Ivory Lake

Journal Entry 1

Most people would find what I’m about to say selfish, but I couldn’t disagree more. Suicide was her only option. In her death, she put us all out of our misery. Let me tell you why.

Clara suffered from what’s called Bipolar Type Schizoaffective disorder. There were days when the voices were too strong, and begged her to take her own life—the ones that promised a salvation that living had denied her. Those were the days she begged us to tie her to the bed. There were also nights when she cleaned for hours, scrubbing until her fingers were raw and bloody. I even found myself on my hands and knees from time to time, scrubbing with her, as I tried to comprehend the jumble of words falling from her lips.

At night, I wake from nightmares—not from finding my sister in a massive lake of her own blood and bathwater, but from the idea that every morning when I wake, I have to write in this fucking journal parts of my past I want to lay to rest. My counselor believes keeping a journal will help me with a bevy of things. She loves making lists, and so she created a list of reasons why journaling will help me cope with the loss of my sister.

I laugh at her each time she pulls out a pen and curates a list of ways to keep Ivory Lake sane. Step one. Assess your thoughts, emotions, and behavior.

* * *

Chapter 1

Ivory stood in front of her 1980 cherry red Acura Integra as smoke curled from her overheated engine. It had been her sister’s car, and she couldn’t part with it, no matter how many times it broke down. Thank goodness, this time around she’d been able to guide the beast into the burger joint’s parking lot instead of the middle of the street.

“What a piece of fucking shit!” She followed her words up with a swift kick to the car’s backside, then pulled her cell from her pocket.

She could not afford to be late to this job. Never mind that she was part owner of the company, and really didn’t answer to anyone in particular. But if anything was going to light a fire under her ass, it was her auntie’s mouth running about her inability to be on time to anything. It sure as hell wasn’t something she wanted to deal with this early in the morning.

And to top things off, it was ninety freaking degrees outside, and her clients—a sweet, adorable couple—had hired her company, Sweet Delights, to cater their wedding.

Looking to the sky for strength, Ivory dialed the number and placed the phone to her ear.

“Macy’s Pick and Pull,” Desta answered on the first ring.

“I need a pick up at the corner of Dassel and Elmont, by the Big Boy Burger.” Pressing a hand over her brow to shield the sun’s bright glare, she glanced up the street to the large building looming in the distance. It’s where the reception would be starting within the hour.

She really couldn’t complain about work, as she rarely ever had to work to begin with, but the idea of placing a fake smile on her face at this wedding seemed close to impossible. Hell, the next person who called out on a Saturday last minute would be fired! Okay, that was just the anger talking, but she was damned sure going to write someone up.

“Again, Ivory?” Desta’s voice caught her attention.

“Yep.” She left the keys in the sun visor and shut the door. “Do I have to be here when Chuck comes to pick it up? I need to head to work.” The wedding location was only about two blocks away; she’d have to go by foot.

“No, he’ll probably take that damned thing to the wreck yard.” Desta chuckled. “Where you know it belongs.”

Ivory pressed the phone between her shoulder and cheek. Opening the back door, she pulled her duffle out and threw it over her shoulder. “I’ll kick his ass if he does.” And she meant every damned word of it. Everyone was so willing to throw every memory of Clara away, while Ivory seemed to be the only person willing to even mention her name.

As if on que, the question that everyone asked in that low and sorrowful tone came from Desta. “How are you doing?”

But Ivory knew the real question, the one no one asked, but prayed she’d answer. Are you thinking of doing the same? Hefting the bag containing her uniform over her shoulder, Ivory slammed the door and scooted around the smoking vehicle. “It’s as hot as the devil’s balls clad in leather pants out here.”

She wasn’t about to delve into her emotional state with Desta, even if she’d known the woman since high school. They’d never been that close anyway. And why should she when she had her nifty journal? She patted the duffle at her side, until her hand drifted over the familiar hard back that was her new best friend. Who needed an actual person to talk to?

Desta’s relieved laughter was followed by a snort. “Child, you are too funny.”

Ivory wiped her brow as little beads of sweat attacked her eyes, burning them. “Yeah, I’m a regular black Lucile Ball.” Funny side note, she’d once worked in a candy factory, and had a similar fuck-up moment like the one in I Love Lucy. “Anyway, tell Chuck the keys are in the visor and I’ll Uber to the Pick and Pull after this job to check on Betty.”

“Girl, only men name cars,” Desta chided.

