by Isla Dean
“Good.” He laid a kiss on her mouth, then another because he could.
“Good,” she repeated.
“You kept a cool head on the ride over. You all right?”
Looking out toward where her mother was fussing over where the towels should be placed, she watched a woman she felt no connection with take control of the environment around her, even in the smallest of ways.
“Yeah. My mom’s pretty incredible actually, judgment of me aside. She creates her world how she wants it. My wants and my desires just don’t fit into that picture so she doesn’t know what to do with me. It’s not her fault, we’re just different. After all, she did name me after a toxic plant, and she named my sister after her favorite flower. We clearly see the world in different ways.”
“Most people would argue until the other person saw things their way.”
“I’m used to seeing and understanding things differently than others. I’m just not ‘most people.’”
“No,” he said, intertwining their fingers together. “You’re definitely not.”
His eyes, the same green as the lush fern gulley that grew around them, scanned her face.
She waited a moment, let her mind wander into lust.
When his phone rang, she took a deep breath of transition and slid her supply bag from her shoulder. It was time to get to work.
Aiden answered the call and wandered off while she spread the blanket she’d brought. She pulled out her bound book of watercolor paper and collection of Tombow pens. Her plan—well, her change of plan given that she wasn’t by herself in her own cocoon of solitude—was to sketch, using the paint of the watercolor markers, then create paintings from the sketches upon return. If she could get a couple of decent outlines going, she’d consider the afternoon a productive one.
Plus she’d brought one stretched piece of cold press paper that she’d taped to a board—just in case she wanted to attempt a full painting.
Ivy gave herself a few pages for fast pencil sketches—finding a perspective, letting the images unfold. Her mom and sister sat on the tops of boulders and, because they were busy moving only their mouths, she drew the outline of them, then the detail, and felt the image flow.
Pulling out her smaller sketchbook she used to wet the Tombow pens, she scribbled colors of yellow and brown on the top page, then recapped the pens and set them aside. Then she poured water from her bottle into a square plastic container and pulled out one of her brushes. Dipping the brush into the water then swiping it over the marks from the Tombow pens to create paint, she began with the shadowed side of her mother’s face.
Helen Van Noten was beautiful—the strong cheekbones, sharp jaw. She was staunch in her beauty and relentless in her composure.
Ivy, on the other hand, figured she had inherited a watered down version of that. She was staunch—on the inside. She was relentless—on the inside. But those colors hadn’t seeped through to the outside, she thought. For better or worse.
As she painted, she heard only the rush of the roaring waterfall and forgot the stark sounds of disagreement. She found understanding through viewing the differences. It was the gift of being an artist—seeing the flawless center behind what would otherwise be viewed as a flaw.
Not to imply that she wasn’t still frustrated by her family’s lack of regard for who she was. The frustration was simply one part of the whole.
Her favorite art teacher had taught her that in order to paint wholly, one needed to embrace imperfections, to find them and use them, as they are what makes a thing beautiful. If an apple is painted as a perfect, unblemished apple that we see in our mind, that is a creation from our expectation of perfection. If an apple is painted with its spots and scars and dented, crooked bits, then we are painting life in its purest form of beauty. And when it’s painted with a feeling about the subject, a clear flow of emotion and sense of the world, sense of the subject, that’s when a painting becomes art.
And that lesson had struck a tender nerve in Ivy. It was how she’d gotten through the years of living with a family that had many imperfections—especially with regards to their view of her. She understood what it meant to embrace flaws and to feel them, but not to take them personally and instead see them as if they were just part of the picture.
But what was her perspective about those flaws? How did she feel about them?
She slid the brush over more paint, saturating it, then went to work with expressive lines, slim shadows, and swift, encompassing colors, expressing how she felt.
“Ivy Van Noten, you’re being unsociable. We came all the way here to visit you and you’re over there doing God knows what.” Her mother’s voice carried over the constant rush of water.
And just like that, her peace was pulled underwater and what bubbled up was less than pleasant. Ivy took a settling breath as she continued painting, not looking up. “I told you that I would need to work, Mom. I’m glad you two are able to relax though. It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” she asked, attempting deflection.
Ivy lifted her eyes from behind her sunglasses to see her mother flick a dismissive hand through the air then return to talking to Iris.
Good. Helen was once again occupied with something other than Ivy. At least, occupied by something other than talking to Ivy.
She dove back in, her movements fast and full of feeling and flow. There was too much to think about—her mother and the myriad of emotions entwined with their relationship, her ex-husband and the idea that he was getting married, maybe right at that moment, and Aiden. Aiden who was strong and handsome and had a knack for being there for her, with her, when she needed him most.
There, she decided, back on track. She wouldn’t think about any of the other thoughts that collected in her mind like a collage. She’d let the thoughts continue on like a swift stream while she kept ahold of that feeling Aiden gave her, that feeling of being desired, as her lens through which she’d paint her perspective. That lens had a brightness to it—not a rosiness, nothing so cliché, she clarified to herself as she painted—but it was as if every color had a dash more pigment to it.
