Chapter 7
7
Ivy
December 19
Kauai, Hawaii
Ivy awakes to her phone ringing out the Friends theme song.
“Holly!”
Ivy holds the phone above her face in bed and blinks blearily as her friend comes into focus on FaceTime.
“I’m sorry! I woke you! I completely forgot about the time difference.”
“No, it’s fine. I wanted to get up early anyway. I thought the roosters would wake me, or, if not them, maybe the sound of hot sex coming from the two very attractive people downstairs.”
“The people downstairs?”
“Oh, um, it’s just the people below me are a super-attractive couple, and I…I’m just surprised I didn’t overhear them last night, that’s all. So, how are you?”
“I’m good, actually,” Holly says with a genuine smile.
Ivy looks at her friend more closely on the screen. “You do seem…kind of happy.”
“I think I am,” Holly says, her smile widening. “I’m having a nice time here. I take back everything I said about Aiden in my last text.”
“Eco Superman?”
“He’s a good guy.” Ivy reclines against her pillows as Holly tells her about a Victorian Christmas manor she visited earlier that day on a now mostly defunct but truly magical Christmas tree farm, a charming old widower, a cat named Mrs. Claws.
“Honestly, that all sounds kind of romantic,” Ivy says. “Are you sure you don’t want to heal your broken heart via a rebound with Captain Ecology?”
Holly laughs. “It’s Eco Superman , thank you. And it’s good to have a friend here, that’s all.”
“I’m glad, Holly. Even though I definitely think you should tackle him and have some mind-blowing rebound sex, I’ll try to stop bugging you about that and just be happy that you seem to be where you need to be right now.”
“You will not. You’re the horniest person I know.”
“I love my body and I enjoy sex, what can I say?”
“Right—except for two weeks out of every year when you behave like a monk, and encourage me to have sex instead. Remember last year, when you sent me all those new position suggestions when you were alone at that cabin in the Catskills?”
“I had rewatched Dirty Dancing and gotten some ideas. I had to share them with someone .”
“Enough,” Holly says, laughing. “I’m not sleeping with him. So, what’s your plan for today?”
“I’m going to sit on my terrace and draw a tree I saw yesterday, and what I can see from here. Then maybe I’ll hike for a while and try to find another perfect beach and draw it all day long. My ideal day.”
“I’m so glad you’re there,” Holly says, her tone sincere.
“ I’m so glad you’re looking so happy.” Ivy ends the call and sits up in bed—but her happiness fades away as she considers all she left unsaid during the conversation with her best friend. Holly doesn’t even know where she’s really staying, and she certainly doesn’t know about Matt and Abby’s treachery. It’s clear Holly is starting to feel better—and Ivy can only imagine the setback that finding out Matt came on their honeymoon with someone else would deliver. It has to be better to protect her best friend from the truth, for now.
Ivy puts down her phone, shakes off the bad feelings about Matt and her dishonesty-by-omission with her best friend, and makes coffee. She dresses in a blue-gray crop tank and cutoff shorts, so different from the trendy pantsuits she wears to her job as a senior graphic designer at Imagenue in Manhattan. She pulls her ponytail through the back of a Montreal Expos cap that she “borrowed” from her dad and never gave back, then goes out to the deck with her steaming mug to set up the portable easel she brings on these trips, placing it close to the railing. At work, her day would often start with a creative meeting, where Ivy would bring her branding ideas to the table. She appreciates that there is at least some creativity in her day-to-day life—but this is different. At work, she thinks inside boxes, according to clients’ wishes, aligned with trends. On her art trip, she can be completely free.
First, she takes a sheet of canvas and draws the kiawe tree she saw at the hotel the day before, checking her phone to get the shape right, painting the colors by memory. As she swipes streaks across the page that perfectly mimic the straw yellow of the sand below the tree, Ivy is filled with satisfaction and a sense of purpose. The multifaceted shades of the tree come to life on the page next. Once she feels she has the browns and greens just right, she shifts her focus to the texture of the trunk.