Ivory picked up the pace. “No, we can do anything they can do.” She was annoyed she even had to say that.

Desta huffed. “I read on Facebook that they were trying to bring back the draft and start enrolling women. Can you believe that? Women at war?”

Ivory stopped and pulled the phone from her ear, eyeing it as if it had grown horns and started singing show tunes. Was Desta in-fucking-sane?

“Desta,” Ivory drawled slowly. “Women are in the military, and more and more join every day. War isn’t just for men.” She started walking again. Peeking at her watch, she tried to think of something to tell her aunt as to the reason she was late. Anything but Clara’s car breaking down would do. She could take a chiding, but she didn’t want to see the pity in her aunt’s eyes again.

“Yes,” Desta’s voice lowered like she was telling a secret. “But they are lesbians. You know—”

Ivory mimicked static into her phone. “D—esta?” Again, she mimicked the static pretending as if her voice were cutting in and out. “I—ca—hear—ou.” Pulling the phone away from her ear, she clicked the end button. That conversation was one she wasn’t willing to have.

Shaking her head at the ignorance, she waved at the doorman as she entered the Skyy Tower’s lounge. She made her way to the private elevator and passed her keycard over the scanner. Seconds later, the doors slowly slid open and a whoosh of cool air scented with the smell of a man’s fresh cologne wafted out.

Entering the small box, she pressed the large “R” for roof access, then scanned her badge. The door slid shut and the sound of smooth jazz drifted from the speakers as Ivory ascended the twenty-three floors of the historic Skyy Tower—home of the first person to make a cool million selling sand.

She needed to make a million dollars. And how in the hell were people making money selling sand?

Taking in a deep breath, she leaned back onto the cool metal wall and closed her eyes. It was already scorching hot, and summer hadn’t even hit yet. Virginia weather had to be bipolar because just two weeks ago, white fluffy flakes fell from the sky, coating the ground and creating less than safe driving conditions for Virginians who rarely if ever experienced the stuff.

She sighed. Miss Soon-to-Be Claymont had called her near tears about the snow two weeks before her wedding. As an out-of-towner, she hadn’t known how fickle the weather could be. The bell dinged and Ivory found herself heading into the small foyer that lead to the roof top. She ducked into the bathroom and changed into a staff uniform.

Once outside, Ivory noticed three things—all of which annoyed the shit out of her. But one in particular had her heart seizing in her chest. Quietly, as not to scare the man, Ivory stepped forward. She thought to call out to him, but what if she scared him? He was, after all, sitting on the side of a wall, feet dangling over the edge of a twenty-three-story high building.

“How in the? What in the? And who in the?” she whispered to herself.

Taking a swift glance around, she noted all the tables and chairs were set up for the reception, yet none of the silverware nor the cups had been removed from the locked storage box. For the umpteenth time, she wondered why a reception in one hundred-degree weather was a thing. Did no one get hot anymore?

Maybe the man was perhaps an employee? She didn’t recognize him as one of hers, but then again, all she could see was a well-defined back, tanned arms, and thick mane of golden brown hair.

“Why are you up here?” His voice made her heart skip a beat. It was deep and gravelly, yet poured from his lips like honey. He cocked his head, as if waiting for her to reply.

And while part of her wanted to give him what he desired, she sure as hell didn’t have to answer to some stranger. He shouldn’t be on the roof anyway, unless he were the groom, and she knew the groom. He was not him not by a long shot.

She snorted, remembering to be annoyed with his question. “I should ask you the same damned thing.” She placed a hand on her hip and proceeded to do just that. “Why are you here?” When he didn’t answer, she took the man in from his shoes and watch neatly placed beside him, to the relaxed way he dangled his legs over the edge.

Her bottom nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of it. “Hey, do you think you could like, get the hell away from one slip and I’m dead, please? It’s driving me nuts.” Without sparing him another glance, Ivory made her way to the storage box. “Plus,” she examined the cutlery, “I’m sure your break-time is over. The reception party will be here soon.”

“I don’t work for you.”

“Then how the hell’d you get up here?”

“Same way you did.”

Her annoyance flared to life again. Where the hell was everyone? Wasn’t she late? Wait a damn minute. She looked at her watch again, noticing it said the exact same time it had said last time she looked at it. There was no way it was noon still. The reception was at five, with orders to receive a few guests an hour early.

