by Isla Dean
“Fine, fine. And no, thank you. You enjoy your thoughts with an attractive man sitting across from you. Oh, if I were your age…”
Delighting in Donatella’s full-bodied vibrancy, Ivy wandered off.
She’d been married, she’d experienced what it was to have a man around, and she preferred her life now, Ivy knew. She was aware that, from the outside, her life may look simple, boring, but she didn’t care what it looked like. She liked it just the way it was—living in a greenhouse, painting all day, everyday. It was perfectly fulfilling. She didn’t need orgasms with some stranger to be happy.
Of course, as she rounded the curve of the villa and spotted Aiden who was leaning against the cart with the same grin on his face from when she’d met him, she figured her imagination could have a little fun, take that break she deserved after a productive morning, and wonder what he would be like in bed.
Body warm, strong, hands knowing exactly where to touch her…
“Ready for another adventure?” he asked.
“In my head, I’m already on one,” she mumbled as they each slid onto the bench seat of the cart.
“What’s that?”
“What?”
“You said you’re on one?”
“Oh, I’m…” she trailed off, searching. “I’m on a fish n’ chips kick,” she decided. “Let’s go eat. Just head down the hill toward town, I’ll guide you from there.”
Aiden sped them away, down the winding hill, glancing over at Ivy who smiled to herself.
What amused the woman? he wondered, knowing he wanted to find out.
When Donatella’s ball-gripping warning from the morning echoed through him, he decided it was good the ethereal artist had someone looking out for her. There was something about her that was soft on the outside, like a layer of youthful naiveté. But there was a steel spine in there too, he knew. And without understanding how he knew that, without caring whether or not he was making it up, he wanted to know all of her, to experience all of her. The softness and the steel.
“Five orgasms.”
Her words whooshed by his ears. “Okay, I heard you that time. You said five orgasms. That must be some adventure you’re on in your head.”
Though she laughed, he noticed the quick hint of blush in her cheeks. He was right about that layer of innocent wonder, and he was right about the strength beneath it. Somehow he just knew, but damn if he didn’t want to know more.
“I was thinking about something Donatella said.”
“You and Donatella were discussing orgasms?”
“Maybe,” she replied then pointed left so he’d turn at the stop sign.
“Five orgasms,” he repeated, his body coming to life in response to the idea.
“We’re here,” she told him, motioning toward a parking spot.
“Your idea sounds better than fish n’ chips. Let’s go do that instead.”
“Fish n’ chips was my idea,” she pointed out. “Plus I’m hungry. I’ve been up since before dawn and haven’t eaten.”
He watched as she stepped out of the cart and started toward the restaurant.
Pulling himself together, he followed her as he watched the sway of her petite body that was fit perfectly into slim jeans. He doubted fish n’ chips would be nearly as satisfying as sending the woman into a series of orgasms, but he figured he had to start somewhere.
Chapter Four
“Inside or outside?” The hostess of the Bar Harbor Grille asked over the clatter and clang of the lunch rush.
“Preference?” Aiden turned to Ivy who was pulling off her sunglasses, taking in the crowd.
Never understanding the desire to be caught in throngs of people, she pointed to the patio that stretched along the water’s edge. “Out.”
While the patio was packed with day-trippers, residents, and everyone in between, she breathed better in the open air. Water from the harbor lapped against the old, creaky wood of the dock, and rows of shiny yachts, crisply clean catamarans, and beat up vintage boats spread outward from where they sat.
And even though being outside made her insides relax, a handful of jitters clung to her as she became acutely aware that Aiden was looking at her in that way that he did.
When her eyes met the worldly green of his, the image of a butterfly befriending a lion passed through her mind.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “And don’t be predictable and say ‘how am I looking at you?’ because you know you’re sitting there watching me, grinning. And maybe, I don’t know, I guess I don’t have the word for it, but you’re looking at me like…something.” She glanced down, flopped open the menu. “I’m better with pictures than words so I’ll just stop talking now. Know what you want to order?”
“What would the picture be?”
Ivy glanced up at him, frowning. “Hmm?”
“You said you’re better with pictures than words.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” she agreed cautiously.
“So what would the picture be?”
“Oh, you don’t want to hear about the pictures that revolve in my head. It’s an odd place, my imagination.” To combat the flutter she felt in her veins, she glanced out at the rippled reflection of boats, distracting her mind.
People didn’t poke into her inner world—it simply never happened. What she didn’t know was if it was because she guarded it with a certain carefulness, or if no one had ever been interested enough to poke into it.
“I want to hear.” His direct and sincere gaze added to the tingle of unease.
“Hmm, well…” She hadn’t really thought through the words, but a new visual was there, as was usually the case. “I guess I see the bright green of your eyes, well, one eye, really.” She held up her hand and gestured in the air, unable to stop the momentum of painting.
“I see one of your eyes filling the whole painting but then it’s like, each little line of color in your eye, each fleck of dark and light are little worlds in themselves—tall trees, vast valleys, the curve of a woman, the hint of a smile, the vastness of clouds, the expanse of a sea, the intimacy of seeing the eyelashes on a deer in the forest.” She paused, contemplating.
