Page 55 of The Holiday Honeymoon Switch
Moments later, he comes out again and hastily helps Ivy unload the rest of the gear.
“Paula’s a single mom,” he says to Ivy. “I try to help her out as much as I can, and today, she’s in a real spot. So, I told her I’d take her shift, meaning I need to shower and get to the hotel. But I had a great time, Ivy.” A smile steals over his face and she wonders if he’s remembering the kiss. “Didn’t get the damn shot, but it was still a lot of fun.” He looks at her a moment longer, and then he’s gone, back inside the villa. Ivy stands still, unable to think of anything else now but the way his lips felt on hers. So much for getting it out of her system. If anything, the kiss has just made things worse.
But Ivy has always been disciplined. Now that Oliver will be at work, she’ll have time to get her head back where it should be: firmly focused on her art. She can do this.
Later that afternoon, Ivy walks slowly back up the beach, her hands stained with pastels and her heart happy after a catch-up chat with Holly and finding a cove filled with driftwood that provided the perfect inspiration for a series of pastel drawings. As she slows her pace to watch the sun sinking low over the water, she hears someone calling her name.
Larry is standing on the bottom terrace of the villa, waving at her. Ivy speeds up toward her.
“Great, you’re back! I started making dinner for myself, but I always make too much—and tonight, cactus enchilada for one has turned into cactus enchilada for about…maybe ten. Would you like to join me?”
“I’d love to,” Ivy says, and goes to put her art supplies upstairs and change.
When she comes down, she can hear Larry in the kitchen, humming a song as she cooks. Ivy taps lightly on the side of the screen door, then walks in. The apartment is similar to the one upstairs, but bigger. There are more of Oliver’s photographs on one wall, and Ivy walks toward them, examining them one by one. “He’s so good,” she says.
“He’s amazing at what he does.” Larry pops the cork on a bottle of white wine and also takes a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge as she accepts Ivy’s offer of helping to set the table on the terrace.
Back inside, as Larry takes the enchilada dish out of the oven, Ivy is drawn again to the wall of Oliver’s photographs. “Why doesn’t he do this full-time?” she asks Larry.
Larry looks up from chopping cilantro. “I think he’s got a pretty good thing going, with the way he’s set up his life. I think he likes not putting too much pressure on his art.” Larry sprinkles the fresh cilantro over the enchilada dish, then picks it up. “Come on outside,” she says.
On the terrace, Larry serves Ivy a heaping plate, then pours them both glasses of wine.
Ivy sips the Sancerre and stares out to sea.
“You okay?”
“I guess I’m just wondering what it might be like to do this all the time—live in a place like this. Travel around.”
“Can’t you do that?”
Ivy shakes her head.
“Why not? Is there a reason you have to stay in New York City?”
“Well, my best friend is there. And my job. That’s kind of a big one, work.”
“What is your job?”
“I do brand consulting at a big advertising firm.”
“Do you love it?”
“Definitely not love. I like it, though. It pays the bills.”
Larry tilts her head. “You’d have a lot fewer bills to pay if you didn’t live in New York City.”
“True, but I just”—Ivy shakes her head—“always imagined my life a little more grounded.” She explains how her parents were always happy, but her childhood was unsettled. “I never knew where we were going next, or if I should get comfortable anywhere. I was always switching schools, or getting homeschooled. I guess I’ve just always craved stability.”
Larry is pensive. “Oliver always has, too, you know. His childhood wasn’t exactly what you would call stable.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
“But I also guess what his mom’s life taught him is how dangerous it is to give up on your dreams. You only get one life, and you never know how long it’s going to be.”
Ivy sighs, then takes a bite of the enchilada and is momentarily distracted. “Larry, this is amazing.”
“Thank you. My abuela’s recipe, from back home in Mexico City. The secret is usingnopales. Prickly pear cactus. They aren’t native here, but my mom brought me a plant the last time she visited, and I use that. They’re bastards to prep”—she holds up her left hand and shows off a bandage on one finger—“but worth it for the flavor and texture.”
