Evercrossed

  Fifteen

  ON THE FIRST DAY OF WORK AUNT CINDY HAD MADE it clear that, at an inn, where your job was to be cheerfully helpful to guests, arguing or turning a cold shoulder to another employee was prohibited. "Get over it or fake it," she had said.

  Tuesday morning, Ivy and Will were assigned to the breakfast room; they faked it. But when a toddler threw his jelly toast on the floor, and the two of them bent over at the same time and knocked heads, Ivy began to giggle.

  "I've got it," Will told her, reaching for the goopy toast. Before Ivy could straighten up, the toddler poured milk over the side of his booster chair. Ivy felt a splash on her head, followed by liquid dribbling down her back. Will stared at her sopping hair and Ivy laughed at his expression. Grabbing a table linen, he started blotting her head, which made them both laugh.

  By the time the tables were cleared and the dishes in the dishwasher, most of yesterday's tension had disappeared.

  "We should leave here about two forty five," Will told Ivy as they left the inn together. "After we get the bonfire permit, we can check out Race Point, then find a place for dinner in Provincetown."

  "Sounds good," Ivy replied. At the cottage, she picked up her music and headed to church. She was determined to make her practices regular and focused as it had been in Connecticut.

  But as Ivy warmed up at the keyboard, her mind continually played back moments from yesterday—Guy standing behind her as she played the sonata, Guy lowering his head close to hers as they stood at the edge of the sea.

  At last she got back her concentration and worked hard for more than an hour.

  When she finished, she played songs she knew by heart—"To Where You Are," then "Moonlight Sonata." Several measures into Beethoven, she stopped. She was thinking about Guy, about the way he had wandered about the church while she played, and how he had known the name of the piece. She was thinking about Guy when playing Tristan's song!

  She dropped her hands in her lap. "Why did you stop?" Ivy's head jerked up. "I didn't hear you come in."

  "I know." Guy was sitting on the end of a pew, halfway down the aisle of the small church. "About ten minutes ago you were playing like a crazy woman, like you were performing at Lincoln Center."

  Lincoln Center? He knew what the concert hall was—another clue about his life, slight as it might be. "How was work?" she asked.

  "You didn't tell me why you stopped," he replied.

  Ivy turned all the way around on the piano bench. "I don't tell you everything."

  He smiled and let her off the hook. "Work was terrific. It felt good to be doing something physical and thinking about nothing but what I was doing. The guy, Kip McFarland, is in his twenties and has a small landscaping business. The pay's low, but it's a start, and there's a fringe benefit."

  "Which is?"

  "I get to sleep with the lawnmowers in an old barn. It has one window that isn't covered, a toilet, and an outside shower. It also has a pile of useless stuff I'm supposed to clean out. Want to come see it?"

  "A pile of useless stuff? How could I resist?" a few minutes later, with Guy supplying directions, Ivy drove to Willow Pond, which was off Route 6A, close to the bay side of the cape.

  A crushed stone drive led them through woods to an old clapboard house with gables and a wraparound porch. With a lot of hard work—and gallons of paint—the house, its weeping trees, and the round pond reflecting them would look like a scene on one of Aunt Cindy's jigsaw puzzles.

  "Kip and his wife bought the house last fall and are restoring it," Guy said. "They want to run a B and B some day, but they need money, so he does carpentry and landscaping, while she teaches, and in the summer helps him with the business."

  Guy led Ivy past the right side of the house to the barn. The gray wood structure leaned noticeably toward the surrounding woods, like a building seeking shade. "Home sweet home," he said. "If you tilt your head, it looks straight."

  Ivy grinned. "I can't wait to see inside."

  Moving from the bright June day into the building's darkness. Ivy couldn't see anything at first, but she could smell. "I know," Guy said, hearing her sniff. "You get used to it."

  "Mulch. And fertilizer. Some . .. very rich fertilizer."

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting she saw the mountain of stuff that needed to be cleared out—furniture, books, lamps, lobster pots, and fishing gear that looked old enough to have been used by the pilgrims.

