“Do you want me to tell you about Ella and the chaos she’s creating at home?”
“Sure,” said Ivy. “Did she find that tub of chicken wedged into your television cabinet?”
Tristan looked startled for a moment, then recovered. “Yes, right after she burrowed through all the stuff I’d crammed behind the sofa.” He chattered on, telling her several Ella stories, walking her up and down the short end of the pool.
When they stopped, he said, “I think we’d better get some water on your face.”
She had been dreading that.
He scooped handfuls of it up over her forehead and cheeks as if he were washing a baby.
“I do that in the shower,” Ivy said tartly.
“Well, excuse me, Miss Advanced. We’ll go on to the next step.” He grinned at her. “Take a big breath. I want to see you looking at me under there. The chlorine will sting a little, but I want to see those big green eyes and little bubbles coming out of your nose. Suck in above the water, blow out below it. Got it? One, two, three.” He pulled her down with him. Up and down they bobbed, he holding her down there a little longer each time, making faces at her.
Ivy came up to the surface, sputtering and choking.
“Now, if you can’t follow a few simple directions …” he began.
“You’re making me laugh!” said Ivy. “It’s no fair when you make me laugh.”
“All right. Now we get serious. Sort of.”
He taught her how she would breathe when swimming, pretending the water was a pillow, turning her head to the side to breathe in. She practiced, gripping the side of the pool with her hands. Then he took her hands and pulled her through the water. She naturally started kicking her feet to keep them afloat behind her. It was tempting to pull her head up and look at him. Once Ivy did and found him smiling at her.
They worked on kicking for a while. After she practiced on the side, they played train. He had her grab his ankles, following behind him in the water, he swimming with his arms and she kicking her feet. It amazed her that he could pull her so swiftly with just the strength of his arms.
When they stopped, he asked her, “Are you getting tired? Do you want to sit up on the side for a few minutes?”
Ivy shook her head no. “If I get out, I don’t know if I’ll get in again.”
“You’ve got guts,” he said.
She laughed. “I’m standing in water just up to my shoulders and you call that guts?”
“Yup.” He swam in a circle around her. “Ivy, everyone has something they’re afraid of. You’re one of the few people who face their fear. But then, I always knew you were the gutsy type. I knew from the first day, when I saw you striding across the cafeteria, that cheerleader, who was supposed to be leading you around, following.”
“I was hungry,” Ivy said. “And that was a bit of a performance.”
“Well, you carried it off.”
She smiled and he reflected her smile, his hazel eyes alight and lashes spangled with water drops.
“Okay,” he said. “Want to float on your back?”
“No. But I will.”
“It’s easy.” Tristan stretched back in the water and floated, looking entirely relaxed. “You see what I’m doing?”
Looking awfully good, she thought, then thanked her angels that he couldn’t read minds as well as Beth.
“I keep my hips up, arch my back, then just let everything else go. You try it.”
Ivy did, and sank. The old panic returned for a moment.
“You were sitting,” he told her. “You let your seat drop down. Try again.”
As she lay back again he slid an arm under her. “Easy now, don’t fight it. Back arched. That’s the way.” He slipped his arm out from under her.
Ivy pulled her head up and started to sink again. She stood up angrily. Her wet hair was coming loose out of her ponytail holder and slapped against her neck.
Tristan laughed. “That’s how I imagine Ella would look if she ever got wet.”
“A little kid could do this,” Ivy told him.
“Kids can do a lot of things,” he replied, “because kids trust. The trick in swimming is not to fight the water. Go with it. Play with it. Give yourself over to it.” He splashed her lightly. “How about trying again?”
She lay back. She felt his left arm under the arch in her back. With his right hand he gently eased her head back. The water lapped around her forehead and chin. Ivy closed her eyes and gave herself over to the water. She imagined being in the center of a lake, sunlight sparkling at her toes and fingertips.
When she opened her eyes, he was looking down at her. His face was like the sun, warming her, brightening the air around it. “I’m floating,” she whispered.
“You’re floating,” he said softly, his face bending closer.
“Floating …” They read it off each other’s lips, their faces close, so close—
“Tristan!”
Tristan straightened up and Ivy sank.
It was Coach, calling from the door of his office. “Sorry to toss you two out,” he hollered, “but I got to head home in about ten minutes.”
“No problem, Coach,” Tristan called back.
“I’ll be staying late tomorrow,” the older man added, coming a few feet out of his office. “Maybe then you can pick up where you left off?”
Tristan looked at Ivy. She shrugged, then nodded, but kept her eyes down.
“Maybe,” he said.
P1-8
Ivy took a long route home that afternoon, driving a road that ran south from the center of Stonehill, following a tangle of shady streets lined with newer houses. She drove round and round, unwilling to make the final turn and head for the ridge. There was so much to think about. Why was Tristan doing this? Was he just feeling sorry for her? Did he want to be her friend? Did he want more than a friendship?
