The Wishing Tree (12 page)

It was no coincidence that her walk that afternoon took her by the house Michael was restoring. She tried to look
nonchalant as she passed, but secretly she was praying he would see her and call her name. But she walked all the way by, and there was no sign of him. Just her luck.

She continued on, thinking about Mrs. McCoy and her tea parties, feeling sad that the old woman had died without her knowing. That fall after her parents split, Mrs. McCoy had been one of the few neighbors still there after the summer crowds left. Ivy and Shea rode their bikes endlessly up and down the street, killing time and trying to stay out of the house so they didn’t hear Margot crying. With each loop around the island, Ivy became more resolved that men couldn’t be trusted. Maybe not even Michael. An anger against men—him included—began to burn in her heart. How dare they hurt women like that? How dare they walk away without a backward glance? The pure love she’d once held for her father was tainted by this mistrust that had seeped in, chemicals leaching into the ground water.

Sometimes Mrs. McCoy was in her yard, watering plants, when the girls rode by. She would wave them over and offer them lemonade. Mrs. McCoy made the real thing, squeezing the lemons as Shea and Ivy sat at her table and watched. She always wanted to know if the lemonade was good enough, sweet enough, cold enough, and they would give her a thumbs-up or thumbs-down accordingly. Once when she and Michael walked by Mrs. McCoy’s house holding hands, the old woman caught her eye and gave her the thumbs-up sign with a coy little smile. Ivy had walked away wondering if Mrs. McCoy was right about Michael. What had happened between her parents had caused her to question everything.

She thought that meeting Elliott had ended her questions,
that it was him she’d been looking for, his absence she’d been feeling until the moment he took the seat across from her. But it turned out that the questions were only hibernating, awakened by Elliott’s distance, mobilized by his confession. She’d been holding her breath, waiting for him to be like all men, waiting for him to show his true colors. When he had, it had almost been a relief.

Still, she didn’t know what to do about those tweets of his. He didn’t appear to be chasing skirts in her absence, based on how much he was tweeting and what he was tweeting. She had to admit that he seemed to be truly sorry and truly trying to change. This morning when she checked Twitter, he’d said he was going to see the counselor at their church. Men who just wanted to chase skirts didn’t do that, did they?

And yet, she saw comments from women who were following him, women who thought he was wonderful and that she was stupid and weren’t afraid to say so. Something in her seethed as she read the words—and not just because they were calling her stupid without even hearing her side. The mere thought of him being followed by women—even if he didn’t initiate it—was enough to bring all the trust issues right back up. What if he was secretly communicating with one or more of them? What if he was going to find someone who responded to him in the way he was looking for while she ignored him? She didn’t want to admit it, but that thought scared her. Deep down, she liked him tweeting to her. She liked the thought of him pining away, filled with remorse. Part of her just wanted to freeze him like that for a long, long time. Keep him lonely and miserable as punishment.

The yellow Jeep caught her attention as she headed back toward home. She saw movement on the scaffolding and her heart quickened. She looked for the blond hair that meant it was Michael up there, hope propelling her forward. As she got closer, she saw the blond hair, the height, the stance that told her it was him.

“Hey!” she called out impulsively. “Whatcha doin’?”

He turned around to see who was calling him, his brows furrowed as he squinted into the sun. She expected a big smile to fill his face when he recognized her. Instead he merely said, “Oh, hey, Ivy,” and turned back around to keep working.

Undeterred, she crossed the yard and paused beside the scaffolding, looking up at him and the blue, cloudless sky beyond. “Whatcha doin’?” she repeated.

“Working,” he said. He sounded tired. Or just unhappy she was there. She hoped it wasn’t the latter.

“Oh, well, don’t let me keep you from your work. I was just on a walk. I’ve been going on these long walks to figure out life, and stuff. Ever do that?” In an effort to create a conversation, she was making herself sound like an idiot.

“Not lately,” he said. He continued to pull siding off the house, the wood making cracking and splintering noises of resistance. He had pieces of wood in his hair. She resisted the urge to climb up there and pull them out. She could still remember how soft his hair was, how it would tickle her nose when she whispered in his ear. “I love you,” she would say. And for a time, she meant it.