  "Is there a light in here?" He pointed. "Over the rider mower. Everything on that side is equipment for the landscaping business." He picked up an old lantern. "Kip's wife is lending me this." When he lit it, the lantern's heavy, ringed glass glowed warmly.

  "Oh, I like it!"

  "I thought you might. Hey, here comes my new roommate, Fleabag."

  A skinny black and white cat had slipped through the open door and was sauntering toward them. "You're kidding, right?"

  "About the fleas or us being roomies?"

  "Both."

  Guy set down the lantern. "Well, I was here for twenty minutes when Kip was showing me the place, and Flea bag scratched himself for about ten of those minutes, then flopped down on my backpack."

  "I'll get him some flea medicine."

  "You'll be more successful getting it for me. Kip said it took forever to trap him and get him to a vet. He's too feral to adopt, but he enjoys showing up now and then and hanging out. You can see why we're meant for each other," Guy added dryly.

  "Yes." Ivy surveyed the mess around them. "So where exactly are you going to sleep? You could try that rafter, if you don't mind hanging upside down by your feet."

  "I don't mind, but I'm guessing it's already taken by the bats. Thanks to you, however, I have my bedroll. I'll just have to clear a space."

  "Let's get started," she said.

  "Now?"

  ''With two of us, it will be easier to move the big things," Ivy told him. She eyed the cat. "And I don't think your roomy is going to lift a paw."

  "He will when we disturb a nest of mice."

  "Till then," Ivy replied, picking up a chair with a missing leg and heading toward the door. She carried it out to the portable Dumpster that she had seen between the house and barn.

  Guy followed with a bent floor lamp and old radio. "If we can get the two sofas out of there," he said, "we'll have some elbow room to work."

  A short sofa with exposed springs was fairly easy to move, but the other one, a sleeper that kept unfolding, was twice as heavy. Ivy and Guy tugged and pulled and dragged.

  "How are you doing?" Guy asked when they were almost to the door. Sweat dripped in her eyes and made tiny rivulets between her ears and cheeks. "Okay. Hey! Look how clean your floor is where we've scraped it."

  "That's where my bedroll will go," he said. Why don't we leave this here for now? I'll ask Kip about using his trailer. If we drag the sofa across the lawn, we're going to take the grass with us, roots and all."

  "Agreed."

  They found brooms among Kip's lawn equipment and swept the concrete floor, beginning to make a space for Guy, then set to work on the pile of stuff. It was a kind of treasure hunt, and they began calling out "Loot!" when one of them found something of interest—a lamp base shaped like a rearing horse, magazines from the sixties, a turntable with a scratched record still on it—"Chad and Jeremy," Ivy read from the label, then shrugged and carried it outside.

  They settled into a comfortable rhythm, examining, sharing, walking back and forth to the Dumpster.

  At one point Ivy saw Guy walk into the shed with an armful of National Geographics. "Excuse me, I just put those out," she said.

  "I know, but they looked interesting." He placed them next to his bedroll, with the magazines from the sixties. After rolling out a rusty push mower, he returned with a stack of old science books. This time Ivy didn't comment; after all, it was his place.

  Between the two of them, they carried out a heavy sink. "Look at this!" he said, holding up several sports book
s filled with pictures and large print, apparently written for children. He tucked them under his arm and carried them back to the shed.

  When, two hours and many books and magazines later, he added to his stacks the cookbooks that Ivy had just carried to the Dumpster, she could keep silent no longer. "Did you happen to notice you don't have a kitchen?"

  "I might someday." Ivy laughed.

  "Time for a break. Let's sit in the living room," he said, gesturing to the bedroll. "Something to drink?" He opened his backpack and drew out two bottles of water. Ivy took a long drink, then wiped her sweaty face on her sleeve. "Nice shade of dirt you're wearing," he remarked. She touched her cheek.

  "Other side," he said, then reached and softly wiped that cheek. For a moment, Ivy couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. She was under a spell from the touch of his fingers. Then something brushed past them— Fleabag. Ivy quickly turned away from Guy, acting as if her attention had been caught by the cat.

