by Laura Simcox
Ivy grinned back, her lips trembling from the strain. Where the hell was Preston? He’d told her early this morning that he’d stay after the ribbon cutting and give her moral support. Not that she’d asked him to stay or even really wanted him there, but it would have been nice to have some representative of the town government at the event who wasn’t being mauled in public.
Ben stopped the needle, and Ivy let out a huge sigh. “Is that it?” she asked hopefully.
He chuckled. “Not quite. Just prepping the third color.”
Ivy held back a moan. “Okay. At least that’s the last one.”
Ben’s hand stilled. “Um…no. You picked a design with four colors,” he replied.
Her eyes widened. “I did not. In the book you showed me, design number eight had three shades of green.”
“Number eight?” Ben cleared his throat and frowned. “No. You chose eighteen.”
Ivy sat up carefully and flashed a quick smile to the crowd. She turned to him. “You are doing the ivy leaves, right?”
Ben shook his hair from his eyes. “Of course,” he said under his breath. “You’re not changing your mind midtattoo, are you?”
“Is it finished, honey?” Alberta called. “Let’s see it!”
Ivy reached out a shaking hand and gripped Ben’s pirate arm. “What design did you do? Didn’t I decide on number eight? You showed me the transfer on my ankle before you started. It was number eight,” she hissed.
Ben shook his head. “Ivy, I realize you’re nervous, but try to relax. I told you earlier that you don’t want number eight,” he said in a soothing voice.
Ivy stared at him. “Why not? It’s pretty.”
“That depends on if you’re a fan of the ganja,” he said with a smile.
“The…” Ivy sucked in a breath. Oh, no. Weed? Did number eighteen look like weed, too? God, she hoped not. Bending over her leg, Ivy lifted it sideways and stared at the dark green outlines covered with welling drops of blood. The reddened skin around the jumble of lines on her ankle burned like an inferno.
“Wipe the blood off, please,” she ordered softly.
Ben cleared his throat and dabbed at the tattoo with a fresh towel. “It’s not finished yet, so don’t worry.” He laughed. “I haven’t added the vines yet. That’s the fourth color.”
“Are you sure it won’t look like the mayor of Celebration just got wacky tobacc-y imbedded in her skin?” she demanded in a harsh whisper.
A pained look crossed Ben’s face. “It will look like ivy. I promise.”
She nodded. “Okay.” She smiled again, trying to appear calmer this time. “Sorry. It’s just that those two designs look so similar,” she whispered before lying back down in the chair.
Ben reached to his left for a black binder and flipped through the plastic sleeves inside. He leaned close. “Okay. Look again.” He lowered the binder until it was behind the chair and flipped it around, pointing between the two drawings. He gave her an appeasing look. “Good?”
Ivy glanced at the page and her eyes widened. Thank God she hadn’t actually picked number eight. It totally looked like pot. “Good.”
The front door of the shop creaked open and Ivy craned her neck to see who was coming in. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a hint of a suit-sleeve cuff and the gleam of a large silver watch. She heard a deep voice murmuring “hello,” and her heart skipped a beat. Marcus. With wary eyes, she watched him weave through the crowd and when he got close to her, he stopped. His gaze rested on Ben for a second, and then he held out a hand to her.
She frowned at him. What the hell? Saturday night he’d turned his back on her, literally. It had been humiliating, and now he was trying to keep up appearances in public? No fucking way. She folded her hands across her stomach and stared at the ceiling.
Marcus touched her shoulder. “I meant to be here earlier, but I had a meeting with Preston and it ran long.”
Her hands rose and fell on her stomach as her breath quickened. So that’s where Preston had been, probably filling Marcus in on all the smarmy details of her plan to get a buyer for the bakery before the Megamart came up for a vote. Yay. But then again, would Marcus be here if he knew? She ignored the guilt that stabbed through her and concentrated on the tattoo pain instead.
Marcus coughed. “Mind if I take a look at your leg?”
Ivy glanced at him. “Why?”