An hour passes, but Ivy is so absorbed in what she’s doing, she hardly notices. She finishes her drawing and starts another, this one of the beach she can see from where she sits. She blends blues and aquamarines, shifts her focus to the froth of white where the waves hit the sand. She adds the finishing touches on the lather and spume of a wave, then puts down her pastels and stretches her arms above her head as she contemplates the mountains—which she knows she’ll need an entirely new color palette for. In the now full sunlight, the fertile mountains are a patchwork not just of green but also ocher, rust, blue-black in the shadows.
“Good morning!”
Larry is standing at the top of the stairs to the deck, holding a carton of milk. “I realized I brought you coffee yesterday but no cream or milk. Do you need to borrow some?”
“Oh, that’s really kind of you. But I take it black.”
Larry has approached and is looking at Ivy’s canvas now, her mouth a surprised O. “This is gorgeous! You did this?”
Ivy feels suddenly shy. All she can say is a humble “Yes.”
“This is spectacular!”
Ivy is blushing now. “It’s not quite done.”
“But it’s still wonderful.” Now she sees the drawing Ivy did of the tree, held down by stones and drying on the patio table nearby. “And that one. Wow. I know exactly which tree that is! Down by the hotel tiki bar, right?” Ivy nods. “You are so talented.”
“Thank you,” she says, ducking her head and pretending to focus on putting away a few pastels that have fallen from the box.
“So, is this an art trip for you?”
“Yeah. I try to take one once a year, although I hate that I’m here because of my friend’s heartache.”
“At least something good is coming out of it,” Larry says. “Where do you show your work back home?”
“I don’t,” Ivy says. “This is just for fun. I’m a graphic artist by day— that’s my real job.”
There’s a sound on the stairs, and Oliver’s tousled hair appears, then his face and the rest of his body, clad in a black wetsuit that makes Ivy’s blush from all of Larry’s compliments intensify—because he looks exactly as good in a tight wetsuit as she’d imagined when she was crouched behind the bar yesterday. “Morning, Ivy.” He flashes his dimple at her. “Larry, I just wanted to let you know I’m heading out surfing.”
“Before you go, check this out! Ivy is secretly a talented artist,” Larry announces.
Oliver crosses the deck to the tree drawing, and when he looks up into Ivy’s eyes, she sees surprise in his expression—but something else, too. “Wow,” he says. “This really is great. You drew this of the tree at the hotel yesterday, the one you were taking pictures of?” Ivy nods. “It’s perfect.”
“Thank you,” Ivy says, “but really—”
Oliver now crosses the deck to the easel, standing behind Ivy to examine her drawing. She has the sudden urge to ask him where he buys his cologne, because even with his girlfriend standing right there on the deck, she wants to reach out and touch him.
“Ivy says she just dabbles, that her actual job is graphic designer,” Larry says.
“That true?” Oliver looks down at Ivy again, a question in his eyes.
“Yes,” Ivy says, keeping her voice firm even though her heart is racing and her palms have gone all sweaty. She feels like she’s making a school presentation she didn’t prepare for. “My pastel art is just for fun. But thank you both for all the compliments. And hey, can you guys recommend any beaches for me to go to that might be great for drawing, or is basically everything drop-dead gorgeous around here?”
Larry laughs. “Oh, you’ve asked the right person. Ollie is his own walking Hawaii tourism board.” She puts her hand on his shoulder, and Ivy tries not to feel jealous that she gets to touch him whenever she wants. “Hon, I’m going to come surfing with you, okay? Maxi is opening the bar for me today, and I’m closing. I just need to go change. You give Ivy some tips on good beaches, and I’ll meet you downstairs?”
When Larry is gone, Oliver picks up a small notepad from beside Ivy’s easel. “Can I use this?” She nods and hands him a pencil.
“Okay, so you want to go to Ines’s Secret Beach,” he says, writing it down. “It’s about twenty minutes up the coast.” He sketches a map. “Then Lumaha‘i Beach, which will take another hour to get to. You can hike that. Those two would make the perfect day trip, and when you leave here, you can go to Hanalei to get picnic supplies.”
Next, he draws another map, writes “Glass Beach,” and looks up at her. “Heard of it?” She shakes her head. “It’s a stretch of beach made entirely of sea glass, instead of sand. It’s spectacular—but you have to go at low tide.”
