andrews Sisters carol starts playing.
“Who doesn’t love this song? Come on!” He sings along, even hitting all the Andrews Sisters’ high notes as he dances, joyful and completely unselfconscious. His shirt lifts, and she catches a glimpse of his flat stomach, the golden trail of hair on his firm abdomen. There’s no question about it: Oliver is very hot. But she’s not here for a fling, she reminds herself. Her art trips are never about flings—and she especially cannot squander this one, which has been given to her by her heartbroken best friend.
She grits her teeth as he continues his silly dance, willing her attraction away.
“Okay, okay, I can tell by the expression on your face it’s not working for you. What music do you like, then?”
“Hey, Alexa,” Ivy says. “Play…Leon Bridges.” As the funky opening beat of the song “Steam” flows from the speakers, Oliver nods along.
“Not exactly festive, not as stone-cold hip as Bing, and certainly not as hype as the Andrews Sisters, but pretty good background music for the rest of the tour of the apartment.”
“?‘Hype’?” she says with a laugh. “Do people actually call things ‘hype’ anymore? ‘Stone-cold hip ’?”
“ I do.” Their gazes snag and she feels caught for a moment, but then he turns to tell her about the cooling unit.
“Hello?” a female voice trills. “Knock, knock!” A tall, beautiful woman with long, honey-highlighted brown hair is standing by the sliding door.
“Larry!” Oliver calls out as she slides it open.
“Hi, honey.” She enters the space on a cloud of tantalizing floral musk, kisses his cheek, then turns to Ivy, beaming. “And you must be Ivy, our new tenant for two weeks.”
Aha. Of course. Hot Bartender Oliver is not single. He has a leggy, gorgeous, sparkly-eyed girlfriend, who is currently holding out a paper bag of groceries to Ivy.
“Some coffee, fruit, and buns for morning.”
Ivy takes the bag from her. “Thank you so much. For all this kindness, for letting me stay here. I appreciate it a lot.”
“Well, what else was I going to do?” Her hot-chocolate-colored eyes are wide. “Ollie told me about your situation. Left at the altar, and then your ex-fiancé shows up on your honeymoon with another woman?”
Ivy’s cheeks begin to color. “Oh, um, that’s not actually me—”
“I’m kidding . I’m sorry. He told me everything—how you’re not actually Holly, you’re her best friend. And she gave you her honeymoon, but her knobhead of an ex stole it out from under you.” Larry looks like Eva Mendes, right down to the sexy beauty mark on her cheek—making her the perfect match for Ryan Gosling–look-alike Oliver, of course. “What a story, though. You must be livid on behalf of your friend. I told Ollie he should put hot sauce in his drink next time. Or…ever hear of the melted-straw trick? I did that once to a bunch of rude frat boys in my bar. Rude frat boys are the worst .”
“The worst,” Ivy agrees. “Matt, my friend’s ex, is a frat guy.”
“Of course he is.”
Oliver laughs and looks affecionately down at Larry, who leans her head against his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lar, I plan to mess with him as much as possible.”
“I hope so, Ollie.”
All at once, Ivy can’t stifle a yawn. “We’re intruding and keeping you up!” Larry says. “We should leave you to get settled. Before you know it, the roosters will be crowing and waking you up.”
“Roosters?”
“Out on the beach. You get used to them,” Larry says.
“Not a bad alarm clock, honestly,” Oliver adds. “I like to get out on the ocean as early as I can, though, so I count on those roosters to get me out of bed. Okay, so the key is on the table…”
“And we’re just downstairs,” Larry finishes. “If you ever need anything, one or both of us are here for you. The bar I own is in Hanalei, a fifteen-minute walk. Come by for a drink tomorrow evening? It’s called the Black Pearl.”
“Okay, I will. And this place really is great. You two are the nicest.”
“I’d make a reference to it being the season of giving and all, but apparently that’s a sore spot for you.” Oliver shoots her a final lopsided, one-dimple grin and runs a hand through his already tousled dark-blond hair, making it even messier—until Larry reaches up and smoothes it for him.
“See you tomorrow, Ivy. Sweet dreams,” she says on their way out the door.
Then they’re both gone, and Ivy stands still for a moment, letting it all sink in. She doesn’t have to leave Hawaii. She has a place to stay—a great place. Hot Bartender Oliver has an equally hot girlfriend—and that’s not a bad thing, either. She’d have to be dead inside not to be attracted to him, and she can’t spare the time or emotional energy for that.
After a fast, restorative shower, Ivy wraps herself in the fluffy white towels she finds in the bathroom and climbs into a bed with sheets that smell like they were dried on a line beside a hibiscus bush. She pulls out her phone and reads over her text exchange with Holly from earlier. When her friend had asked what the hotel was like, Ivy froze. How was she supposed to answer without lying to her best friend? She had finally typed a simple It’s great , but knew that only told half the story. Holly doesn’t even know she’s not staying at the hotel now, and how is Ivy supposed to tell her that without also telling her friend the truth about Matt—which is sure to crush Holly even more?
Ivy flops back against her pillow and groans, letting her phone drop to the floor. How could Matt do this to Holly—and, in turn, to her ? Because this is the worst feeling. Ivy has never lied to Holly; it was a promise they made to each other the first night they met, at the Christmas keg party almost a decade ago. And now she’s breaking that promise against her will—and it’s sure to get worse as the two weeks go on.
“Damn you, Matt.” Ivy flops back and forth on the bed, struggling to calm herself, to settle into the assured embrace of the mattress. In the moonlight now flowing through the window, the cluster of ocean photographs on the wall across from the bed are gently illuminated. She finds that looking at them calms her, helps her to become more aware of her surroundings. The frenetic pace of her heart slows.
She can hear the sound of the ocean waves outside her window, smell the salty tang in the gentle breeze. There’s the low rumble of a voice downstairs—Oliver’s—and then the soft sound of laughter—Larry’s—in answer.
This is a good place , Ivy tells herself. I can’t fix the Holly-and-Matt situation right now, so I might as well try to enjoy it as much as I can.