Ivy Entwined

by Laura Simcox

  Preston sat motionless and started to shake his head.

  “I’ll buy it,” Marcus said quickly.

  “And you won’t start construction on the Megamart until you find a company to move into the bakery property,” Ivy added even more quickly.

  He swallowed. “Correct.”

  She breathed out. “Any questions?”

  “Must be nice to be able to buy your way into what you want,” Herman muttered. He rubbed his mouth and scowled up at Marcus. “Just with a snap of your fingers, huh? You think you’re so smart, but you don’t even recognize what you’re getting into. There’s so much shit you still don’t know.”

  Alberta slapped her hands on the table. “Stop it right now, Herman. Your nephew is a good person. He’s just a bit misguided. Wonder who we should blame that on?”

  Herman stumbled to his feet. “It ain’t none of your business, you old bi—”

  “Sit down,” Ivy ordered sharply. “I asked if there were any more questions. Are there?”

  Sherry lifted her eyebrows, but nobody said a word. Herman sat back down.

  “Then let’s take a vote. Considering the incentives that Marcus has offered, who is in favor of the Megamart?”

  “Aye,” said Alberta and Ronald.

  “Aye,” echoed Preston weakly.

  A few seconds passed. “Those opposed?” Ivy asked.

  “Nay,” said Herman.

  Ivy looked up at Marcus. His jaw was tight, and he stared back, unblinking.

  “My vote is nay,” she said. Without breaking eye contact, she banged the gavel on the table. “Proposal passed.”

  Marcus’s face relaxed, but a glimmer of pain passed through his eyes. “Thank you,” he said simply.

  Ivy looked away before he saw the hurt in her own expression. “This meeting is adjourned.” She gave the council a brief smile. “Merry Christmas.” She gathered her things and walked out the door.

  She’d taken the high road, tried to do what was best for the town given the circumstances, so why did she feel so empty? And exhausted. So exhausted.

  Focusing on locking her office, driving back to her house, and falling into bed took the rest of her energy. She left city hall, walked to her car, and as she slid into the driver’s seat and started it up, she finally allowed the tears to fall down her cheeks, hot and stinging. Despite all the warm, fuzzy feelings she had about Celebration, this was going to be the shittiest Christmas ever, thanks to Marcus.

  Ivy pulled away from the curb and turned the heat on full blast. She drove toward her neighborhood, but at the end of a deserted street, she pulled over again and gave in to sobs, hunching over the steering wheel. It wasn’t fair. She’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t fall for him. And why had she? Because he was great in bed? She knew that wasn’t the only reason, but if she hadn’t let her desires take over, maybe she would’ve been able to keep her heart safe, kept Celebration safe.

  Fresh tears started, and she reached for the package of tissues in her purse. Love was supposed to be exhilarating, not hell on earth.

  After a few minutes, she blotted her eyes and blew her nose. She stared at the Christmas lights twinkling on the houses across the street. The bright afternoon sun streaming through the bare trees stung her eyes. She was drained. All cried out and completely wretched. The misery she felt was bone-deep, and it made her want to cry again, so she reached inside herself for the anger she’d been saving to unload on Marcus. But that had fizzled, too. Not because she wasn’t pissed, because oh, yeah, she still was. It was mostly because she was so numb that even if she confronted him, she had no more fight in her. It would be a lot easier if he had just played fair.

  She let out a hiccupping sigh and navigated the few residential streets leading to Sterling Avenue where her little house came into view. A cheery plastic Santa stood next to the front porch, his hand outstretched in welcome. She glared at it. It had seemed like a good idea to put him there two weeks ago, but now she wanted to punch him in the neck. After pulling into her driveway, she got out, trudged up the steps, and unlocked the door.