She sketched the picture her mother and sister made, then sketched another from a different angle. Two women seated at the edge of a pool of water, discussing whatever stories of life popped into their heads, sun streaming through a canopy of green, casting shadows of dark leaves around them.
And just as they dipped their toes into the water, Ivy dipped into her imagination, staying seeped in the swirling colors, rich sounds, and vibrant visual images, forgetting all else.
Time simply stilled as she soared…
A scattering of finches fluttered by and woke Ivy from the zone she’d been in. Minutes, thankfully, hadn’t tracked every moment in her mind, but she briefly wondered how long they’d been at the waterfall.
Studying the scenes she’d painted, the placement of light and shadow, she noted that the sun had moved since she began. And now that she was looking at the motion of colors and shades, the setting had a movement to it that she liked. She sat back, refocused her eyes to take in the whole of it rather than the detail she’d been dialed into. The falling water poured life into the scene and everything around it reacted to that.
Except, she noted, her mother. Her mother was too much of a force of life on her own to react to a waterfall.
Funny how things became clearer when they were painted as an impression, Ivy thought with a thrill. She understood the world when she painted it on paper, so much more than she did in the everyday manifestation of things.
“Will you kill me if I say that’s astoundingly awesome?”
Ivy angled her head toward Aiden who’d walked up behind her. “Why would I kill you for saying something so kind?”
“Because I’m looking at it. I know you don’t like that.”
“Lucky for you, this one’s done,” she said, feeling its completeness. “Plus, dragging your body out to sea after I killed you would be too much effort on a day like tod
ay.”
“Thank God for that.”
“How was your call?” She rose, standing beside him, stretching the muscles of her arms, rolling her neck and hearing cracks as she did.
When he didn’t respond, she looked up to him.
“I told him—my father—I was sending someone from my team to negotiate the deal in London.”
“And how did he take it?”
“Not well. He demanded I leave tonight. After we hung up, I got word that the company jet is on its way to the private airport here on Parpadeo.”
“Oh.” Feeling the buzz of the morning wash away, she reminded herself that he was only there temporarily anyway. It didn’t matter for how long, did it? It couldn’t matter. He had a life and he had to get on with it. “It’s a tiny airport not too far from here. Well, nothing’s that far, I suppose. I’m happy to drive you whenever the plane gets here.”
“Thanks,” he said then wandered over to the base of the waterfall.
She’d watched his face set, his jaw tighten and wondered what it all meant. Brimming with more clashing emotion than she cared to consider at that moment, she walked to the Jeep to retrieve her board and paper, then returned and began sketching the man on the rock.
She certainly had a perspective about Aiden James, and she was desperate to paint out the hard fist that clenched in her chest at the thought of him leaving.
His mind was a jumbled mess and he wasn’t a messy man. He traveled with one bag no matter where he went, and went about life carrying very little to make a mess with. Plus, admittedly, he wasn’t in one place long enough to create messes. And he liked it like that, just like that.
At least, he used to.
The nagging grind of a conversation he was having in his head throbbed with thoughts. What if his father acquired Villa Blue? He knew the answer to that—it would be stripped and turned into a luxury resort. And what if his father didn’t acquire it but someone else did? Likely a similar scenario, or worse.
That loud grind in his head kicked up a few notches, grating against questions.
What if he bought Villa Blue? What if he renovated it but kept the integrity of the place intact? What if he could find investors to make it happen the right way—give it the repairs it needed, make improvements to the main structure and courtyard, enhance the business end of things, but kept it more low key than his father would?
Then he could visit on a regular schedule. He could stop by on the way to wherever, manage remotely when he wasn’t there.
Only that didn’t fit, didn’t jive with the image in his mind. He would’ve laughed if his head hadn’t been pounding—he was starting to sound like Ivy with all the imagery in his brain.
He liked being around Ivy, liked the way she saw life. It didn’t hurt that he wanted to rip her clothes off every time he was around her either. Those wide eyes, that full mouth, determined chin, all part of a petite little package that made him want to glide his hands over her, feeling her, consuming her.
He wasn’t ready to board a plane and leave Parpadeo. He wasn’t ready to leave Ivy—he was just starting to understand her.
And wasn’t she fascinating? Her mother had thrown some darts her way, sharp ones, and instead of bowing down or blowing up, Ivy simply lost herself in her art.
Aiden glanced at her, watched her as she painted. The unsmiling mouth, the furrowed brow, the squinting eyes and sunglasses tucked into the collar of her shirt. She was looking at him from a million miles away and yet, he decided, she was also zoning in on him in a way that made him feel naked.
Then he thought of her naked and decided he better think of something else fast. He was, after all, sitting near her mother.
“How are you two liking the island?” he asked Helen and Iris who were seated on the other side of the rocky curve around the waterfall.
Instead of responding, they each stood, stepped across the shallow edge of the pool, then took a seat on the set of rocks closest to him. Aiden could find a way to get along with anyone—it was part of his job—so he companionably dipped his feet into the cool collection of water to chill his thoughts, waiting while they settled into their new spots.
