Page 22 of The Book of Ivy

Page 22

 

  When I turn, Bishop is watching me. I stare back at him, telling myself I am not embarrassed.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “For what?”

  Bishop heads toward the limestone cliff and begins to scale it as if it’s a ladder, barely looking at where he puts his hands and feet. “Put your feet where I put mine,” he says. He doesn’t seem at all concerned about my safety, as if he’s sure I can handle the task. Strangely, his confidence in me erases any questions I had about making the climb.

  I clamber onto the rock below him and start up, watching to see where he moves. The muscles in my shoulders burn as I pull myself upward, but it’s a good kind of pain. The cliff isn’t so high that I’d inevitably die if I fell, but I’d break something, maybe many somethings, so I don’t look down. I keep my focus on Bishop climbing above me, the muscles in his back shifting and bunching as he moves. His body works with a kind of lazy grace, making every move seem effortless.

  “Almost there,” he calls down to me as he heaves himself over the top lip of the cliff. I curl my fingers into a handhold in the rock and use my legs to help propel me upward the last few feet. Bishop leans over and I grasp his forearm, and together we get me over the top.

  “So I’m guessing we’re going to jump?” I say, sucking in air. My heart is pounding and sweat stings my eyes. I haven’t felt this alive in a long time. “Unless there’s an elevator I’m unaware of. ”

  “No elevator,” Bishop says with a grin.

  I walk to the far edge of the cliff and look down. There’s a pool on this side, the greenish water still and flat in the midday heat. It’s impossible to tell from looking how far down it goes, but it must be deep because we have to be at least three stories high.

  I cross back to where Bishop is standing. “Run and jump?” I ask.

  He nods. “Don’t think about it—”

  But his words of advice are lost to me because I’m already running, flinging myself off the edge with a scream of delight. Hot air rushes against my skin, the water rising up to meet me until all I see are its green depths. I plunge in feet first, the shock of cold forcing a yell from my mouth. Bubbles tickle against my closed eyelids and the underwater silence envelops me. I let myself sink, down, down, down, until the need to breathe takes over and I kick my way upward.

  I break the surface just in time to witness Bishop make the leap above me, his body plummeting like an arrow. He barely makes a splash, disappears with a slight ripple into the water beside me. He takes so long to come up that I start to worry, until his fingers clamp around my ankle, dragging me under.

  I rise with a splutter and a squeal, splashing him in the face when he bobs up next to me. He grins, shaking the water off his face. “I can’t believe you jumped like that,” he says. “What if there were rocks down here?”

  I shrug. “You would have warned me beforehand if there were. ”

  “Again?” Bishop asks. I nod in agreement, and he cuts through the water to the bank with long, sure strokes.

  We climb and jump until my fingertips burn from pulling myself up the rock face and my stomach is cramping with hunger. I swim over to one of the flat rocks poking partially out of the water near the base of the cliff and rest my arms on its heated surface. Bishop joins me and mimics my pose on the opposite side of the rock.

  “Having fun?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say with a smile. I tip my head up and close my eyes, let the sun burn into my closed eyelids. I didn’t have a bad childhood, but there was no magic in it. No one hit me, no one neglected me, but there wasn’t much that was childlike about it. Even fun involved barely disguised lessons about my future and my father’s plans. It is only now, away from the presence of my family, that I can admit that to myself. This has been one of the most carefree afternoons of my life.

  “When you smile,” Bishop says, “it gives you a dimple. ” I feel his finger press gently against my cheek. “Right here. ”

  I open my eyes and look at him. His hair is wet and unruly, his eyes glowing. He’s at home here, outdoors, in the water. I wish I had never mocked his love of the river. He may be the president’s son, but his rightful place will never be at a stuffy council table.

  My stomach gives a huge growl and Bishop laughs. “Guess I don’t need to ask if you’re ready for lunch. ”

  We eat sitting on the flat rock, letting our feet dangle in the water. I can’t remember the last time a simple sandwich tasted this good. I’m glad he packed extras, because I down two in a matter of minutes, along with an apple and three cookies.

  “Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask him.

  Bishop glances at the remains of our lunch. “This wasn’t exactly cooking. ”

  “You know what I mean. You make dinner more often than I do. ” Boys don’t usually cook, not anymore. It’s the wife’s job to get food on the table. Not a law or anything, but an unspoken rule, just like with the laundry. But Bishop not only cooks without complaint, he’s good at it. His food always tastes better than mine.

  “We had a maid when I was growing up. Charlotte. She used to let me sit with her in the kitchen while she cooked, and I guess I learned by osmosis. She always smelled like cookie dough. ” He smiles at the memory. “I spent most of my time with her. ”

  As opposed to his mom, I imagine. I can’t picture Erin Lattimer as the cookie-baking type. I stretch out on my stomach on the rock and rest my head on my folded arms. “I’m thinking that nap I mentioned earlier might be in order,” I mumble against my skin. The heat of the sun is like a warm blanket on my back, the only sound the slight gurgle of the water, the drone of bees flitting among the flowers along the bank, lulling me to sleep.

  “Go for it. ” Bishop lies down on his back next to me, one arm bent behind his head.

  I fall asleep almost instantly and wake, disoriented, to his hand on my back, resting right between my shoulder blades. The outline of it burns into my skin. “Ivy,” he whispers. “Wake up. ”

  I open my eyes by degrees, my limbs heavy and sleep-drunk. “How long was I out?” I ask, my voice husky.

  “A while. Long enough that you’re starting to turn a little pink. ”

  Bishop is still lying next to me, but he’s turned on his side, his head propped up on his hand. I have no idea how long he’s been watching me sleep. We’re close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble on his cheeks, a single dark freckle nestled on the edge of his cheekbone. We look at each other without speaking, the silence between us stretching on and on, as thick and cloying as the humid summer air. Bishop moves his hand from my back, his fingers trailing across my skin, and I shiver, goose bumps breaking out along my arms and neck. I have to struggle for air, my heart and lungs seizing up like they’re being squeezed in a vise. He lifts a lock of my damp hair, lets it slide through his fingers. He reaches for it again, curling it around his fingers.

  “Thank you for today,” I whisper. The movement of his hand in my hair is hypnotic, the unexpected warmth in his eyes as drugging as the sun on my back.

  “You’re welcome,” he says, voice low.

  This is exactly what Callie warned me about, letting my guard down and a Lattimer worming his way under my defenses. But she told me to play nice, too. Act like a content wife so he won’t suspect I’m actually something much more lethal. Maybe with some other boy, some boy without thoughtful green eyes and a calmness at his core, performing those two opposing actions would be easy.