But it wasn’t these questions that kept her driving. It was the luxury of remembering: how he had looked rising out of the water, a shimmer of drops spilling off him; how he had touched her, gently, so gently.
At home, she’d have to listen to her mother’s story about the latest round of snobbery that Maggie was encountering; she’d talk about the ups and downs of Philip’s life as a third grader; she’d find a new way to say thanks for the things Andrew kept giving her, and walk on eggshells around Gregory. With all that going on, the moments of the afternoon would fade and be lost forever.
In her mind, Ivy saw Tristan in slow motion, swimming in a circle around her. She remembered the way his hands had felt when he helped her float, the way he had slowly tilted her head back in the water. She trembled with pleasure, and a little fear.
Angels, don’t let go of me! she prayed.
This was something different from a crush. This was something that could flood out every other thought and feeling.
Maybe I should back out now, Ivy thought, before I’m in over my head. I’ll call him tonight.
But then she remembered how he had pulled her through the water, his face full of light and laughter.
Ivy didn’t see the car coming. Lost in thought, responding only to what was directly in front of her, she didn’t see the dark car run the stop sign until the very last second. She slammed on her brakes. Both cars squealed and spun around, and for a moment were side by side, lightly touching. Then they veered away from each other. Letting her breath out slowly, Ivy sat still in the middle of the intersection.
The other driver threw open his door. A stream of four-letter words came rushing at her. Without even glancing in his direction, Ivy rolled up her window and checked her door locks. The shouting stopped suddenly. Ivy turned to look coolly at the driver.
“Gregory!”
She put her window down.
His skin was pale except for the scarlet that had crept up his cheeks. He stared at her, then glanced around the intersection, looking surprised, as if he were just now recognizing where he was and what had happened.
“
Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes … yes. Are you?”
“Well, I’m breathing again.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I—I wasn’t paying attention, I guess. And I didn’t know it was you, Ivy.” Though his anger had subsided, he still looked upset.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I was driving in a daze, too.”
He glanced through the window at the wet towel on her front seat.
“What are you doing around here?” he wanted to know.
She wondered if he would make the connection between the wet towel and swimming and Tristan. But she hadn’t even told Beth or Suzanne what she was doing. Besides, it wouldn’t matter to Gregory.
“I needed to think about something. I know it sounds crazy, with all the space we have at the house, but I, well—”
“Needed other space,” he finished for her. “I know how that is. Are you heading home now?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.” He gave her a brief, lopsided smile. “Behind me, you’ll be safer.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asked. His eyes still looked troubled.
He nodded, then returned to his car.
When they arrived home, Andrew pulled into the driveway after them.
He greeted Ivy, then turned to Gregory. “So how is your mother?”
Gregory shrugged. “Same as always.”
“I’m glad you went to visit her today.”
“I gave her your good wishes and fondest regards,” Gregory said, his face and voice deadpan.
Andrew nodded and stepped around a spilled box of colored chalk. He bent over to look at what had once been clean, white concrete at the edge of his garage.
“Is anything new with her? Is there anything I should know about?” he asked. He was studying the chalk drawings done by Philip; he didn’t catch the pause, didn’t see the emotion on Gregory’s face that passed as fast as it came. But Ivy did.
“Nothing new,” he said to his father.
“Good.”
Ivy waited till the door closed behind Andrew.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked Gregory.
He spun around, as if he had forgotten that she was there.
“Talk about what?”
Ivy hesitated, then said, “You just told your father that everything’s fine with your mom. But from the look on your face, at the intersection and just now, when you were talking about her, I thought maybe …”
Gregory played with his keys. “You’re right. Things aren’t fine. There may be some trouble ahead.”
“With your mother?”
“I can’t talk about it. Look, I appreciate your concern, but I can handle this myself. If you really want to help me, then don’t say anything to anyone, all right? Don’t even mention our little run-in. Promise me.” His eyes held hers.
Ivy shrugged. “Promise,” she said. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“In the middle of an intersection,” he said, giving her one of his wry smiles, then went inside.
Before going in, Ivy stopped to study Philip’s concrete masterpiece. She recognized the bright aqua of her water angel, and the strong brown lines of Tony. After a moment, she identified the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers. Philip’s dragons were easy to spot; they usually looked as if they had swallowed a vat of lighter fluid, and they always fought the Power Rangers and angels. But what was that? A round head, with funny bits of hair and an orange stick coming out of each ear?
The name was scrawled on the side. Tristan.
Picking up a piece of black chalk, Ivy filled in two olive teeth. Now he looked like the guy who was kind enough to cheer up an eight-year-old having a very tough day. Ivy remembered the look on Tristan’s face when she had yanked open the storeroom door. She threw back her head and laughed.
Back out now? Who was she kidding?
Tristan was sure he had scared Ivy away that first day, but she came back, and from the second lesson on he was very careful. He barely touched her; he coached her like a professional; and he kept dating what’s her name and that other girl. But it was getting more difficult for him each day, being alone with Ivy, standing so close to her, hoping for some sign that she wanted something other than lessons and friendship.