  She relocked it behind her and threw her coat on the floor. Her suit jacket followed. She walked into the kitchen and took a bottle of water from the fridge, wiggling out of her skirt between sips. The skirt puddled on the floor, and she stepped out of it, leaving it there. Her blouse was tossed on the table. Her boots were yanked off and hefted—she didn’t care where they landed. Throwing the bottle toward the sink, she stumbled into her bedroom, pulled the quilt over her head, and closed her eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The distant sound of a phone jangling broke through Marcus’s deep sleep, and for a moment, he felt a surge of panic, not knowing where he was. He sat up in bed, gasping in the pitch-black hotel room. His cell rang again and he patted the nightstand and picked it up, not bothering to check the caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Toothpick, I gotta talk to you,” Herman wheezed on the other end of the line.

  Damn.

  Throwing a hand across his bare chest, Marcus pressed on it to still his racing heart. He squinted at the alarm clock. Five a.m. He’d been asleep, what…three hours?

  Marcus threw back the heavy bedspread and stood up, reaching for the switch on the bedside lamp. “Herman, what the hell? What are you doing calling me at this hour?” he demanded. “For that matter, what are doing calling me at all?”

  Herman didn’t answer. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Syracuse. What do you want?”

  “There’s shit you gotta know,” Herman responded. His voice was so slurred that he was almost unintelligible.

  “I’m not in the mood.” Marcus bit out the words.

  “It’s about your daddy.”

  Marcus closed his stinging eyes and sighed. “I don’t have a father, and I’m not interested in the bullshit you make up just to taunt me.”

  “I have proof. Somethin’ you should’ve seen a long time ago,” Herman said with a cough. He took a rattling breath and coughed again, and again. After a moment he groaned. “God damn, my chest hurts.”

  “Look, Herman—”

  “Just drive down here. You’ll be sorry if you don’t ’cause it’s all tied up in that bakery.”

  “How? How could it possibly be?”

  Herman sighed. “I can’t tell you and get it straight. I’ve just gotta show you.”

  Marcus didn’t speak for a moment. “Fine. I’ll be there in a while.” He hung up without waiting for a good-bye.

  His mind was racing, but he took a deep breath, walked into the bathroom, and turned the shower on full blast. He didn’t want to think about who his father was anymore—he’d done enough of that as a kid. Right now, he needed to think about how to handle what was sure to be an unpleasant conversation with Herman. Dammit. Marcus didn’t want to get the truth from him, from his miserable, leathery, old lips. Had Herman known all along and kept it a secret? The thought sent a wave of rage pounding through Marcus’s head.

  He stepped into the shower and let the spray of hot water pulse onto his face. He always figured that when, or if, he found out about his father, it would be unexpected, but it still didn’t prepare him. He stood there for a minute and then finished his shower, dressed, and left the hotel.

  As he pulled out of the parking lot, he breathed slowly, trying to loosen the rock that sat at the pit of his stomach. It had been there for days, if he was honest about it. But after the meeting yesterday, it had solidified into a ball of anxiety and self-loathing. He’d done exactly what he’d set out to do when he’d come to Celebration—his Megamart was going to open. But he’d done a lot of things he hadn’t intended to do, too. Like keep painful secrets, tell smooth lies, and step all over people who cared about him. All to get what he thought he wanted.

  And the one thing he’d done that had given him joy—falling in love with Ivy—he’d crumpled up and thrown away like a piece of trash. She’d never take him back now, not that he’
d ever really had her. And her family…oh God. The brief time that he’d spent with them was like peeking into a life he’d never had but always wanted—a real family. That was all gone now, too. He didn’t even want to think about the looks on their faces when they’d discovered the truth, but those faces flashed in front of him, anyway. Colleen, disappointed. Delia, her eyes full of sadness and pity. And Brian…he shuddered. Marcus had already seen that face.

  A wave of guilt joined the rock in his stomach, and he sighed. He had to do something, say something. He had to alleviate some of the pain before he drove past Celebration’s city limits. Pulling over on the side of the interstate, he reached for his phone and dialed the Callahans’ number, realizing on the second ring that it was only six a.m.

  “Shit!” He started to hang up, but Delia answered in a sleepy voice.

  “Hello?”

  Marcus closed his eyes. “Delia? I’m so sorry. It’s really early.”

  She paused for a moment. “What’s wrong, Marcus?”