“Now that’s better than shouting at one another,” Helen said conclusively.
“This feels so good,” Iris closed her eyes as her face soaked up every ray of sunshine. “I haven’t gotten a real tan in ages. Like, by the sun. I always put on self-tanner otherwise I’d be super pale.”
Helen merely pursed her lips then went back to addressing Aiden. “So, you work in business, right? Business development, you said?”
“That’s correct, yes.”
“And what brings you to the island because there can’t be much big business happening here. And you look like a man who deals in big business.”
“I’ve been looking into an opportunity for my father’s company.”
“You work for your father then?”
“I do.”
“Good man. It’s important for a child to learn from his or her father. Ivy’s father is a doctor, a surgeon. If there’d been a pre-med boarding school nearby, we’d have put Ivy in it. The girl just didn’t have a mind for medicine, but we certainly gave her the opportunities. Tell me, do you do well for yourself?”
“I do,” he told Helen, fighting back the urge to defend Ivy, to protect her from the terse jabs he hoped she didn’t feel from where she painted.
“Well, good for you. And your father? He’s a strong man?”
“Strong would be a good word to describe him, yes.”
“So, how long have you been dating my daughter?
He wanted to slide off the rock into the water. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know Ivy, but I’m afraid I have to leave this evening.”
The lines around Helen’s firm mouth deepened in disapproval. “You’re too strong a man for her anyway. You’ve got a strong lineage and so does she. She just turned out to be weak-minded for some reason.”
Aiden’s back went up and he started to correct her, but instead he shifted to watch Ivy approach.
“You know I’m not deaf, Mother. I can hear what you’re saying about me.”
“Nothing I said should be any surprise to you. I speak truth, the way it is. Nothing I said was rumor of any kind so you go back to doing whatever it is that you’re doing.”
Heat spread through Ivy’s body as she watched her mother’s hand flutter toward the spread of paints and paper. “You have no right coming here and insulting me.”
“I’m your mother,” Helen said firmly. “I have all the right I need.”
Frustration pooled in Ivy’s eyes and she pushed it back with every ounce of resistance she had in her. “You don’t know me or understand me, have never known or understood me. And that’s okay. It has to be okay, right? Because otherwise it hurts too much to know that my own mother doesn’t even want to know who I am.”
“God dammit, Ivy, stop behaving like some weakling,” Helen shifted off the rock and onto solid ground. “How’d you turn out like this? How? I raised you to be a strong woman, have a strong stance in life, but somehow you were born without a backbone, without oomph, and I’m sorry for that. I gave birth to you so it must be my fault, right? It’s my fault you weren’t strong enough to keep your husband, you’re not strong enough to face it and deal with it and get on with life. It’s all my fault, isn’t it?”
A white-hot blaze erupted inside of Ivy. All the years of making peace with her mother, her family, scorched to a thin black crisp and anger spewed from the depths of her. “I may not be strong like you, Mom, but I’m strong like me. You gave me strength to be myself, to not be like anybody else, and if you can’t see that, that’s your issue, not mine.
“If you don’t love me for being me, then that’s your problem. If you can’t accept me for being me, for doing what I want, then that’s your problem too.” Tears spilled over now and Ivy quickly palmed them away, needing to get out the flaming flow of emotion that burned in her heart, to
say what needed to be said.
“Greg loved me for who he thought I was, not who I really was, and that’s why our marriage didn’t work. And it’s okay because the truth is that I love my life right now. I’m happier than I’ve ever been and I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. I wish with all my heart that you could accept that.”
“You want me to accept that you’re ruining your life? Taking a little time to get over your devastation is one thing, and that’s normal enough. But I’m your mother and I’ll be dammed if I stand by and let you toss away your potential because you’re happy being in hiding.”
“My potential to what?” Ivy’s chest heaved in frustration. “And I’m not hiding! I am living my potential, more than I ever have. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you see that I’m brave like you want me to be? Strong like you want me to be? Why can’t you see that I am those things? And maybe I’m not normal according to other people but why should I be? This is supposed to be my life according to me. Not my life according to anyone else.”
“This is not a life, Ivy Van Noten,” Helen’s voice thundered out. “You’ve become an embarrassment to this family, hiding away on some island, doodling all damn day. We raised you to contribute to society, to give to the world in important ways. We wanted more for you.”
Maybe for the first time in her life, Ivy’s voice deepened with all the strength she had in her and she turned herself inside out and simply roared. “I am giving to the world. I’m giving my heart, my soul, to everything I create, everyday. I’m giving from the truest part of who I am when I paint. I can’t argue that I’m saving lives, Mother, but I am sure as hell saving my own.”
Helen huffed, hands fisted at her hips. “When are you going to get back to reality?”
“This is my reality!”
Her mother didn’t back down—she was a woman with the fortitude to fight—and instead squared her shoulders. “Selfish is what that sounds like. You’re supposed to be a doctor, a lawyer, a wife, a mother, to serve on non-profit boards. It’s the right thing to do.”