Page 60 of Sawyer

“Fancy!” I say. “What’s in that?”

“Vodka, Chambord, and pineapple juice.”

“What’s Chambord?”

“A French liqueur. Raspberry-flavored.”

“Sounds great!” I say. The bartender stops in front of me, eyebrows raised. “Two French martinis, please?”

“You got it,” she says, grabbing a martini shaker. I turn back to Ivy. “I haven’t seen you since Thursday’s rehearsal. How’ve you been keeping busy?”

“Hmm. I’ve done about a thousand loads of laundry, gone grocery shopping twice, cleaned the house, made two dinners, and worked for four hours on Friday morning. Did I tell you I got a job?”

“You did?”

She nods. “I work part-time at city hall.”

“Really? What brought this on?”

“Need.” Her smile fades. “My father cut me off. You know when I got all quiet on Monday night? I got a text from him. He froze my credit cards and bank accounts. He yanked my health insurance. He—he’s very angry with me.”

“For helping your aunt and uncle? That’s crazy, Ivy!”

She nods, and my blood boils with the injustice of her being punished for doing something good.

“He thinks differently from me. To him, I’m crazy for letting an internship slip through my fingers.”

“Well,” I say, “his values are really screwed up then andreallydifferent from yours. And mine, for that matter.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not backing down,” says Ivy, nodding in thanks when our drinks arrive. She slides the pink beveragecloser, then carefully lifts the very full, y-shaped glass. “I got a job, and I’m staying in Skagway until Aunt P. feels better. That’s all there is to it.”

I lift my own drink and gently clink my glass against hers.

“To you, princess,” I say. “And to Mrs. C. I’m so glad she’s feeling better.”

The drink is delicious. The way she’s looking at me is even sweeter. And just when I think the moment can’t get any better, the band finishes a rowdy country song and starts playing a slow one.

“Dance with me?” I ask her, holding out my hand.

“Sure,” she says, taking it.

Bruce dims the lights for slow songs, and a bunch of other couples take to the dance floor, making it feel full and intimate at once.

I pull Ivy into my arms, looking down at her lovely face as the lead singer does a passable imitation of Neil Young.

“Because I’m still in love with you,” he croons. “I wanna see you dance again. Because I’m still in love with you…on this harvest moon.”

“You know all the words?” she says, watching my lips as I sing along.

“I know them,” I say, pulling her closer.

She clasps her hands at the back of my neck, and I lock mine on her lower back.

“Who’s song is this?” she asks. “Who wrote it?”

“Neil Young,” I tell her. “One of my dad’s favorites.”

“It’s pretty,” she says, leaning her head toward mine.

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