He pulled another piece of siding off the house, speaking over the noise. “As you can see, I’ve got quite a bit of work to do. So I don’t have time to get into some discussion right
now.” He swept his arm out to indicate the rest of the house and the many, many boards that needed to be removed. He was right, he had a lot of work to do.

“You could teach me how to do that, and I could help you.”

His back was to her, so she couldn’t see his reaction. She wanted him to sound happy that she asked. She wanted him to welcome her presence. Even if she had to get dirty and sweaty and do manual labor, she’d find a way to spend time with him, to work her way into the conversation they’d needed to have for five years. Not that he was acting like he wanted that to happen.

He glanced back down at her and—there! She saw it!—a flicker of a smile crossed his face. “You’re hardly the construction-worker type,” he observed. She knew he was taking in her designer denim shorts paired with a T-shirt with the name of another designer proudly scripted across the front. She hadn’t just dressed for walking; she’d dressed for an encounter with him.

“You might be surprised,” she said. Her tone was flirtatious, promising. She was teasing him and she suspected he knew it. He remembered that tone just as well as she did. She only felt a little bit guilty for using it with someone besides Elliott. She wasn’t the one who’d broken their vows. And a tiny bit of flirting never hurt anyone.

He shrugged. “I won’t turn down help.” It wasn’t begging. It wasn’t even interest. But it was an opening. A tiny crack in the door that she could use her feminine wiles to throw wide open if she played it smart. She reminded herself that this was not a game.

“Okay, I have to be at the bakery tomorrow morning,
but I can come tomorrow afternoon if you’d like?” She sounded too eager. She needed to dial it down a bit. Men liked a challenge and all.

He gazed down at her with those blue eyes she used to hope their kids would get, a more brilliant blue than hers. He crossed his arms so that his biceps bulged and his pecs showed through the threadbare T-shirt he had on. Had Michael always been this … buff? Maybe it was the manual labor. She shivered in spite of the sweat trickling down her back.

“Sure. Tomorrow would be fine. I’ll see you then.”

She smiled up at him for all she was worth, knowing that he used to love her smile. Said he found his tomorrows there. And she’d known he wasn’t just being cheesy. He’d meant it. “Great! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned and walked away. She knew he wasn’t watching her go like he used to. And that was okay. Everything had to start, or restart, somewhere.

The next morning Ivy and Leah worked on cupcakes to stock
the cases for the customers off the street who wandered in craving something sweet. Today they were making Oreo and red velvet and lemon meringue and Ivy’s favorite, caramel. She bit back a smile as she thought about Psalm 84:5, which still often came to mind. It was taking God’s strength not to just sit down with a spoon in front of the container of caramel icing.

The bakery was truly a happy place to be, and Ivy knew Leah had intended for that to be the case. When she’d made recent improvements in the store, Leah had had the floor painted blue and the walls yellow, boasting that the colors represented the sunrise and the ocean. Her aunt had wisely chosen a location with lots of natural light, perfect for aiding her vision as she labored over the more intricate cakes.
She’d set up a work center right in front of a large window that faced the parking lot, and it was common for a group of tourists out enjoying an afternoon to stop and watch her, a crowd gathering in front of the window. More often than not, that led to the people becoming customers, unable to resist the temptation of butter and sugar and flour, reasoning they were on vacation after all. What could it hurt?

It didn’t take long for Leah to bring up their last conversation—cajoling her to finish her story about Elliott. “I want to know what happens!” she insisted.

“But you know what happened,” Ivy retorted good-naturedly. When it was clear Leah wasn’t going to give up, Ivy told her an abbreviated version, relaying the story like a journalist instead of a romance writer. She could tell that Leah wanted the dirt, but Ivy wasn’t willing to go there, racing instead through the short version of the story she didn’t want to tell. She just couldn’t talk about what had happened that night, or where it had led. She’d told Leah that he’d asked her out when they parted, that she’d accepted in spite of her reservations about Michael, and that doing so set the dominoes in motion that led to everything else. But there were parts she still thought of even as she left the bakery and drove home to meet Michael, memories that came to her without her consent or permission.

Elliott had walked her to her room sometime in the wee hours, the sun’s first streaks making their way across the dark sky. She hadn’t felt self-conscious about what she’d done until they were in the elevator headed to her hotel room, Elliott staring at her in a way that told her she might have just dove into the deep end headfirst. And he wasn’t
going to be the one to throw her a lifeline. She bit her lip and looked away from the intensity of his stare, wondering what she was going to do if he tried to kiss her at her door. There was something between them—there was no denying that—but at that point, she was telling herself they could keep things under control. It was like hoping to put out a wildfire with a garden hose. But she hadn’t known that yet. Not really.

