Page 44 of The Holiday Honeymoon Switch
Perhaps a night camping in the middle of nowhere with him could serve as some sort of inoculation against her feelings, she tells herself—could help ensure that she gets through the rest of the trip keeping him at arm’s length.
“I think it’s a really good idea, actually.”
“What’s a really good idea?” Oliver is back. “Ivy, youlooked like you were very deep in thought just now. My head was hurting just looking at you.”
“I suggested Ivy go with you on your camping trip so I can be sure you don’t slip on a rock in your hungover state and tumble down a cliff, never to be heard from again,” Larry says.
Oliver shrugs. “Sure. You’re welcome to come along.” He seems to have almost no reaction to this idea, which makes Ivy feel somewhat relieved. Maybe last night was all in her head. Maybe Oliver is just a harmless flirt.
“I really wouldn’t want to impose,” Ivy says. “I don’t have any camping gear—”
“No worries, you can use mine,” Larry says. “I have doubles of everything for when Shira is here—most of it is practically brand-new because she’s more of a five-star-hotel girl, though she’s always game to humor us and try new things.”
“I’d be happy to bring you along, Ivy,” Oliver says. “You’ll love it. You won’t be able to draw fast enough. I’ll be working the whole time, trying to get that damn shot, so I can’t promise to entertain you personally—but Icanpromise you’ll get what you came here for.”
She pulls her gaze away from his blue eyes and looks down into her water glass.What you came here for.
“Okay. Sounds great.” But she finds she can’t look at him again, because she’s afraid of what he might see in her eyes.
Larry leaps from the table. “I’ll grab my gear. Andthank you, Ivy—I think I would have just worried about him out there on his own—”
“I’m not a kid, Larry,” Oliver protests. “I’ve camped alone dozens of times.”
Larry waves a hand at him as she walks inside. “And you shouldn’t. No one should camp alone. Thanks again for being my wing-woman on this, Ivy. I can’t wait to see what you come back with.”
Ivy dashes off a text to Holly, checking in and telling her she’s going camping off-grid for a couple days with a friend she met. She decides to wait until later to unpack why she hasn’t mentioned anything about Oliver. There’s no time, anyway.
“Ready?”
“Yep.” Ivy tucks her phone in her pocket and throws her pack into the back of Oliver’s rust-speckled Jeep Wrangler before getting in. He unrolls the windows, and the warm breeze tousles her hair as he starts the engine.
Larry stands on the deck and waves goodbye to them as Oliver reverses down the driveway. Out on the road, he turns on the satellite radio, which is tuned to a Christmas music station. Ivy finds herself smiling at the incongruity of the sun-dappled ocean, lapis lazuli sky, and lushgreenery all around—as Trisha Yearwood and Garth Brooks sing a duet about a marshmallow world, and Oliver sings along happily.
Oliver glances at her sidelong. “What’s so funny over there? The worldisn’tyour snowball?”
“This is just one of the most unusual holiday seasons I’ve ever had, that’s all.”
He turns left onto a dirt road. “Unusual in a good way?”
She thinks for a moment. “Yes, actually. It’s nice meeting new people. New friends. Larry seems great, and you…”
“Yes? I’m waiting.” His eyes are on the road, but he’s grinning, and she can see the dimple out of the corner of her eye.
“I’m glad we met,” Ivy says. “It’s great to have another artist friend on a trip like this, someone who is just as serious about their work as I am.” But as soon as those words are out, Ivy feels something creep over her. Something that almost feels like shame or embarrassment. Oliver senses the shift in her mood.
“Hey, what’s up? You okay?”
Ivy sighs. “It must have sounded a bit ridiculous for me to say I’m just as serious about my art as you are.You’reworking on a big assignment forNational Geographic. I’m just…doing little drawings for the sake of it.”
“And that makes your art less meaningful than mine? Just because mine is for public consumption and yours isn’t? On the one hand, I think maybe that makes your art purer. On the other, though…”
Now Bing Crosby is crooning about being home for Christmas.
“On the other, what?” she prompts.
“Ever since you explained to me why you were on this art honeymoon, I wondered why you had to compartmentalize things so much. Whycan’tyour art be a bigger part of your life? Why does it have to be confined to two weeks per year? That first moment I saw you, you were standing in the shade of that tree you love at the hotel, looking like you wanted to memorize it—looking like you were in love with it. I’ve thought about that a few times, how passionate you are about your work.”
They’re driving down the highway now. On one side of the vehicle are the verdant green mountains; on the other, sand and glittering ocean as far as the eye can see. To Ivy, all at once, the vastness of the scenery, the almost incomprehensible beauty of it, compares to the way she feels about art. How big a role it could play in her life, if she could only let it.Toobig. It would take over everything. “It’s hard to explain” is all she is able to offer him, her tone closed and curt. He doesn’t press her further, and she is silent and thoughtful for most of the rest of the drive to the state park.
