Holly and Ivy

by Fern Michaels

  No, she could not let her thoughts go down that path. Not again. She knew what would happen. She would get into her car and drive to Lucky’s Liquors and come home with enough alcohol to keep her numb for weeks; then, when she had gone through her supply, she would do her best to stay sober, and would succeed until her thoughts once again took her down what she mentally referred to as the dark path, and she would trek back to the liquor store and restock her supply of booze.

  Ivy hated that she was so weak that she could not be strong like her father, but she couldn’t help it. Her life had been nearly perfect; then, boom, it was gone in a flash. She had never recovered and doubted that she ever would. One could not go on after such a tragedy . . . could they?

  Her father had, but she wasn’t as strong as he was. He’d lost his wife; as a single father, he raised his daughter; he ran a successful airline, and still headed it up to this very day. The great George Macintosh continued to thrive. And even though the airline had suffered a huge financial blow after the crash, it recovered and continued to fly high and flourish. When she walked down the dark path, her thoughts always questioned how her father could continue as CEO of Macintosh Air, knowing how many lives had been ruined by its mere existence. Then that little devil on her shoulder would remind her that because of her father’s perseverance, she would never have to worry about money for the rest of her life. He’d continued to pay out as a death benefit what John would be making if he were still alive. There were even annual raises and bonuses. And even though she had been left with an enormous amount of money from John’s life insurance, she was still on the payroll. And her father had never even mentioned the fact that she had not done a single day’s work since the crash. Her father was just that kind of man, and she truly was grateful for his continued generosity, which enabled her to . . . to what? Wallow in self-pity? Drink herself into a stupor, day after day? Contemplate taking her own life? Was he unknowingly enabling her?

  No, she thought. Her father was just being her father, taking care of her the way he had her entire life. Deep down, she knew she should make some attempt at a life, but she also knew that her heart just wasn’t in it. As it was, it was all she could do to get from one day to the next.

  Other than her morning hikes, the only times she left the house were for her trips to Lucky’s or the grocery store. And these trips to Pine City were rare, as most of her basic needs could be ordered online and delivered to her house. She had just discovered that Amazon was delivering groceries and planned to utilize the service, and maybe she would join one of those meal delivery services, too. She ordered books, sneakers, and anything else she needed online, so why not food? If they sold booze, she would buy that online, too.

  She made a mental note to do a Google search on alcohol sales via the Internet. There were wine clubs she could join, but she was not much of a wine drinker. No, she liked the hard stuff. Whiskey and vodka were her two best friends. Recently she had started to be a bit creative with her drinking, and had even purchased a book online for bartenders who wanted to go above and beyond the basics of alcohol consumption. She had ordered all kinds of mixers and found that she had actually begun to look forward to getting drunk at the end of the day. How pathetic was that?

  Three hours later, after she had showered, she booted up her laptop and began her search for online booze delivery services. She got thousands of hits and opened a few before she hit pay dirt. An app called Saucey promised to deliver whatever your heart desired, alcohol-wise, in under an hour. She downloaded the app to her laptop and cell phone. No more trips to Lucky’s. She knew that people in Pine City talked about her. More than once, she had heard people whispering, “loony bin” and “nut job.” She had even overheard a woman telling another that she “walked the streets at night, searching for her lost family.” The urge to slap the gossipy woman had been so strong, she had had to force herself to leave the grocery store, hence her latest desire to purchase her edibles online. Gone were the days of friendly chitchat in the checkout line at the grocery store. It was incidents like this that made her wish she lived in a larger city, simply for the anonymity it would offer. More than once, she had actually thought of moving, just to escape the memories. But she found that she could not, feeling this would be a form of abandonment. And she could never bring herself to leave behind what remained of her children. Her memories would always be with her, no matter where she lived; but every time she thought about moving away from Pine City, she found herself unable to justify leaving what little remained of them and felt disloyal even thinking about relocating. Their bedrooms. The rooms she had moved them into just weeks before the crash. Since waking up to the devastating news that her life as she had known it had come to a shattering end, she had never entered those rooms, and now, almost eight years after the fact, she did not dare do so for fear of her reaction. Someday, she supposed, she would have to, but she did not see that day coming anytime in the near future. Maybe she would never go inside their rooms. There was no reason to do so. Their toys, their clothes, all the possessions her three-year-olds had, were not going to ease her pain. Even after eight years, her grief was still so raw, she saw no reason to open up an even deeper wound, so she kept the doors to their bedrooms closed. When she had been tempted to enter, she had hired a local locksmith to install new locks and made him keep the keys. He’d thought she was crazy when she had asked this, but she paid him extra; to this day, she had never needed or wanted the keys.

  She placed the laptop on the coffee table and went to the kitchen to find something to eat. It was dinnertime, according to her stomach, then cocktail hour. Heating something that resembled macaroni, she took three bites, then tossed the cardboard container in the garbage. Without another thought, she pulled a bottle of vodka from its shelf and poured herself a tumbler full of the odorless drink before adding ice and a splash of tonic water.