He leaned close, blocking her body from the view of the crowd. “I heard a rumor that you were getting a…controversial tattoo,” he muttered.
Ivy frowned. “Why would you think—”
“Crystal’s brother came into the diner a few minutes ago,” Marcus interrupted. “Apparently the kid has an eagle eye. And I got the feeling he’s no stranger to special brownies.”
Ivy shook her head. “I’m fine.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the buzz of the tattoo needle began again. When it hit her skin, she dug her nails into her palms. “I really want to say fuck about a billion times right now.” And it wasn’t just because of the pain from the needle.
Making the decision to sleep with Marcus hadn’t been easy. Well, for her body it had been, but her heart was another matter. She’d made a valiant effort to keep her attraction to Marcus a secret from her heart, but somehow it had found out. And now her heart was bruised, angry, and getting angrier every second Marcus stood next to her. Could he pick a more vulnerable moment to torture her?
She let out a slow breath. At some point, she’d have to confront him, but for now pride was keeping her from it. She had a lot of pride.
“Hanging in there?” murmured Marcus. He squatted next to the table and began stroking her hair.
Why did he have to do that? Every part of her felt like it was on fire, and she could feel sweat trickling down the small of her back. It didn’t help that he was causing other parts of her to heat up, too. And he was doing it in public.
Ben stopped the buzzing for a minute, and Ivy shifted in the chair, pulling away from Marcus’s hand. “Back off,” she hissed at him. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but now is a sucky time.”
His expression changed and his anger fought with his clear desire to keep up appearances. He dropped his hand and stood up.
Ben looked over at him and nodded in Marcus’s direction. “Hey, man, what’s up?”
“Just keeping the mayor company,” Marcus responded, giving Ben a dismissive glance
Ben smiled as he chose a new bottle of ink. “Cool. But do you mind if I finish up here?”
“No,” said Marcus, with barely a glance in the man’s direction. He didn’t move.
Ivy turned her head and stared at Marcus. “Leave,” she whispered.
He didn’t respond, but she noticed the tight set of his jaw and the stubborn way he folded his arms. Was he jealous? Of Ben? How fucking ridiculous. Marcus had rejected her.
Ivy took a breath. “It’s a little crowded right here. Would you please just go keep my mother company?” On her other side, she heard Ben clear his throat, and the buzzing started again. She swallowed against the pain.
Marcus hesitated, and for a moment Ivy thought he wasn’t going to move. He rarely did anything that he didn’t want to do, but even he had to realize that this was neither the time nor the place for a confrontation. She glanced at him, and he backed up, mumbling, “No problem.”
But there was a problem. And the more she thought about it, the more tangled it became. As much as she’d like to wallow in righteous anger, she worried that the unspoken resentment between them was her fault, too. She’d betrayed him with her intention to stomp all over his dream. And he probably knew it.
The buzzing stopped and Ben looked up. “The fourth color was a quick one.” He grinned down at her. “Finished.” Applause broke out, and Ivy managed a weak smile and a wave.
“How was it, honey?” called Alberta.
“Piece of cake,” Ivy lied easily.
She’d been doing a lot of that lately.
<
br /> …
On Thursday morning, Marcus stood in a narrow aisle of Just the Essentials, Celebration’s newest downtown addition, and reached to grab a can of cat food from a top shelf. “This one?” he asked.
Alberta squinted up. “That should do.” She glanced around the crowded convenience store. “I don’t normally buy this brand, but I did want to support the grand opening. Isn’t this place nice?”
Marcus smiled and nodded his agreement. The store had been a big hit this morning, and dozens of people had shown up for the ribbon cutting. Not as big as the crowd at the tattoo parlor three days before but solid. Ivy had seemed pleased, but she’d also avoided looking at him so he didn’t know any more than that. Not that he had tried to make eye contact—he’d just stared at her when her back was turned. And then while he’d been busy shaking hands with the owner of the store, she’d left.
