Page 13 of The Holiday Honeymoon Switch
Ivy soon emerges from the long and low one-story building back out into the warmth of the late afternoon, expecting to see a uniformed driver standing beside a white sedan, holding two leis and a sign that says “Mr. & Mrs. Carter, Newlyweds”—this is what Holly warned her had been arranged. Matt was always making comments about how she wasn’t taking his name, how it would just be so much easier if she did. “Yeah,” Ivy remembers grumbling to Holly. “Because you should definitely give up your entire identity just so airport transfers can be more straightforward.”
Ivy’s plan had been to tell the driver that unfortunately Mr. Carter had come down with a terrible disease resulting in scales all over his body and was convalescing at homewhile she took their honeymoon on her own—but none of the waiting drivers in front of the airport are holding a sign that says “Carter” at all. She drags her luggage to the taxi stand, where, thankfully, one car is still waiting. She gives the name of the hotel, and she’s off.
The highway is bordered with lush fields, spread out like mossy blankets stretching to the horizon. Ivy can see why the “Garden Island” moniker has stuck. Everything is so gorgeously green, like a dream. She opens the window and feels the breeze in her hair. It smells like vegetation, but with a salty tang; she can smell the ocean, even if she can’t see it yet. She snaps a photo with her phone of a particularly arresting mountain range, then reflexively attaches it to a text to Holly—but stops herself. Holly wants to be alone, nursing her broken heart. She doesn’t want to be tormented with photos of what would have been her honeymoon. Ivy puts her phone away and focuses on staying in the moment, watching the scenery speed by, feeling the breeze on her face.
The car climbs a hill, then swings around a corner. The coast comes into view, and Ivy is dazzled again. The vivid, verdant green of the tree-covered mountains melts into the ocean. She takes in the yellow-white color of the sand on the beaches, the milky froth of the waves as they churn like butter against the shore, and, best of all, the kaleidoscope of blue, turquoise, green, aqua, cobalt, and indigo that makes up the ocean.
She feels a familiar surge of excitement; her fingers start to tingle from it. She imagines using her oiliest pastels to paint these scenes, their soft, oozing colors melting onto the paper the way the mountain ranges and cliffs seem to be melting into the sea. She already knows which colors she’d use for this afternoon’s views: English blue for the sky. Prussian blue for the distant depths of the ocean, and cerulean, turquoise, and celestial blue closer to shore—with maybe a touch of emerald, olive, and cinnabar to catch the way the water lightens and glimmers as it touches the land. The sand will be tricky to get just right. She can already tell it isn’t like the sand in Aruba, for which she used a mix of white and rose ocher. As the car climbs higher and the view stretches out in every direction—an intoxicating jumble of trees and cliffs, mountains and ocean and beach—she searches her mental color palette until she has it, the perfect color from the many pastels she has carried to Hawaii with her: Naples yellow washed over with transparent medium. She can’t wait to get to the hotel and get started, and feels a wave of gratitude for Holly, for being so generous, for knowing, even in the midst of catastrophe, how much Ivy was going to love this island.
The car turns down a winding driveway that looks like a long gray ribbon leading up to the imposing main building of the Hoaloha Ocean Club Resort & Spa. It shines like a jewel in the lowering sun, all peaked roofs and gilded details. There are low-rise buildings and villas scatteredabout, dotting the resort grounds like pearls from a broken necklace. At first Ivy is awestruck—she gets to stayhere?—but then, almost immediately, she feels a wave of guilt.Hollyshould be here.
Now the taxi is passing through a grove of palm trees, all hung with Christmas ornaments, their trunks wrapped in red, green, and gold ribbon, and wound with fairy lights. Ivy texts her friend.I’m here, she types.It’s beautiful. Thank you. It’s a good thing pastels only take a few hours to dry, because I’ll be working until they have to drag me out of here and put me on my flight in two weeks. Love you.She puts her phone away as the driver says, “We’ve arrived.”