She’d avoided his gaze as they made their way down the hall. At the door she made a production of getting out her key card, swiping it a few times until she got the green light that would permit her to slip through the door and flee. Suddenly she just wanted the distance that would allow them both some perspective. What had happened between them that night was magical but not realistic. Apart, they could both arrive at that conclusion, but together there was no chance of that. She spun her engagement ring around on her finger, pressing the pad of her thumb down on the prongs that held the diamond in place so hard they made indentations in her skin, the pain a penance.

She looked up at him as she held the door with her foot. “I had a nice time,” she said. It hurt to look at him, to think that this could possibly be the last time she would see him. Cinderella was home from the ball; the magic was over.

He laughed. “A nice time?” He crossed his arms and smirked at her. “Isn’t that an understatement?”

“Look, I …” She spun the ring faster. “There’s someone else.” She’d avoided saying that all night as they talked about everything from where they grew up to their favorite foods to memories of their grandparents to dreams for the
future. Everything but Michael, even though he was at the edge of every word she said.

Elliott gestured to her left hand, the ring she was spinning round her finger faster and faster. “I’m not blind.” He dropped his hands to his sides, the affront gone, his posture vulnerable, open. She could walk right into his arms, and they would go around her, a reflex. And she would fit there. “Besides, girls like you always come with complications.” He shrugged.

“Girls like me?” Now she was the one to cross her arms, the door weighing more heavily on her foot by the minute. But she didn’t want the moment to end, the inevitable to come any faster than it had to. She was, she realized, anxious to leave the door open, in a manner of speaking.

“Pretty girls. Smart girls. Together girls.” The cocky grin came back. “Hot girls.”

She’d been with Michael her whole dating life, belonged to him in such a way that she’d been closed off to the advances of other men, turning away when they tried to catch her eye, making terse comments if they tried to talk to her, taking her leave if anyone made it past her first line of defense. She’d been true to Michael in every sense of the word, and consequently she’d never let any man know her well enough to pay her compliments like Elliott had. She’d heard from her family she was pretty, and of course from Michael, but they didn’t count. From Elliott, unsolicited, it felt brand new. It felt amazing. She glowed under the weight of his appreciative gaze. “Thank you,” she managed.

He reached out and traced his fingertip across her cheek, making her shudder, her skin burning in the path he had
traced. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said, his voice husky, thick with something she recognized as desire.

“It’s okay. I just—I mean, I—” She held up her hands. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I never do things like this.”

He rested his palm against her face, his fingers caressing her hair. “I bet you say that to all the boys.” A teasing smile filled his face.

Exasperated, she argued. “I don’t! I swear!”

“Would you believe me if I said I never do either?”

“Huh! No, I wouldn’t believe you.”

He shrugged. “Ask around. You’ll find out. I’ve never done this.” He looked into her eyes and removed his hand, leaving her cheek exposed, cold. “Never wanted to. Never felt … drawn to someone. Like I was to you.”

“Me either,” she confessed. She looked down at the carpet, black with tiny tan stripes. She needed to go, while she was still in the place of being able to explain all this away, dismiss it as a fluke. But if he kissed her …

“I should really go.” She faked a yawn. “I’m really tired and I was hoping to hit the slopes today, not sleep the day away.”

Instead of arguing, he looked around the hall, as if realizing where he was. “Yeah, and I’ve got to be at work in a few hours.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, gosh! I’m so sorry! You stayed up all night and now you have to work!”

He reached out and pulled her hand from her mouth, squeezed it. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t have wanted to spend last night any other way. I can sleep anytime. And I know this is all rather fast and I’m being awfully bold, but …” His
voice trailed off. Their night was ending, but it was obvious neither of them wanted that.

Unwittingly, her eyes filled with tears at the thought of what came next. She was scaring herself with the depth of her emotions. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried at the thought of parting from Michael. “Look, I’m gonna go. This isn’t ever going to be easy, so I’m just going to rip the Band-Aid off. Okay?” She looked at him, not afraid to show him the tears in her eyes.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, his face serious.