He knew he had to talk to her. The churning feeling in his gut wasn’t going anywhere, even though he’d been focusing on getting to Herman and trying to push away the betrayal he still felt from Ivy’s secret plan. But ever since Marcus had met with Preston, Herman had been holed up in his house, refusing to answer the door, making it harder to achieve his goal. What was Marcus supposed to do? Break it down? At this point, he was almost considering it.
Alberta squeezed his arm. “You okay, dear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Marcus gave her a wink and she smiled, ducking her head as she meandered toward the register.
As Marcus turned away, a familiar, slurred voice made his back stiffen.
“Where ya keep the beer?”
Herman. Of course. The old man would have to come out of hiding to replenish his alcohol supply.
Marcus stepped around customers and wove his way to the front of the store to block Herman’s escape. He looked at his uncle’s back with loathing.
Dan Hammer, the bearded, heavyset proprietor shot a false smile at Herman. “I don’t sell beer.”
“Huh? Ain’t this a convenience store? Now how convenient is that?” Herman continued with a rusty laugh. He stumbled, and several people gave him a wide berth as he clutched to a bread display near the end of an aisle.
“Guess it’s not convenient for someone who wants beer at ten on a Thursday morning,” Dan replied. “But no one else seems to mind.” He drummed his fingers on the counter for a second and then turned to rearrange a display of gum and candy.
Marcus eyed Herman’s back and walked forward. “Herman.”
Herman turned with a jerk. “Oh. Hiya, Toothpick.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Well, I’m busy,” Herman snapped. “Hey. This place reminds me a little bit of the old drugstore. I can almost picture you wearing that lil’ apron and sweeping. Remember that?”
Marcus stared at him. “Of course. I was fourteen and proud to have a job.”
“Didn’t pay you squat. Old MacNamara was always such a tight ass.” Herman stuck his hands in his back pockets and grinned.
“We have business to discuss,” Marcus said.
Herman snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He took hold of Herman’s spindly arm and caught Dan’s eye. “The store looks great.” He cut his eyes toward Herman, who was swaying slightly. “Sorry about this. My uncle drinks too much.”
“No problem.” Dan said. “Have a good one.”
Not likely.
“You too,” he said, nodding at Dan.
Marcus hauled Herman out of the store and down the sidewalk. “I know you still own that land,” he said in an even voice. Beside him, Herman was silent.
“And you own the Parliament Bakery building,” Marcus continued as he marched Herman toward the curb. He stopped next to his car and unlocked it with the remote key.
What little color there was in Herman’s craggy face drained away. He craned his neck and shot a nervous glance around the sidewalk. “Keep your voice down.”
Marcus drilled him with a steely stare. “Like I said, we have business to discuss.”
“I’m not sure what good this is gonna do since I’m not selling,” countered Herman. He passed a gnarled hand over his face and reached for the limp handkerchief in his back pocket. He shook it out and wiped his lips.
Marcus leaned in close. “Oh, you’re selling. That is, unless you are interested in giving a seminar to the citizens of Celebration about the ins and outs of sabotaging Jim Parliament’s insurance policy. If so, I’m sure something can be arranged.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Herman sputtered in outrage, but Marcus could see the fear in his beady eyes.
“Get in my car,” Marcus ordered.
With a nervous glance around, Herman stepped off the curb and got in.
As they drove out away from Main Street, the only sound was the crunching of snow under the tires and Herman’s wheezy breath. Marcus parked in front of Herman’s house and turned to him. “I’m coming inside, and I’m not leaving until you hand me the deeds for both properties.”
Herman screwed up his lips. “I don’t know where they are.”
“Like hell you don’t.” Marcus turned off the ignition and got out of the car. In the cold morning air, he took a deep breath and blew it out in a cloud. If that old man didn’t produce those deeds, he had no problem tearing the house apart looking for them. He just didn’t want it to come to that because something had to go right. He was sick of facing obstacle after obstacle in Celebration. This was his career they were messing with, his dream.
He walked around the car and jerked open the passenger door. “Come on.”
“Goddamn, boy. Settle down.” Herman slid out of the seat and grasped the door frame. He walked up the steps to the front door and unlocked it.