  Today was going to end just like almost every other day had for the past few years.

  She planned to drink herself to sleep.

  Chapter 3

  George Macintosh had come to a decision. Eight years ago, when he’d started construction on The Upside, he’d built his own retirement home on the grounds, too. His thoughts at the time were that he was not getting any younger and had still not remarried. After the crash, it appeared as if Ivy would remain grief-stricken forever, so he did what he had to do and arranged to live at the prestigious adult retirement community. Now, at age sixty-six, he was ready to retire from the airline business and enjoy the fruits of his labor, at least to some extent. He was in relatively good health and could have remained in the house that he’d built when he and Elizabeth were newly married, the house in which he had raised Ivy, but he wanted something new, something without the memories. He’d even considered asking Margaret, the woman he’d dated for the past thirteen years, ever since Ivy had married John Fine, to move in with him, but Ivy would completely disown him if he did. Not that she did not like Margaret, because she did.

  However, George knew that his daughter, in a roundabout way, blamed Margaret for the death of her family in that airplane crash. Margaret’s son, Mark, had been the one piloting the plane whose tumble from the sky had ruined Ivy’s life. Add the fact that the NTSB had ruled that the accident was the result of pilot error, and he could only imagine how Ivy would react if he asked Margaret to move in with him.

  Ivy had told him numerous times that the only reason Macintosh Air had hired Mark was because of his connection with Margaret. Though George had not had anything to do with hiring Mark—any more than he played a role in hiring any of the pilots, copilots, flight attendants, mechanics, and the like—in Ivy’s mind, he was responsible just by virtue of his connection to Margaret. Mark had been extremely well qualified, a fact that was splashed across the news for months after the crash. Some had speculated that he’d been drinking, as Mark was known to be a party animal when off duty. There had been no evidence to verify or disprove this accusation, and there was no e
vidence to suggest that he had been partying before he was scheduled to pilot the plane. George chose to believe that something horrible had happened in the cockpit, something that Mark and his copilot, Gary Frudell, had not been able to control.

  Personally, he’d never ruled out an act of terrorism; though, again, none of the known terror groups claimed responsibility. But the thought had always lingered in the back of his mind. Three days before the crash, four members on the terrorist watch list had been spied at Charlotte Douglas International Airport. Two were arrested on various charges, and the other two remained unaccounted for, to this day. He believed they were on the flight that killed his son-in-law and grandchildren. No remains were found, so this theory, like the others, could never be proved, but it’s what he truly believed.

  He had tried telling this to Ivy, but she would not listen. Once the NTSB labeled it pilot error, she had never considered another possibility. He understood that she needed someone or something to blame. She had lost everything, and while he understood the loss of a spouse, he could not in his wildest dreams imagine what it would be like to lose a child. And Ivy had lost two children, as well as her husband.

  Though he knew better than most that there was no time limit on grief, he also knew one had to go on, move forward, and do one’s best to make the most of the life one had left. He’d tried; and on most days, he thought he’d been fairly successful. But now, he felt lower than low because he was about to issue Ivy an ultimatum. He did not want to, did not relish the idea of causing any unnecessary hurt to his daughter, but as her father, he had to do this. If she turned against him, he would find some way to deal with that, too, but he had to start sometime. He thought of the old saying: There is no time like the present.

  He reached for his cell phone and dialed Ivy’s cell number because she rarely, if ever, answered her landline. He looked at the clock. Half past seven, so she should still be awake.

  She answered on the sixth ring. Her words were slurred. “Hal . . . oh?”

  “Ivy? Are you all right?”

  Silence.

  “Ivy?” He raised his voice several octaves.

  “What?” she finally responded, though her words were sluggish.

  George realized that Ivy had been drinking again, so he’d have to postpone what he’d planned to tell her. He’d have to visit her, and it broke his heart every time he saw her, saw how she had let herself go.

  “I’m coming over in the morning, Ivy. Something has come up, and we need to discuss it ASAP, and I will not take no for an answer.”

  “Really?” she singsonged in her drunken voice.

  Even though she was no longer a child, but rather a thirty-six–year-old woman, he still felt responsible for her. You never stopped being a parent just because your child reached adulthood. If anything, being the parent of an adult child was tougher because you had no real control.

  “And I wish you would lay off the alcohol, Ivy. Really.” He put extra emphasis on the last word.

  Another period of silence.

  “I’m going to hang up now. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning. It’s important.” He hung up and did not wait for her reply.

  He had to help her see that her life was not over. Yes, she had suffered one of the worst blows life could deliver, but she could not spend the rest of her life holed up in her house drowning her sorrows in booze and self-pity.

  With renewed determination to help Ivy want to live again, he decided he really would give her an ultimatum. Come back to work or not. And if all worked as he’d like, she would take over the airline that had destroyed her life. If not, then his plan to sell it would proceed. They both needed a change.