  Everything.

  “I…just wanted to apologize. My behavior was appalling.” He stopped, unable to think of what to say next. “Uh…”

  “Honey. You’ve always behaved like a perfect gentleman. It was what you did that was appalling. What were you thinking, trying to railroad your way into Celebration like that?”

  “I wasn’t.” He gripped the phone. “I just—”

  She sighed loudly, cutting him off. “There’s no excuse at this point. You just have to make it right. You’re a good person. I’ve told you that. But there’s nothing I can do to make you believe it. You have to do that by yourself.”

  “I understand,” he said. To his horror, tears began to well in his eyes, and he turned his head to clear his throat. He started to speak but closed his mouth. What could he say?

  “Are you in love with my daughter?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I love her.” The words came out in a broken voice.

  “Then for God’s sake, figure something out. And do it before Christmas dinner.”

  He swiped at his cheeks with the back of his thumb. “What? Why?”

  “Because if you don’t, she and the rest of my family will chew you alive. Be here at two.”

  Before he could say anything else, she hung up.

  He sat there for a minute, his mind blank. And then he closed his eyes and the image floating in front of them was Ivy. Not smiling but not angry, either. It was just her.

  He knew then what he wanted to do. He wanted to marry her. The thought shocked him and thrilled him at the same time. He let out a disbelieving laugh and shook his head. Would she even have him?

  God, it was the only thing he wanted to think about now, to plan how he was going to win her heart, but he had to go see Herman first. With a groan, he pulled back onto the road and drove into Celebration. He blew past the town sign and through downtown, decked out in wreath and ribbons. It was empty except for a couple of people trudging down the sidewalks. Christmas Eve. Families were home in front of their fires, watching football, wrapping last-minute presents and enjoying their time together.

  And he was headed to his crazy, old uncle’s house that smelled like whiskey and mold. There would be no presents or cozy fire. Just an old man with a lot of bitter memories and festering secrets, a man who wouldn’t be around much longer unless Marcus stepped in and helped him. Herman was his only living relative, and Marcus couldn’t just stand back and watch the old man drink himself to death.

  When he pulled onto Herman’s street, he parked in front of the house and glanced up at the dark windows and sagging steps. Every instinct told him to put the car back in gear and get the hell out there, but he knew running wasn’t an option. He had to face whatever Herman had to say or the nameless, faceless father he’d never known would stay stuck in the back of his brain, rotting there.

  He got out, went up the steps, and knocked. There was no answer. He gritted his teeth and knocked again, louder this time. Peeling paint from Herman’s old front door stuck to his knuckles, and he shook it off onto the piles of snow that blanketed the front steps. Where was the old bastard?

  After another minute of constant knocking, Marcus heard footsteps approaching. Finally, the snick of deadbolts releasing made him step back slightly, and when the door swung open on rusty hinges, Herman lurched forward, grinning. He smelled like a distillery. Marcus noted his rumpled flannel shirt and pajama bottoms. Herman was barefoot and held several strips of greasy, raw bacon in his fist. Marcus nodded at him. “Can I come in or what?”

  “Whatta ya waiting for? Someone to spread out a red carpet? Come in,” Herman slurred. He stepped back.

  Marcus pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked inside. “Obviously, you’re about to have breakfast, but I’m not going to sit and wait for you to eat. Just tell me what you wanted to say so I can be going. I have things to do.”

  “Like what?” Herman said. He swayed sideways and caught hold of a dusty coat and umbrella stand.

  Marcus caught his elbow. “Go put that bacon down. We need to talk.” Nudging Herman toward the dim light at the back of the house, Marcus followed him across a threadbare floral carpet runner into the dingy kitchen. Herman flapped the limp bacon onto a paper towel and then pulled out a skillet and smacked it onto a burner.