Marcus was right on his heels, and before Herman could head to the kitchen for a drink, Marcus steered him to the right into the musty sitting room. He nodded toward a large glass-fronted corner cabinet stuffed with junk—Herman had always kept anything important in there.
“Look for it,” he said, pointing.
With a grunt, Herman walked around the sofa and fumbled under the cabinet. He grabbed a small key and unlocked the door. “Ain’t sure what’s in here.”
With a sigh, Marcus strode across the room and reached onto the third shelf of the cabinet, moving aside crumbling shoeboxes of old receipts. When he touched a metal box, he pulled it out. “Where’s the other key?”
Herman let out a hacking cough and grabbed a vase from the fireplace mantle. He turned it over and a key fell onto the worn rug. Marcus grabbed it and unlocked the box. Right on top was the deed to the bakery. Underneath that was an envelope, yellowing at the edges. He tossed it onto the cluttered coffee table, and Herman snatched it up.
Marcus continued to riffle through the box and, near the bottom, he spotted the land deed. He allowed himself a grim smile and slipped it into the breast pocket of his trench coat along with the bakery deed.
“Are you stealing from me?” Herman asked. His eyes were hard and glittering.
Marcus let out a short laugh. “Fortunately for you, none of your deceitfulness rubbed off on me.”
“I wouldn’t say none.” Herman gave him a calculating stare. “You ain’t lily-white.”
Marcus didn’t comment. “Name your price, and I’ll whittle it down until it’s fair.”
“You can whittle all you want, but nothing’s going to be legal without a notary. And I know you don’t want this business spread all over the place. Who the hell are you gonna ask to notarize?” Herman smirked.
Marcus pulled his phone out and dialed. “Parliament? I pinned him down at his house.” He paused. “I don’t care if you’re in Ivy’s office. Make an excuse, get your notary stamp, and get over here.” He hung up and turned to Herman. The old man gaped at him.
Marcus had pictured this moment, but the satisfaction he thought he’d feel wasn’t there. He didn’t want to gloat. He just wanted to get the hell out of t
here.
…
As Ivy stood by the gazebo on Saturday morning, she watched Preston shiver and reach down to scratch his knee through the lime-green tights that stretched around his legs like sausage casings. He turned and scowled at her. Despite her weariness, she let out a laugh, not feeling the least bit guilty for manipulating him into being Santa’s elf. It hadn’t been hard, either. All she’d had to do was suggest that she ought to call George Parker and invite him to Celebration to discuss the sale of the bakery. Preston’s eyes had bugged out, and he’d offered himself up as Santa’s helper, as long as Ivy kept her nose out of the bakery deal. He’d promised to get an answer from George as to whether or not George intended to visit Celebration. It was weird how possessive he was being, though, about her involvement. He wanted the property sold too, so why not let her help?
Plus, there were only three days left before the vote on the Megamart, and what Preston didn’t know was that as soon as the Christmas Festival was over today, she fully intended to go back to her office and make that call to George. If he was as interested as Preston intimated, then hopefully she could at least go to the town-council meeting on Tuesday with an offer in hand from Great Northern Novelty.
She shot Preston a smile and watched as he paced back and forth inside the gazebo, slapping his giant plastic elf shoes on the weathered wooden floor. Next to him, her dad waved a white-gloved hand at the gathering crowd. He patted his round, red belly.
“Ho, ho, ho!” he boomed and then glanced sideways. “Try not to look like you’re headed to the guillotine, Parliament. Be a good elf.”
“I’m trying,” replied Preston in a sullen voice.
“No, you’re not. Now pull up your big-boy stockings and fix your jester hat. We’ve got customers.” Brian stepped forward and boomed out another “Ho, ho, ho.”
Preston sighed and grabbed a handful of candy from the bag looped over his shoulder. “Merry Christmas,” he shouted, letting the candy fly over the steps of the gazebo. It scattered on the ground and the kids in line to see Santa scrabbled on the snow, shouting in delight.
Ivy remembered being one of those kids. She smiled and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, elf! Throw some more.”