“Sounds crazy, I know. I’m not as good with words so it’s hard to explain. I guess you were looking at me through all of the worlds you have in your eyes. And I—this sounds silly—but I felt small in comparison to that. Like a butterfly next to a lion.”
He’d never been a man at a loss for words but in that moment, letters, words, phrases, all disappeared from his mind. Never had he heard such a thing from someone.
“I’m weird, I know.” Remembering she had sunglasses tucked into the V of her shirt, she retrieved them and slid them onto her face. “But I like me so that’s all that really matters right?”
“I like you too, Ivy.” He thought through the words as he said and meant them; an offhand remark would pale next to her vibrant vision.
“Good. Now let’s find someone to take our order. I’m starving. You should really try the fish n’ chips. They’re amazing here.”
Just like that, she’d once again spun circles around him. And he had to admit, he was thoroughly enjoying the ride.
Once they placed their lunch orders and their beers arrived, he held his glass up in cheers. “To meeting you, Ivy. What’s your last name?”
“Van Noten. Ivy Van Noten.”
“To Ivy Van Noten, then.”
“I’m not sure why we’re toasting me but I’m thirsty so, cheers.” She held up her pint glass then drank. “God, that tastes good. I always forget to eat and drink when I’m in a zone like I was this morning.”
“You must be in a zone often then. Doesn’t look like you eat much.”
“Oh I make up for it. I love sweets. Especially ice cream. It’s cold and creamy and light and rich and…” She let out a throaty sound that had the couple next to her looking over.
“You, Ivy Van Noten, confuse the hell out of me.”
&nbs
p; “I’m a woman who loves ice cream and fish n’ chips, particularly the chips part of that combo. Not much mystery there.”
“Well, I can’t begin to describe anything like you did earlier, but you have a way about you.”
“You mean gluttonous?”
“You’re unexpected,” he told her, ignoring her attempts to brush away what he had to say. “Every time I have you pegged as being shy or quiet, you blurt out comments about orgasms and chug beer. You’re unexpected.”
She glanced at the packed clusters of tables around her, the faces of people visiting from around the world, and let his words sink in. “It’s funny you say that actually. I don’t think I’ve ever been one to really talk about orgasms, or drink beer in the middle of the day, or even come to a place like this for lunch.”
“Or jump off cliffs?”
Her eyes brightened from behind her sunglasses as she looked back to him. “Or jump off cliffs, yes. I’m in this funny place in my life where… I don’t know how to explain it exactly. It’s like I stopped being the person people thought I was on the outside, but now I’m not really sure who I am.
“No, that’s not right,” she corrected. “I told you, I don’t really think with words. I’m just better with pictures. Anyway, I don’t mean to imply I’m in the middle of some existential crisis. I’m twenty-six and I know who I am on the inside. I think I’m just learning what it’s like to live who I am on the inside, on the outside. Does that make sense? Or is this beer going to my head already?”
“I might need more beer to keep up with your insights,” he said then watched her fairy-like face—ethereal, glowing—sweep into a smile. “And I realize I just met you yesterday but you seem to be doing a stellar job being you. I’ve never met anybody like you, and I know a lot of people.”
“Just say it, I’m weird.”
He paused, unsure of what to make of her. “Cheers to being weird then.”
Their glasses clanged as their food—thank God, she thought—arrived.
“Another round?” the server asked.
“Not for me. I’ve got work to get back to.” She dove for the nearest french fry.
“Just another for me, then. And a couple of waters, please.”
“Yes, water,” Ivy agreed as the server walked away. “I always forget to eat or drink when I’m working. I already said that though, didn’t I? I think I’m still whirling from working this morning.”
“You work a lot.”
She swallowed another sip of beer so he continued talking.
“I’m hoping to convince you to take a break and show me more of the island this afternoon.”
Her head shook as she set her glass down, traded it for the bottle of malt vinegar. “Can’t. I want to finish the detail on the piece I did today. I’m actually excited to get back to it. And that feels really good. It’s been so routine for a while. Painting,” she explained as she shook drops of the vinegar onto the fish that was fried to a golden crisp. “It’s what fills my days here and I love it. Even when I hate it, I love it.”
“When did you know you wanted to be an artist?”
“I was seven.”
“That’s specific.”
“It is.” She picked out another fry coated with the most seasoning, dipped it in the little cup of sauce and devoured it, thinking back. “I was seven and we were at breakfast, me and my mom and dad. My sister hadn’t been born yet; she’s a lot younger than me. Anyway, we were at this restaurant in Carmel, where I grew up. The place was packed full of people and I started getting fidgety and wanted to go outside.”
“Not much has changed.”
“Guess not.” She drank more of her beer, still thirsty, as she considered.