  “It’s Christmas Eve, ya know. Lots of people let family secrets out on holidays,” he mumbled, curling his shaking fingers over a knob on the stove. He fumbled for a few seconds and then shrugged, turning toward a small, round table in the center of the room. The bacon forgotten, he grabbed a plastic tumbler from the table and raised it to his lips. “Care for a drink? Looks like you need one. I’ve got whiskey. Just opened it. And there’s probly some tequila in the freezer. Or maybe—”

  “Dammit,” Marcus muttered, pushing Herman into a chair. “Stay there. And start talking while I cook your breakfast.” He turned to the sink to wash his hands. “Maybe you’ll make some sense with some food in you.”

  “Fine,” Herman muttered.

  Marcus slapped the bacon in the skillet and turned on the burner. Looking around, he spied a loaf of bread still in a grocery bag next to a carton of eggs. Reaching into the drawer next to the stove, he pulled out a wooden spoon and pushed the bacon to the side. He flipped open the egg carton.

  “I’m still waiting, Herman. What do you have to say?”

  Herman cackled and pushed the rim of the cup between his lips again. His stomach growled audibly and he grunted. “That smells good.”

  Marcus turned slowly. “I’ll dump it straight in the garbage unless you start talking.”

  A pained look crossed Herman’s thin face. “But I’m hungry.”

  Marcus took an egg and cracked it into the trash can next to the sink.

  “Well, goddammit.” Herman slumped and, with two hands, placed the tumbler on the table. “All right. But I doubt you’ll like what I have to say.”

  Facing the stove again, Marcus flipped the bacon. “I already know that, so let’s get it over with.”

  “I’d rather eat first.” Herman cleared his throat and caught a ragged breath that turned into a wheeze and then into a full-blown coughing fit.

  When it was over, he glanced back at his uncle. “You ought to get that looked at,” he said, his voice softening. “You don’t sound very good.”

  Red-faced, Herman staggered to his feet. “I need to lie down. Just bring the food in the parlor.” He stumbled out of the kitchen.

  Damn. The old man really was sick—was that why he’d called to begin with? Did Herman think he was dying and wanting to let go of secrets before he did? Marcus watched as the egg in the skillet turned brown around the edges. It could be. But more than likely, his uncle had just been too drunk for too long. As Marcus turned off the burner and flipped the food onto a plate, he willed himself to tamp down his resentment. He was just going to go in there, hand Herman the food, and listen. No matter what, Marcus was leaving this house the sam
e person he was when he went it. He grabbed a fork from a drawer and strode down the hall.

  When Herman caught sight of Marcus walking into the room, he sat up from the filthy settee he’d been lying on and let a blanket slide to the floor. “Why didn’t you bring my drink with you?”

  Marcus drew in a breath. “Because you’re sick as hell, and you don’t need anything more to drink, especially not at seven o’clock in the morning.” He put the plate down on a cluttered coffee table.

  Herman frowned and picked up the fork. “Fine,” he mumbled around a mouthful of eggs.

  He reached into a drawer in the coffee table and produced a long, brittle envelope, its corners bent and yellowing. He placed it on the table and shoveled more food into his mouth.

  Marcus glanced at it briefly, noting his mother’s childlike scrawl labeling the front. She’d drawn a heart under his name. His breath hitched, and he glanced back to his uncle, who sat slumped and slack-jawed, his gnarled hands twisted around the fork.

  “What is that?” Marcus asked. He reached for it, but Herman covered it with his hand.

  “Your momma wrote you a letter.” Herman dropped the fork onto the plate, and with shaking hands, he unfolded the top of the envelope and pulled out a Polaroid, which he turned facedown. A single slip of paper floated to the floor. He slid to his knees and lifted it up. “This right here explains everything.”

  Marcus took it from him but didn’t look at it yet. He just stared at his uncle. “I knew you were a miserable person, but why the fuck would you keep something like this from me?”

  Herman lowered his head and shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “That’s not good enough!” Marcus exploded.

  Herman cringed. “Just read it.” He lay back on the sofa, staring at Marcus with feverish eyes. After a moment he wiped his wet lips with the edge of the blanket. “Read me the letter.”

  Marcus shook his head. “Why? You know what’s in it.” But something in him wanted to read it aloud anyway. Something in him needed the validation of hearing the truth with his own voice.