Page 16 of At First Dance
Back at the house, I point her at the kitchen because there’s an itch under my ribs that says if I don’t let her near the domestic part again, I’ll think about it all day. “Tomato sandwiches are a seasonal obligation,” I tell her, dropping a fat red one on the counter. “After your Zoom, we’ll earn them.”
She slides onto a stool and props her chin on a sleeve-swallowed fist. “You say that like there’s a test.”
“There is.” I slice. “You’ll pass.”
At nine fifty-seven, she hurries back to the cottage with a salute that’s half joke, half armor. I head out to check the tractor belts and consciously don’t look toward her window while I do it. When the Zoom’s over—thirty-eight minutes if my gut’s right—she reappears with a victory grimace and a relief exhale big enough to rock a calf to sleep.
“Survived.” She blows out a breath.
“Toast,” I answer, holding up the bread like a Eucharist.
We eat on the back steps again because the day demands it. She gets mayo on her thumb, licks it off without thinking, remembers I’m there, and then looks anywhere but at me for six long seconds. The air between us goes thick and interesting.
“Carl?” I ask because I’m a coward and a gentleman, and because we both need the change of subject.
“Carl,” she confirms, popping to her feet, the sweatshirt long gone after the sun blasts us from above.
The drive into town is slow on purpose. Puddles still glass the low spots where the road dips. Ivy holds her hand out the window and rides the air like a kid in a convertible, hair whipping, laughter quick and surprised when the wind catches under her palm and lifts it. I fight back against the grin but lose miserably.
Carl’s bay door is rolled up, radio low, the man himself under her car like a mechanic calendar from 1992. He slides out when he hears us, wipes his hands, and gives me the nod peoplearound here trade instead of handshakes when they’ve seen each other fix the same stubborn thing three times.
“Morning,” he says. “You brought the superstar.”
“She brought muffins,” Ivy answers, holding out the little brown bag we finagled from Loretta before making our way to the shop.
“Well, that’ll soften me,” he says, peering into it like it might bite. “Your spaceship’s fixable, Ms. Quinn. Needs a control arm and a new tire. Rock in the culvert kissed it where it shouldn’t.”
“How long?” I ask.
“Two days if the parts’s in Norfolk. Three if it’s not.”
Ivy nods. “I’m not going anywhere,” she says, so lightly I almost miss the way it lands.
Carl gives me a look that has nothing to do with cars and everything to do with men who recognize another man skating on thin ice by choice. I ignore him. Mostly.
We leave with grease under my fingernails and a promise from Carl to call when the parts and tire arrive. Ivy insists on paying for the tow even though Carl would have let me run a tab. She signs a receipt with her real name and watches the letters look like a stranger on the paper.
“You okay?” I ask when we’re back on the sidewalk.
“Strangely, yes.” She tilts her face into the sun and closes her eyes. “Two to three days used to feel like a disaster. Now it feels like… room.”
“Room’s not a disaster,” I say, words coming out rougher than I meant.
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.” She opens her eyes and pins me with them. Not a crisp, clear blue. Something in between that shifts with the light, the way the bay does when wind runs fingers over it. They are the kind of eyes that make a promiseunintentionally and keep it anyway. I need to remember how to breathe.
“Coffee?” I ask.
“Always.”
We take it to the boardwalk and lean on the railing the way we do things now—close enough to feel the vibration of the other one’s breath yet not touching because that would make the ground tilt too far, too fast. Down the beach, a kid chases his hat and wins. Ivy watches him and smiles with her whole mouth. The wind plays with the loose pieces of her braid until a short curl springs free right above her ear.
“You’re going to ignore it, aren’t you?” she murmurs without looking at me.
“Absolutely,” I lie, and reach anyway, tucking it back with a touch so careful anybody watching would think I was handling glass. Her breath stutters. Mine does too. The moment opens its eyes and stares at us.
We head back to the truck because the chores don’t care about my heart having opinions. On the way out of town, a cloud slides across the sun and the temperature drops a notch, the way it does when the day’s getting ready to change its mind. Ivy hooks her arm out the window again and rides the wind, hoodie cuff flapping. She is, for the span of a two-lane mile, a woman who forgot to be anyone but herself.
I let her. I drive slowly. The rest can wait.
