Old Growth & Ivy (The Spook Hills Trilogy Book 1) (15 page)

“See you in an hour or so.  
Why don’t you make some sandwiches?  I stocked the kitchen.  Do we
have a secret knock or anything?”

“You make one up. I’ll commit it to
memory.”

He pulled her up and for about ten
minutes kept her wrapped in his embrace, kissing her until she was glowing with
anticipation of spending the night with him.  As she closed and locked the
door to her SUV, Ivy wondered if she might be going through a pre-retirement
crisis, throwing her lot in with this FBI agent and putting her safe, carefully
constructed life in danger.  These were not small-time risks she was
taking.  If things went awry, she could find herself playing in the good
guy/bad guy big leagues.

On Tuesday, Steve received a call from
the Director of the FBI, asking him about Mathew and wanting to discuss the
case against the drug lord.  In Mathew's absence, Steve appointed a fully
recovered Brian to head the investigation, putting Moll in charge of
coordinating with the other departments which he did well, in spite of or maybe
because of his offbeat personality. 

As the days passed, Mathew made steady
progress.  With his bones knitting nicely around the pins in the shattered
femur by the week before Christmas, he started to put a little weight on the
damaged leg and went around the house with crutches, hoping soon to only use a
cane.  Steve set up a basic workout area in the living room for Mathew to
do the exercises the thrice-weekly physical therapist would leave for him,
using a resistance band in more ways than Steve thought possible. 

On Friday evening of Christmas
weekend, Ivy helped Steve get Mathew into her car and load up what they would
need for a long weekend.  She drove up to her house, taking a circuitous
route for Mathew to see a few of the Christmas lights around the west side of
the city, including the landmark martini glass on the side of one building.  On
Saturday Steve took the bus downtown for a long shopping trip, coming back so
laden with shopping bags and packages that it took three trips to bring them in
from the cab he used.  Most of the packages were casual clothes for
Mathew, however Steve bought a few surprise gifts for Ivy, including a lustrous
pearl necklace from him and a matching set of pair of pearl earrings from
Mathew.  The pearls had been Mathew’s idea and as soon as Steve saw the
single strand of perfectly round pearls with a pale pink luster, he could
picture them around Ivy’s slender neck. 

Back at the house, Ivy hung the three
stockings she had rush ordered in personalized quilted velvet for Steve, Mathew
and herself, each one hanging on the backs of their chairs in the dining room.
 On Christmas Eve, she would fill them and ensure that each one sported a
big orange, a homemade gingerbread man and a candy cane sticking out of the
top. Stockings hung, she then lugged brightly-wrapped and beribboned packages
up from the project room downstairs and put them under the tree, including
gifts for the Steve, Mathew, the corgis and the cat.

On Christmas Eve, Ivy surprised Steve
by making food from his childhood -- a versatile Scandinavian pancake called
Ebelskivers.  The exact recipe and contents varied region by region in the
Scandinavian countries.  From Steve's evident delight, she had the gist of
it right.  Ivy cooked the little round pancakes in a special pan that held
seven.  She put on some Norwegian folk music she had found on CDs and had
the two men sitting out by the fire while she brought out the pancakes as each
round turned a delicate golden color.  They were drinking wine while Ivy
fed them courses of the Ebelskivers, varying the filling each time.  
She made savory ones with delicate fillings of triple crème brie and smoked
salmon, goat cheese and bacon,
gouda
and ham, or basil
and ricotta.  Steve ate so many that Ivy had to rummage around in the
refrigerator to find additional fillings.  By the time that they hit the
dessert Ebelskivers with raspberry jam on the inside, Ivy found she could
barely get one down. 

While enjoying the tasty morsels,
Steve kept them amused with stories from when he was a boy, particularly ones
where other transplanted Norwegians in the D.C. area gathered at his parent's
house, playing traditional music and doing folk dances in the living
room.  Steve could still do those dances.  He hummed tunes and
danced, sometimes jumping up in the air, as he illustrated the dance steps,
including pivots and what he called svikts.  He pulled Ivy over to join
him in an arms-over-the-shoulders pivot and showed her how to do the basic
dance steps.  Mathew could not believe that he was seeing serious Steve
Nielsen, FBI executive and agent extraordinaire, cavorting about performing
folk dances.  He was like a young teen performing for a girl he had a
crush on.  The more Ivy laughed, the more he would add to his dance
routine.  She did draw the line on him trying to kick a hat off a stick as
the young Norwegians do.