“A beach made of glass—how is that possible?”
“There used to be a glass factory, years ago, and apparently, after it was abandoned, it all just happened that way. Little rounded pieces of multicolored glass strewn everywhere eventually took over the beach. Normally human intervention is a real bummer, but in this case, it’s absolutely stunning when the tide is low and the sun is setting. The colors, the textures—you’ll love it. You’ll want to draw it all day.
“Do you drive?” She nods. “There’s a car-rental place near the market, and they have great rates. Ask for my pal Kalei.” He draws a map now. “It’s about an hour’s drive from here, and very straightforward. You just take 56 and 50.” He rips the sheet of paper off the pad, hands it to her, then starts on another one, upon which he writes down “The Blue Room.”
“Is that a club?”
His one dimple shines at her like a flashlight as he smiles. “Sounds like it, right? But it’s a cave, not far from here. Twenty minutes’ drive, near Tunnels Beach. You have to go when the water level is high. The water in the cave turns this shade of blue that’s like…” He trails off, at a loss for words. “You’ll think you dreamed it,” he concludes. “You shouldn’t swim in the caves, although some locals do—and I might have done it, a time or two—but you can swim at Ke‘e Beach down the road. Calm, serene, perfect spot for a contemplative back-float. And the best poké you’ll ever have is at the restaurant on that beach.”
“Oliver, are you actually currently employed by the tourism board?”
He laughs. “Nah. I just really love it here.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Oh, I don’t live here full-time. But this is my third winter. It’s a great place to avoid ever having to see snow.”
“You don’t see the beauty in snow? I’d think someone who is such a Christmas enthusiast would be right into the white stuff.”
He shivers as if someone has just tossed a snowball down the back of his shirt. “I hate being cold,” he says. “I chase the sun all year long and I’m going for a record. If I can avoid snow and cold for the next…decade or so? I’ll be happy. What I’m after is the opposite of that line in Narnia, you know the one? ‘Always winter but never Christmas’? I think an ideal world for me would be always summer but always Christmas.”
“I love being warm, and this place is heavenly for sure, but I love winter, too.”
“And yet Christmas you find…just okay?”
“You’re never going to drop that, are you?”
He bites his lip, then lets it go and laughs. “Nope. Named Ivy, best friend is Holly, yet somehow thinks the festive season is just okay . You’re a riddle wrapped in an enigma, Ivy.” He holds her gaze for a moment before turning his toward the sea. “I need to get out on the waves before I run out of time,” he says. “But it was great to see your art—it’s really good, Ivy. See you later?”
“Thanks for the tips, Oliver.”
“Can’t wait to see what you draw today.”
When he’s gone, Ivy walks to the edge of the deck and looks down. In the distance, she sees Oliver carrying a butter yellow surfboard. Larry is behind him in a powder blue wetsuit, her long hair flowing down her back, her surfboard coral pink. Oliver has an orange dry bag on his back, and it shines bright in the morning sun as he turns left and moves across the sand with long, purposeful strides.
What would it be like, Ivy wonders, to lead a life like his? He works as a bartender, surfs, lives in a beach house in paradise when he feels like it, with a beautiful lover, and chases the sun and waves with her. Would Ivy want to be so free? No , she tells herself, even as the very thought creates a sense of longing in her. It’s not realistic. People like Oliver are a lot of fun to be around, but also likely have Peter Pan syndrome, a refusal to grow up that inevitably gets tiresome. She’s dated guys like him and it never lasts. At some point, you have to grow up. And part of being a grown-up is carving out time to do the things you love rather than letting them overwhelm your responsibilities. It’s okay for those passions to be a hobby, not a career, though. You can still lead a fulfilling life while paying the bills regularly—with actual money instead of barters, the way her parents do.
Ivy finishes packing her bag for the day—a break from reality, but not her real life. She has a real life, and it’s in New York City, not here in a fantasy paradise. But then she catches one last glimpse of Oliver and Larry. As Larry tilts her head toward Oliver, then laughs up at the sky, Ivy is forced to concede that those two make an easy, free life seem like a simple choice to make—that it could be more than just a lot of fun.