Ivory slapped a hand over her brow and groaned. “Hey, mister,” she called. At his silence, she asked her question anyway. “What time you got?” She pulled out a chair and plopped into it.

The man’s head dipped as he leaned over and checked his watch. “Eleven.”

Shit. She was an hour early, thinking she was an hour late.

“First time for everything,” she muttered as she stood and pulled the cutlery from the case. An hour gave her time to steam and buff the glassware, check on the candy bar, and take a break before her aunt and their employees showed up. More likely than not, her aunt was already here in the kitchen, terrorizing the chef.

“Do you think you could leave?” His voice cut into her thoughts like a knife.

“Excuse me?”

Finally, he turned to face her. Bright green eyes met hers, and a lock of golden brown hair fell into his face. He lifted a hand and moved it away, then scraped his hand down his face and over his lush lips. His broad chin and nose made him look like a sports star of some sort. Just the sight of this man made her loins quiver.

She looked back to his eyes and saw in them the same thing she’d seen in Clara’s eyes the day before she’d taken her life—nothing. Gem-colored orbs took her in, revealing nothing of what he thought of her. Then, as quickly as he turned to face her, he turned back around. That was when Ivory understood what was happening. She covered her mouth and took in his surroundings again.

Under his neatly placed shoes, a piece of paper fluttered in the light breeze, his watch, and what looked like a class ring sat next to the paper. Shit, shit, shit, she thought, and then anger bubbled to the surface. This guy sure had some nerve!

“Who the fuck plans to jump off a building that is about to host a reception for a wedding?” she barked the question.

He didn’t even act as if he heard her. His face titled up to the sky and a breeze blew his scent to her. The same cologne she’d smelled in the private elevator. So, he had come up the same way she had. “Okay, listen.”

“What?” He turned just enough to allow her to see his profile. “You gonna tell me I have so much to live for? That I shouldn’t take the leap?”

Oh, this dude had no clue who he was talking to. Ivory and Clara had discussed her death at fucking length. The relief it would bring to Clara and her loved ones, the sadness it would eventually erase, and the memories it would hopefully burn to ash.

“No. But you could at least not do this here!” She threw her arms out to the side.

Again, he turned to her. His emotionless, cold eyes bore into her, forcing her to take a step back. She’d seen this before and she was damned sure she didn’t want to see it again.

Okay, she would seem cold-hearted in this moment, but what else was she supposed to say? Her hands itched to move, to do something so her brain wouldn’t conjure up anymore memories. She needed to remember to journal this moment—the moment where she felt weak and alone all over again.

His bark of laughter startled her. Ivory began to set each table meticulously, lining dinner and salad forks in order giving her hands something to do while her mind raced.

“You think I am up here to make a scene? If that were the case, I would have known there was a reception today and I would have waited until everyone was seated and settled before throwing myself off this tower.” His bitter tone grated her nerves.

“Either way, I won’t have you ruining the bride and groom’s day with this stunt. Please leave.” Patting her pockets for her cell phone, she suddenly realized it was in her street clothes. She gritted her teeth and waited for him to pick up his shit and leave.

“You leave. I was here first.”

“Are you kidding me right now? I wager if you were really going to jump you would have, but the fact that you are thinking about it, tells me you aren’t sure.”

“You’re breaking all the rules. You are supposed to give me reasons to step back, not dare me to do it.” His sardonic tone was back, right along with her anger.

“I’m very tempted to push your ass off this tower right now. “I wouldn’t say I follow the rules, seeing as I eat raw cookie dough, step on cracks, and rip tags off mattresses. 

He said in a wry tone, “I hate the Oxford comma, sentences ending with prepositions, and I’ve been eating raw cookie dough since I was three. Yet here I stand . . . not dead from E. coli. So, I guess there’s that.” His tone had morphed into something softer, as if they’d bantered on a daily basis.

She scoffed and got back to work. “You supposed to be some sort of rebel?” Aligning the silverware, Ivory peeked over her shoulder at him. A strong, well-muscled back stared back at her. How was it they were having this conversation, while he stared death in the face?

He shrugged dispassionately. “I fuck on the first date, too.”

With a chuckle, she added, “Nothing at all wrong with that. I like to test drive the car before I commit, too.” There was a moment of silence before he spoke up again.

“I’m not going to jump.” He blew out a weary sigh.

Ivory stopped working. “And I am not going to push you.” He turned to her, his green gaze took her in again. “So there’s that.”