She laughed. “Is that your way of avoiding the inevitable?”

He pressed his lips into a line and shook his head. “Nope. Just stating the obvious.”

“So you think we’re going to see each other again?” Her heart soared at the thought, then plummeted with guilt over what a terrible person she was to do this to Michael.

“I think any two people who can’t tear themselves away from each other after staying up all night talking are destined to see each other again.”

“I don’t believe in destiny.” She’d said that too quick and his face showed it.

“Then I guess that’s my charge—to prove to you that some things are just meant to be.” He reached for her hand and tapped on her ring. “Even when there are obstacles in the way. I’m sorry for whoever he is, but I can’t ignore what’s been happening between us. I hope you won’t either.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

He turned and ambled away as she stood in the hall and watched him until he disappeared into the elevator, resisting the urge to chase after him. Only after he was gone did she
go inside her room, flinging herself on the bed and letting the tears she’d been holding back flow into the hotel pillow, her mascara leaving angry black smudges on the pristine white pillows. She’d never met anyone who made her feel so crazy. The feeling was like nothing she’d ever experienced and everything she’d never known she’d wanted. She’d fallen asleep as the sky filled with light, wondering how she was going to make these feelings go away and how she was ever going to forget Elliott Marshall and go on with the life she had planned.

Ivy left the bakery at noon. Back home, she parked her car in the driveway and strolled over to the mailbox out of some old force of habit. She grabbed the bundle of mail inside and wandered up the walkway, absently sorting it. One envelope caught her attention. Someone had already responded to her request for wishes for the wishing tree. She ripped into the envelope with the excitement of a child, extracting the tag and a note from the sender.

Stepping into the house, she examined the tag, finding a Bible verse scrawled in some old woman’s arthritic handwriting, a friend of Owen’s family who was apparently so on top of things she’d turned around and sent the tag back the very next day. Along with the tag was a note bearing her regrets for the wedding. She’d written that her husband was terminally ill and she was caring for him in his final days. She said that she wished Shea and Owen the same happiness she’d had with her husband for over fifty years.

Ivy’s eyes filled with tears and she hurried up to her room before anyone saw her crying over a wishing tree tag. That would raise some eyebrows.

She sank down on the bed, still clutching the tag and note. The words swam in front of her. She wasn’t prepared for how hard it would be to read the wishes. She and Elliott, despite her former hopes, would never celebrate their fiftieth. They’d never grow old together. In hindsight they hadn’t had what it took to go the distance. Her family had been right. She’d made a mistake, and based on how Michael had responded to her, she could no longer count on him as her backup plan either. She stared up at the ceiling. She’d made a mess of things and now she had to face it, alone.

She turned the wishing tree tag around and around in her hands, studying the verse, “Let marriage be held in honor by all,” Hebrews 13:4. This woman had obviously had the kind of marriage that was held in honor. It was hard to think that, at one point, she and Elliott had believed in that too. They’d planned to take on the world together, no need for anyone else. That was how she’d let go of her family so easily. As long as she’d had Elliott, she’d had all she needed, often quoting another Bible verse, the one about leaving and cleaving. She’d done that in spades, for a time. But she couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that she hadn’t honored her marriage. Not really. She’d put it last—after her work and her longing for her family and the million little stresses that became their life together. She’d started out so strong, so resolved. And as the resolve had faded, so had their love.

She sat up. No sense mulling over her disaster of a marriage. Nothing she could do about it now. So she left the
room, carrying the tag down to put it on the tree. Shea would whoop and holler when she saw the first tag, yell for their mom to come see, and thank Ivy for making it happen. Ivy couldn’t wait for that moment, her single victory for the day, but a significant one. She couldn’t put her marriage back together, but she could have a relationship with her family again.

She propped up the note where Shea would see it, her thoughts wandering back to Michael standing on that scaffolding looking tanned and toned, his face familiar yet mysterious. She looked forward to working with him today. She might even manage a relationship with him again, if she was lucky.

She stepped back and studied the tree with its lone tag, imagined it full at the wedding, guests stopping to admire it between dances. Then she imagined dancing with Michael, laughing as his arms held her in that easy way of his, secure without being suffocating, loving without letting go. She’d had it good once upon a time. Just maybe she could have it good again.