  Chapter 4

  Ivy knew she had had too much to drink, but she hadn’t cared until after she hung up the phone and thought about the conversation with her father. Surely, he knew she had a good reason for getting smashed? She was not a candidate for rehab. Was this the reason for his early-morning visit tomorrow? Was he going to stage some sort of intervention? She hoped not, because she didn’t really have an issue with alcohol. It just numbed her for a while, allowed her to block out memories of the tragedy she had suffered, and, most of all, allowed her to sleep. Or pass out. Either way, it worked for her.

  She eyed the clock beside the bed. Eight o’clock was much too early to call it a night, so she reached for the remote and turned the TV to a news station. She listened for a few minutes, then switched over to a travel channel. She was a few minutes into a program when a commercial for Macintosh Air splashed across the screen. She turned the TV off, tossing the remote to the floor. Would the nightmare never end? Would she be reminded every single minute of every single day of what had happened eight years ago? Yes, she thought as she rolled over to the edge of the bed. This was her life, and unless she decided to end it, which she was too cowardly to do, she had better accept it. She wanted to move on, knew she should, but could not. Or maybe the truth was that she would not. For if she did, what would that say about her? As a wife? As a mother? She could not even begin to imagine where to start, even had she wanted to. There was absolutely nothing that could draw her away from the life she had made for herself. It might not be for most, but so far, it had worked for her, and she did not see herself changing anytime in the near future.

  The future, her future, terrified her. Deep down, a part of her knew she could not go on this way forever, but where to start? How? When her thoughts turned to the slightest possibility of a real future, her mind would shut down. This was a betrayal in every way, she tried to rationalize with herself. It was not fair to her children or John. Then the nagging voice of reality would edge its way in: They’re dead, and she had best move on.

  She sat up in bed and looked, really looked, at her surroundings. Closed draperies, chest and night tables layered with a thick film of dust, clothes tossed on the floor. She could not remember the last time she had actually changed the linens. A month ago? Or dusted the furniture or vacuumed the floors? This neglect of basic cleanliness seemed to have a sobering effect on her the way nothing else had. Without overthinking the situation, she immediately got out of bed.

  She removed the sheets and tossed them in a ball on the floor. Inside her closet, she grabbed a laundry basket, filled it with the clothes strewn about the floor, then added the sheets on top.

  In the laundry room, she filled the machine with hot water, detergent, and bleach, and placed the dingy sheets inside. She sorted the rest of her laundry in small piles according to color. Darks, lights, and whites. When she finished, she went to the kitchen and removed garbage bags, a can of furniture polish, and a bottle of window cleaner from under the kitchen sink. Before she could even begin to question her sudden urge to clean, she made fast work of dusting her entire bedroom. When she had finished, the dresser sparkled and smelled of lemons, and the night tables glistened.

  She opened the heavy drapes, then pulled the sheer drapes aside. She shook her head. Grabbing a wad of paper towels, she wiped several dead insects from the windowsill. Unlocking the window, she yanked hard before she was able to slide the window up. The screen was covered with dirt and bugs. She took a deep breath, wanting to close the window, but decided to leave it open. The evening air was cool and refreshing, with a slight pine scent in the air. She had no intention of washing windows, but she knew at some point that they’d have to be cleaned. Until then, she did what she could. She sprayed window cleaner on the sill and wiped away the dirt. Next she vacuumed the carpet, then added the attachment used for cleaning fabric. She ran it up and down the length of the draperies until the dust was no longer visible to the human eye.

  She sniffed the room and was satisfied with her work. She looked at the clock. It was half past ten. By now, she was usually seated in front of the television, with her drink of choice next to her, but tonight she just could not. She reasoned with herself that she had to get her act together for her father’s visit in the morning. Then again, that little nagging voice
of reason reminded her that her father was not going to look in her bedroom. She would be lucky if he stayed long enough to sit down. Though he had been to her house numerous times in the eight years since the accident, she had never felt the urge to clean. She kept the downstairs area presentable, but knew that if one looked closely, they’d see the dust and dirt accumulating in the corners and throughout. She always kept the drapes closed, but she knew where the dirt was. Before she changed her mind, she ran upstairs for the vacuum and the dusting polish. Two hours later, the living room shone like a star, the floors were free from dust, and she had even vacuumed those drapes as well. She polished the kitchen cabinets, removed some unknown gunk from inside the refrigerator, then scrubbed it clean. She scrubbed the countertops until there was not a single crumb to be found. She put the sheets in the dryer, then did a load of whites, pouring too much bleach on the clothes, but she did not care. She needed clean right now. Clothes and all.

  An hour later, when the buzzing of the dryer sounded, she almost jumped out of her skin. The house was always so quiet, minus the low voices on the downstairs television, that she could not remember the last time she had actually heard the dryer’s alarm go off. Normally, she would toss in what few items she actually washed in the machine at night; then she would put them in the dryer before leaving for her morning hike. She was never inside when the buzzing sounded.