Ivy thanks the driver, pays and tips him, and drags her luggage toward the wide entrance leading to the airy lobby. She had expected hotel staff to be there to greet the supposed newlyweds, but no one is around. There’s a long, live-edge wood counter that serves as a check-in desk for the luxurious boutique hotel. It’s been varnished until it gleams like polished gold in the light of the rattan chandeliers hung throughout the lobby. Enormous matching rattan ceiling fans shaped like palm fronds spin lazily above. Wall sconces give off a soft and doubtless flattering light, and she can smell eucalyptus and honey, hear the distant sizzle of a grill, smell broiling seafood and caramelizing garlic. The sounds in the distance are clinking glasses, murmurs and laughs,live ukulele music and a singer with a gentle voice. Outside, Ivy can see various glittering, round blue-topaz pools and one infinity pool that stops at the beach.
Ivy approaches the counter and waits, but no one comes. She sees a small brass bell, and depresses it as gently as she can. The sound is still jarring in the sleek, soothing atmosphere. Immediately, a dark-haired, bespectacled man in a navy suit emerges from a door behind the counter. His name tag says “Gerald.”
“Welcome to Hoaloha Ocean Club Resort & Spa,” he says warmly. “So sorry for the delay. I didn’t expect any more check-ins today.” Ivy slides her ID across the counter and hopes she doesn’t seem nervous.
“I’m Holly Beech,” she says firmly. “Honeymoon suite. I was supposed to check in with my husband, but he…”Is a dickbag.“…isn’t here. So it’s just me.”
Gerald is looking down at her ID—and Ivy feels her heart thump guiltily under her light sundress. “Mr. and Mrs. Carter have already checked in,” he says with concern. “They arrived one day early, but we were able to accommodate them.”
“That’s impossible.Iam Mrs. Carter.”
“I thought you said you were Holly Beech.”
“Yes. Exactly. She wasn’t taking his name—I mean,Iwasn’t taking his name. We were booked under ‘Mr. and Mrs. Carter.’ ”
“Except Mr. and Mrs. Carter are already here,” he says, bemused. Then his expression brightens. “In fact, there they are now! Perhaps we can clear up this confusion.”
A startlingly familiar male voice: “Abby, baby, want me to grab us some mai tais on our way down to the beach?”
An unfamiliar female voice in response: “Sounds perfect, baby.”
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Ivy grabs Gerald’s wrist and leans her head forward so her hair covers as much of her face as possible.
“Please,” she hisses. He looks alarmed; she can’t blame him. “Don’t say anything. Don’t call them over here.Please.”
“Of course,” he says, eyes wide and slightly terrified.
“Are they gone?”
He nods that they are, and Ivy releases his wrist. “I’m sorry about that,” she says. “Please don’t call security. I’m just…” She’s trying hard to process what she has just witnessed: Matt is here. With Abby.TheAbby. And they call each other “baby.” She squeezes her eyes shut. He and Abby arrived a day early. On what was supposed to be Matt and Holly’s wedding day! He wasn’t having an emotional affair; he was clearly having anaffair-affair—and it’s such a monstrously awful thing to do that Ivy has to fight the urge not to chase after Matt and Abby and confront him head-on. Except she can’t see Matt right now. She can’t trust herself not to murder him.
“Miss, you seem very upset. Is there anything I can do to assist you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m fine. No. I’m not at all fine.” Ivy decides to be honest. Well,halfhonest. “Gerald, that’s my ex-fiancé. He broke off our wedding, and I decided to come on our honeymoon by myself, but now it turns out he’s here, too. With another woman. The woman he was cheating on me with.”
Gerald’s mouth drops open. “Why, that’s terrible.”
“It’s the most horrible thing that has ever happened to me.” She wipes at her eyes and hopes Gerald thinks that she’s shaking from sadness, not rage. “I have no idea what to do. I have nowhere to stay.” Now her voice does wobble, and Gerald shakes his head, eyes full of empathy. He types something into the computer, then nods his head and looks up again.
“You’re in luck. We had a cancellation, and so I have a garden-view room left just for you.”
“Oh, thank you.” She sags into the counter with relief. At least she has somewhere to stay. But can she really stay at the same resort as Matt and Abby?