  "Now you show up," Guy grumbled to Fleabag, then rested against his backpack. "It's shaping up. I like it," he said, surveying the piles of books and magazines encircling them. "It's homey."

  Homey, thought Ivy. That was how she would describe the house where Tristan had lived with his parents. She remembered the first time she saw it, when Tristan adopted her cat, Ella. Their living room was buried under books and magazines. "You're smiling," Guy said.

  She shifted back to the present. "It's comfortable, but not my dream home."

  "What is your dream home?" he asked curiously.

  "A small house on the water. Living room, kitchen, and bedroom, a porch facing east, another facing west, and two fireplaces. How about yours?"

  "I'd live inland, in a fancy tree house." Ivy laughed. "It would have several levels—and be built between two trees," Guy continued. "I know a place like that."

  "It would have a rope ladder, of course. And a swing." Ivy loved the swing that hung under Philip's tree house, which was near the edge of her family's property. High on the ridge above the river and train tracks, the view was spectacular.

  "And it would be high on a ridge, so I could see over the countryside." Ivy looked at Guy with surprise. "What is it?" he asked.

  "That's exactly like my brother's." Her mind slipped back to the day that Philip had almost fallen from the tree house's walkway. Gregory had never admitted to loosening the board, and Ivy, who had lost her faith in angels, had not seen the golden shimmer that Philip had. But she believed now, as Philip did, that Tristan was there for him. Was Tristan here still?

  I'll always be with you, Ivy. She heard the words now as clearly as she had the night of the accident when Tristan kissed her. Ivy knew the old saying —the eyes were the windows of the soul—and sometimes when she looked in Guy's eyes, it was as if Tristan...

  No, she was imagining it. "Ivy, you're trembling." He touched her hands lightly and she tried to make them still in her lap. "Tell me," he said.

  Ivy shook her head no. Guy was confused enough about his identity, without her telling him that he made her feel as if Tristan was present.

  "Sometimes you look so sad," Guy said. "I don't know how to help you."

  Ivy touched his face gently. "I know how you feel—sometimes you look so lost."

  Sixteen

  IT WAS A SERIES OF COINCIDENCES, IVY TOLD HER self as she turned onto Cockle Shell Road. She had left Guy in his "homey" place with a new ice chest and leftovers from the early dinner they had purchased in town.

  Guy had asked her to stay longer, but she needed time to think. She couldn't keep her mind from running through the odd moments that linked Guy with Tristan. If she dared to tell Will and Beth what she was starting to believe, she knew what they would say: She was imagining it—it was just the anniversary.

  The anniversary! Oh, no! She had completely forgotten about going with Will to get the fire permit. When she and Guy had driven to the takeout place, she hadn't bothered to check her cell phone and had totally forgotten about dinner in Province town.

  Will's car was gone from the Seabright's lot Ivy walked slowly down the path to the cottage. She was thinking about how she would explain when she heard his Toyota pull in. She stopped and waited nervously. When Will approached the house, he walked fast, his head down. "Will," she said softly.

  He looked up sharply and she could read in his face all the emotions he was feeling: relief, disbelief, and anger.

  "Will, I'm so sorry!" She lifted her hand to reach toward him, then quickly dropped it to her side; something—she didn't know what—stopped her from touching him. "I'm so sorry," she repeated. A long silence followed.

  "That's it?" he asked.

  "I've let you down." He swore under his breath.

  "I'm really sorry, Will. I just... forgot."

  "Do you have amnesia too?" he replied sarcastically. "Is it contagious?" His eyes bored through her. "That's where you've been, isn't it? With him, with Guy."

  "Yes."

  "I can't believe it! Why do girls do stuff like this —run after guys who seem mysterious and exciting, but have nothing to offer."

  "I'm not running after—" He cut her off.

  "I love you, Ivy, but this is killing me."

  She swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this to me?" he shouted at her.

  "I don't know!" she shouted back. She saw him struggle to control his anger; in some ways, she wished he'd keep shouting.

  "You're acting like you did after Tristan's death, when Gregory seduced you—"

  "What?!"

