At last she got back her concentration and worked hard for more than an hour.
When she finished, she played songs she knew by heart—?To Where You Are,? then ?Moonlight Sonata.? Several measures into Beethoven, she stopped. She was thinking about Guy, about the way he had wandered about the church while she played, and how he had known the name of the piece. She was thinking about Guy when playing Tristan?s song!
She dropped her hands in her lap. ?Why did you stop?? Ivy?s head jerked up. ?I didn?t hear you come in.?
?I know.? Guy was sitting on the end of a pew, halfway down the aisle of the small church. ?About ten minutes ago you were playing like a crazy woman, like you were performing at Lincoln Center.?
Lincoln Center? He knew what the concert hall was — another clue about his life, slight as it might be. “How was work?? she asked. ?You didn?t tell me why you stopped,? he replied.
Ivy turned all the way around on the piano bench. ?I don?t tell you everything.?
He smiled and let her off the hook. ?Work was terrific. It felt good to be doing something physical and thinking about nothing but what I was doing. The guy, Kip McFarland, is in his twenties and has a small landscaping business. The pay?s low, but it?s a start, and there?s a fringe benefit.?
?Which is??
?I get to sleep with the lawnmowers in an old barn. It has one window that isn?t covered, a toilet, and an outside shower. It also has a pile of useless stuff I?m supposed to clean out. Want to come see it??
?A pile of useless stuff? How could I resist?? a few minutes later, with Guy supplying directions, Ivy drove to Willow Pond, which was off Route 6A, close to the bay side of the cape.
A crushed stone drive led them through woods to an old clapboard house with gables and a wraparound porch. With a lot of hard work — and gallons of paintthe house, its weeping trees, and the round pond reflecting them would look like a scene on one of Aunt Cindy?s jigsaw puzzles.
?Kip and his wife bought the house last fall and are restoring it,? Guy said.
?They want to run a B and B some day, but they need money, so he does carpentry and landscaping, while she teaches, and in the summer helps him with the business.?
Guy led Ivy past the right side of the house to the barn. The gray wood structure leaned noticeably toward the surrounding woods, like a building seeking shade. ?Home sweet home,? he said. ?If you tilt your head, it looks straight.? Ivy grinned. ?I can?t wait to see inside.?
Moving from the bright June day into the building?s darkness. Ivy couldn?t see anything at first, but she could smell. ?I know,” Guy said, hearing her sniff. ?You get used to it.?
?Mulch. And fertilizer. Some.. very rich fertilizer.?
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting she saw the mountain of stuff that needed to be cleared out — furniture, books, lamps, lobster pots, and fishing gear that looked old enough to have been used by the pilgrims.
?Is there a light in here?” He pointed. ?Over the rider mower. Everything on that side is equipment for the landscaping business.? He picked up an old lantern. ?Kip?s wife is lending me this.? When he lit it, the lantern?s heavy, ringed glass glowed warmly. ?Oh, I like it!?
?I thought you might. Hey, here comes my new roommate, Fleabag.?
A skinny black?and?white cat had slipped through the open door and was sauntering toward them. ?You?re kidding, right??
?About the fleas or us being roomies??
?Both.?
Guy set down the lantern. ?Well, I was here for twenty minutes when Kip was showing me the place, and Flea?bag scratched himself for about ten of those minutes, then flopped down on my backpack.?
?I?ll get him some flea medicine.?
?You?ll be more successful getting it for me. Kip said it took forever to trap him and get him to a vet. He?s too feral to adopt, but he enjoys showing up now and then and hanging out. You can see why we?re meant for each other,? Guy added dryly.
?Yes.? Ivy surveyed the mess around them. ?So where exactly are you going to sleep? You could try that rafter, if you don?t mind hanging upside down by your feet.?
?I don?t mind, but I?m guessing it?s already taken by the bats. Thanks to you, however, I have my bedroll. I?ll just have to clear a space.? ?Let?s get started,? she said. ?Now??
??With two of us, it will be easier to move the big things,? Ivy told him. She eyed the cat. ?And I don?t think your roomy is going to lift a paw.? ?He will when we disturb a nest of mice.?
?Till then,” Ivy replied, picking up a chair with a missing leg and heading toward the door. She carried it out to the portable Dumpster that she had seen between the house and barn.
Guy followed with a bent floor lamp and old radio. ?If we can get the two sofas out of there,? he said, ?we?ll have some elbow room to work.?
A short sofa with exposed springs was fairly easy to move, but the other one, a sleeper that kept unfolding, was twice as heavy. Ivy and Guy tugged and pulled and dragged.
?How are you doing?? Guy asked when they were almost to the door. Sweat dripped in her eyes and made tiny rivulets between her ears and cheeks. ?Okay.
Hey! Look how clean your floor is where we?ve scraped it.?
?That?s where my bedroll will go,? he said. Why don?t we leave this here for now? I?ll ask Kip about using his trailer. If we drag the sofa across the lawn, we?re going to take the grass with us, roots and all.? ?Agreed.?
They found brooms among Kip?s lawn equipment and swept the concrete floor, beginning to make a space for Guy, then set to work on the pile of stuff. It was a kind of treasure hunt, and they began calling out ?Loot!? when one of them found something of interest — a lamp base shaped like a rearing horse, magazines from the sixties, a turntable with a scratched record still on it—?Chad and Jeremy,? Ivy read from the label, then shrugged and carried it outside.
They settled into a comfortable rhythm, examining, sharing, walking back and forth to the Dumpster.
At one point Ivy saw Guy walk into the shed with an armful of
?I know, but they looked interesting.? He placed them next to his bedroll, with the magazines from the sixties. After rolling out a rusty push mower, he returned with a stack of old science books. This time Ivy didn?t comment; after all, it was his place.
Between the two of them, they carried out a heavy sink. ?Look at this!? he said, holding up several sports books filled with pictures and large print, apparently written for children. He tucked them under his arm and carried them back to the shed.
When, two hours and many books and magazines later, he added to his stacks the cookbooks that Ivy had just carried to the Dumpster, she could keep silent no longer. ?Did you happen to notice you don?t have a kitchen? ?
?I might someday.? Ivy laughed.
?Time for a break. Let’s sit in the living room,? he said, gesturing to the bedroll.
?Something to drink?? He opened his backpack and drew out two bottles of water. Ivy took a long drink, then wiped her sweaty face on her sleeve. ?Nice shade of dirt you?re wearing,? he remarked. She touched her cheek.
?Other side,” he said, then reached and softly wiped that cheek. For a moment.
Ivy couldn?t breathe, couldn?t speak. She was under a spell from the touch of his fingers. Then something brushed past them— Fleabag. Ivy quickly turned away from Guy, acting as if her attention had been caught by the cat.
?Now you show up,? Guy grumbled to Fleabag, then rested against his backpack. ?It’s shaping up. I like it,? he said, surveying the piles of books and magazines encircling them. ?It?s homey.?
Homey, thought Ivy. That was how she would describe the house where Tristan had lived with his parents. She remembered the first time she saw it, when Tristan adopted her cat, Ella. Their living room was buried under books and magazines. ?You?re smiling,? Guy said. She shifted back to the present. ?If s comfortable, but not my