“I think it’s time, Ella,” he said to the cat after two frustrating weeks of lessons. “She’s not interested, and I can’t stand it anymore. I’m going to get Ivy to sign up at the Y.”
Ella purred.
“Then I’m going to find myself a monastery with a swim team.”
The next day he made a conscious decision not to change into his bathing suit. He pocketed a brochure for the Y, strode out of the pool office, then stopped.
Ivy wasn’t there. She forgot, he thought, then he saw Ivy’s towel and ponytail holder down by the deep end. “Ivy!”
He ran to the edge of the pool and saw her in the twelve-foot section, lying all the way at the bottom, motionless. “Oh, my God!”
He dove straight off the side, pulling, pulling through the water to get to her. He yanked her up to the surface and swam for the pool’s edge. It was difficult; she had come to and was struggling with him. His clothes were an extra, dragging weight. He heaved Ivy up on the side of the pool and sprang up beside her.
“What in the world—?” she said.
She wasn’t coughing, wasn’t sputtering, wasn’t out of breath. She was just staring at him, at his soaked shirt, his clinging jeans, his sagging socks. Tristan stared back, then threw his waterlogged shoes as far as he could, down several rows of bleachers.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
“What were you doing?”
She opened her hand to show him a shiny copper penny. “Diving for this.”
Anger surged through him. “The first rule of swimming, Ivy, is never, never swim alone!”
“But I had to do it, Tristan! I had to see if I could face my nightmare without you, without my—my lifeguard close by. And I could. I did,” she said, a dazzling smile breaking over her face. Her hair was hanging loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were smiling into his, the color of an emerald sea in brilliant sunlight.
Then she blinked. “Is that what you were doing—being a lifeguard, being a hero?”
“No, Ivy,” he said quietly, and stood up. “I was proving once again that I’m a hero to everyone but you.”
“Wait a minute,” she said, but he started to walk away.
“Wait a minute!” He didn’t get far, not with the weight of her hanging on to one leg.
“I said wait.”
He tried to pull away, but she had him firmly anchored.
“Is that what you want, for me to say you’re a hero?”
He grimaced. “I guess not. I guess I thought it would get me what I want. But it didn’t.”
“Well, what do you want?” she asked.
Was there any point in telling her now?
“To change into dry clothes,” he said. “I’ve got some sweats in my locker.”
“Okay.” She released his leg. But before he could move away, she caught his hand. She held it in both of her hands for a moment, then lightly kissed the tips of his fingers.
She peeked up at him, gave a little shrug, then let go. But now it was he who held on, twining his fingers in hers. After a moment of hesitation, she rested her head against his hand. Could she feel it—the way just her lightest touch made his pulse race? He knelt down. Taking her other hand in his, he kissed her fingertips, then he laid his cheek in her palm.
She lifted up his face.
“Ivy,” he said. The word was like a kiss. “Ivy.”
The word became a kiss.
P1-9
“He beat me!” Tristan said. “Philip beat me two out of three games!”
Ivy rested her hands on the piano keys, looked over her shoulder at Tristan, and laughed. It had been a week since their first trembling kiss. Every night she had fallen asleep dream
ing about that kiss, and each kiss after.
It was all so incredible to her. She was aware of the lightest touch, the softest brush against him. Every time he called her name, her answer came from somewhere deep inside her. Yet there was something so easy and natural about being with him. Sometimes it felt as if Tristan had been a part of her life for years, sprawled as he was now on the floor of her music room, playing checkers with Philip.
“I can’t believe he beat me two out of three!”
“Almost three out of three,” Philip crowed.
“That will teach you not to mess with Ginger,” Ivy said.
Tristan frowned down at the angel statue that stood alone on the checkerboard. Philip always used her as one of his playing pieces.
The three-inch china angel had once been Ivy’s, but when Philip was in kindergarten, he’d decided to pretty her up. Pink-frost nail polish on her dress and crusty gold glitter on her hair had given her a whole new look; and Ivy had given her to Philip.
“Ginger’s very smart,” he told Tristan.
Tristan glanced up doubtfully at Ivy.
“Maybe next time Philip will let you borrow her and you can win,” Ivy said with a smile, then turned to Philip. “Isn’t it getting late?”
“Why do you always say that?” her brother asked.
Tristan grinned. “Because she’s trying to get rid of you. Come on. We’ll read two stories, like the last time, then it’s lights out.”
He walked Philip down to his bedroom. Ivy stayed upstairs and began to flip through her piano books, looking for songs that Tristan might like. He was into hard rock, but she couldn’t exactly play it on the piano. He knew nothing about Beethoven and Bach. Tristan’s idea of classical music was the musicals from his parents’ collection. She ran through several songs from Carousel, then put the old book aside.
All night there had been music running through her like a silver river. Now she turned out the lights and played it from memory, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
Tristan returned in the middle of the sonata. He saw the slight hesitation in her hands and heard the pause in the music.
Kissed by an Angel/The Power of Love/Soulmates Page 7