“So on my way outside, I stopped at the hostess station because I knew they had sidewalk chalk behind the register. That jumbo kind, not the chintzy little pieces that easily break.” She paused, letting the details pulse to life. “The woman in a bright pink shirt—I’ll never forget that—handed me a bucket of chalk and I headed outside and got to work. I had this whole scene drawn that spilled from the sidewalk out onto the side street—a whale and fish beneath these swirling waves, the sky’s curvy arms reaching down—it was all very fluid.”
She swallowed the last of the beer from her glass. “It’s so strange to look back and see such a distinct style, even then.”
He didn’t say anything, just listened. Fascinated.
“So I heard this loud rumbling and felt the ground vibrating, so I stood back and watched as this huge monster came down the street. A street sweeper, you know with those scary spinning brushes and growling, moving parts? So this monster street sweeper comes at me and I have this moment of complete panic. Do I run out and try to stop him? But I was so short, I didn’t know if he’d see me. So I just stood there, in total horror, waiting for my creation to be demolished.
“And at the last second, the guy in the street sweeper pulled up the brushes, drove over the scene, then put them back down on the other side and off he went. He kept going.”
“He saved your art.”
“He did,” she said, pleased as if it had just happened that morning. “That was the first time anyone had paid attention to my art. My parents always considered it a distraction, but not that man. That man made it important. I’ll never forget it.”
“That’s when you knew you wanted to become an artist?”
“I’ve always known that, I guess. That was just the day I knew I could do it. Sounds silly, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all. I don’t think very many seven-year-olds are wise enough to experience a moment like that. An important moment is only fifty percent of the significance, awareness of it is the other fifty. That’s what my mom always told us. Most kids would’ve cried or just tossed the chalk aside and gone back to their pancakes. But not you.”
Her brows pulled together as she watched him. What words described the feeling of having someone understand, truly understand you? Instead of searching for words, she pulled off a piece of fish and dunked it in tartar sauce then ate it.
“Any chalk drawings on the island by Ivy Van Noten?”
“None yet.”
“We should change that. How long have you lived on the island?”
“Almost a year. Wait, yes. Almost a year exactly. Funny how in some ways time flies and in other ways, this year has lasted ten years.”
“Why’s that?” he asked as he drank from the beer that was delivered to him, keeping watch of Ivy and waiting for the story.
She opened her mouth to respond then closed it and wagged her finger in the air. “I’ve been talking too much. I know nothing about you. It’s your turn.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Why are you on Parpadeo by yourself? That’s kind of rare around here.”
“You’re here by yourself,” he pointed out as he shifted his attention to his food and bit into a piece of fish. “This is really good, by the way.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Wondering what he wasn’t saying, she pulled a napkin out of the tableside dispenser and decided she was in too good of a mood not to enjoy pressing him a little. “But I live here. You don’t. Visitors don’t usually come by themselves—especially visitors like you. And before you try to argue this philosophically—that people travel all the time by themselves, blah, blah—yes, they do and that’s wonderful for them. But I’m asking why you’re here by yourself. Or maybe you’re meeting someone here. Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Some people wear their heart on their sleeve, you wear your thoughts on your sleeve.”
Her head leaned back as she chuckled, partly from the nerves that still thrummed at being understood by the man, and partly from the surprising pleasure of his company. “I think I’m just supercharged from this morning. I don’t usually talk this much. I think I’ve said more to you than I have to anyone else on this island over the past year. Anyway, that’s off-topic and you still haven’t answered the question.”
He had to hand it to her—she didn’t sidetrack easily once she set her mind to something. “I’m here on business. Checking out the island for investment opportunities.” There, he decided. That was clear enough to be honest and at the same time, honored the potential seller’s—Donatella’s—request for confidentiality.
Ivy drained her water glass. “That’s incredibly vague.”
“Maybe. But it’s what I do.”
“Be vague? I noticed,” she told him, wondering why his gray answers irked her. She didn’t want to care—after all, the man was technically a stranger—but she’d been gloriously open all morning, painting with life and feeling, and the chill he was throwing her way was like having an ice cube pressed to the back of a warm neck.
Her spine straightened and stilled. “What do you do exactly?”
“Check out investment opportunities.”
“For what company?”
“An investment company out of New York.”
“Is that where you live? New York?”
“Mostly.”
“Do you enjoy living mostly in New York?”
“It’s all right, I guess.”
He watched her face fall, as if a shield lowered over it.
She said nothing, took two more bites of her lunch, then motioned to the server for the check.
“Did I say something wrong?” He wiped grease from his hands on a wad of napkins, sensing a turn of tides.
“You didn’t say much of anything,” she pointed out with chill of her own, then handed the server cash without looking at the bill.
“I guess I like listening to you more than I like listening to me today.”
When she kept quiet, he knew he was in trouble—warning bells chimed, red lights flashed. “I would’ve bought lunch. I got an air painting out of the deal, seems only fair that I should’ve paid.”
Feeling like the woman was slipping away and having no clue as to why, he tried to lighten the mood. “Maybe my stories aren’t as good as yours. How about we jump off that cliff again? Or grab some snorkel masks and head out along the edge of the shore, see what we see.”