  "And you kept standing up for him," Will continued, "when you kept trusting Gregory even though there were a million signs that you shouldn't."

  "Like you weren't Gregory's friend, too?" Ivy challenged him. "I recognized him for what he was and stayed friends long enough to help you and Tristan."

  Will sucked in his breath. "Tristan. It always comes back to him, doesn't it? God, what an idiot I am!" Ivy lowered her head. The night you were in the accident, when I got to the hospital, the paramedic asked me if I was Tristan."

  Ivy winced. "He said you had been calling for him in the ambulance."

  Ivy turned away. "Then the doctor, elated with your progress, came to me and said, 'I've got good news for you, Tristan."

  Ivy shut her eyes with the pain. Will had kept this to himself, even though it must have hurt him deeply. "Here's what I think," Will said, his voice husky with emotion. "I don't think you're really falling for Guy. I think you feel bad for him and find him a nice distraction."

  Ivy turned back toward Will. He went on quickly. "With Guy, you can feel for somebody, help somebody, and still be in love with Tristan."

  "Will, I am so sorry—"

  "This fling with Guy, it helps you to separate from me," Will continued; "The best thing I can do for you and for me is make the final break that you clearly want so much.'' His voice grew angrier. "It would have been a lot easier on both of us, Ivy, if you'd had the guts to tell me when you knew it was over!"

  "But I didn't know—"

  He slammed his fist into his palm. "Give me a break!"

  "I knew something was wrong," Ivy explained. "I was trying to think things through."

  He nodded. "And why end it when it may turn out that you need me after all?"

  "No! That's unfair! I wouldn't have used you like that."

  "Next time you're thinking things through, try thinking about how it is for someone other than yourself."

  He turned on his heel and headed back to the parking lot. "Where are you going, Will?"

  "I don't know. I don't care, as long as It's somewhere away from you."

  THE TEARS THAT HAD BEEN FILLING IVY'S EYES DURING the argument did not fall until five minutes after Will had driven away. Ivy walked back to the lot and stood motionless by her car, watching the road as if Will might come back.

  "It's over. Over," she repeated to herself with disbelief. She noticed an envelope on her car's front seat Opening it, she found the permit for the bonfire. She cli
mbed inside her car, closed the door, and cried.

  Ivy drove for an hour and a half—Route 6 first, needing to drive fast, and when she had stopped crying, the winding, dual lane 6A. She was tempted to call her mother—but her mother loved Will. Philip loved Will. Beth loved Will. So did she, but maybe not enough.

  By the time she returned to the inn, it was nearly dark. Will's car was back; Kelsey's was gone and no one was in the cottage. Ivy sat in the living room, trying to work on the puzzle, riffling through the box, pulling out one piece, then another, then putting them back. Restless, she walked outside, glanced at the swing, then strode over to the inn's back steps, where she felt less likely to be cornered by whoever came home first. If Will hadn't told the others about their break up, she would have to share the news before work tomorrow.

  Behind her, the kitchen door opened, spreading the room's yellow light on a swath of grass. "Don't get up," Aunt Cindy said, then came out and sat on the steps next to Ivy. "How are you doing?"

  "Okay."

  "Pretty tough, huh?"

  Ivy nodded. "Yeah. Who told you?"

  "Beth. Listen, Ivy, I can make sure that you and Will aren't on the same work team for a week or so, but you'll still be living and working in close quarters. I can't have you quarreling in front of guests, and I can't have the others taking sides." Ivy nodded.

  "If you feel like you can't deal with the situation, you've got to let me know."

  "Okay." Aunt Cindy rested her hand lightly on Ivy's back. "I know it seems as if the pain is so bad that it will never get better. But it will, Ivy. It really will," she said, then went inside.

  Ivy rose and walked slowly across the garden. After all the grime and sweat of the day, she'd feel better if she took a shower before facing the others. Then she saw Beth coming around the corner of the renovated barn—from Will's room—Ivy guessed. Ivy took a deep breath and waited. "How's Will?"

  "How are you?" Beth asked, as she approached Ivy. The gentleness in her friend's voice released an other than expected flood of tears.