Near the end of the evening, flushed
by a number of glasses of wine, Steve finished a dance routine to a round of
applause, sank down on the couch, and huffed out, "Call me Sven Nielsen
from now on."

Ivy and Mathew laughed.

"No, I mean it.  The name on
my birth certificate is Sven Nielsen.  It means Steven in the Nordic
countries."

"Yeah, right."  Mathew
said.

"I'm serious.  When I was
born, my parents named me Sven.  Once it was nearing time for me to go to
kindergarten, they wanted me to fit in and started calling me Steve."

Ivy glared at him with a mixed
expression of consternation and surprise.  "Pete, Sven, Steve? 
Is Nielsen really your last name?"

"Of course it is.  While I
may have other identities, you know the real me."

"How many names do you go
by?" she asked a little crossly.

"No more than five at a
time," Steve joked.  As federal agents, the two men were accustomed
to using false identities to protect their real ones. 

"Being around you two makes me
feel as if I am learning to skateboard and every time I get the hang of it, the
sidewalk takes an unlikely turn."

"And that coming from a woman who
can't decide if she is Ivy Vine or Ivy Littleton or even Mindy Madeline,"
Steve taunting her.

She glared at him.  Mathew
decided to set the record straight.  "Ivy, Steve (née Sven) Nielsen
really is Steve Nielsen."

"Thank you, Mathew." 
With her good humor now restored, Ivy went over and pulled Steve up. 
"Com'on then, Sven.  Show me those dance steps."

Watching Ivy and Steve playfully
enjoying themselves, Mathew was warmed by a feeling of belonging.  The
lost little boy inside himself felt less alone and unloved.  They made him
believe that he was worthy of love.  Mathew realized that was a plain
truth -- all these years he perceived himself as unloved because he thought he
failed to deserve love.  He must stop letting his past rule his
life.  He had to forge his path to his future, secure that he had Ivy and
Steve to orient him, as he pivoted and
svikted
through life.  They had become
In Loco
Parentis
--
In the Place of a Parent.

Odd as it may be during this healing
process, for the first time in his life Mathew felt that he had a family. 
No father could have tended to him better than Steve did, from the time he
pulled him out of the line of fire, through the flight back to Washington,
staying with him during the two surgeries and then caring for him during these
weeks of healing.  In all the years they worked together, Mathew never
thought that Steve had that level of devotion in him, much less any form of
nursing skills.  Mathew did remember that Steve had flown with Brian to
Bern, and was at the hospital with him every day, even after Brian's mother
arrived to fuss over him. 

What a remarkable man Steve was with
so many facets to his personality, Mathew mused.  He goes from brusque
team leader to unrelenting adversary on cases, to gifted analyst, to creative
mentor, to caregiver, and with Ivy, to devoted lover.  Seeing those
extremes consolidated into that one brilliant man was remarkable.  Then
there was Ivy whose kind heart seemed gladdened at having him around.  As
a couple, Steve and Ivy lived as if they had been together for years, instead
of near the beginning of their relationship.  The only downside of seeing them
together was that it raised Mathew’s expectations for finding his life
partner. 

This time of recovery was solidifying
his decision to leave the FBI.  Mathew expected to heal well enough to
continue fieldwork but in his heart, he was finished with it.  His career
had been challenging and rewarding, however now he could no longer give any job
his full commitment.  Where and when would he find his Ivy? No way could
he wait until he turned sixty as Steve had.

He was at such loose ends about his
future -- going into business failed to excite him, as did practicing as an
attorney.   Propping his leg up, he frequently sat staring at the
walls, with his iPod on and music playing.  He had been reading a book on
the vineyards of Oregon that Ivy had given him.  When she noticed that,
she had given him a couple of more books, one about starting a vineyard and
another about Northwest wines.  He also began to surf the web to research
operating a vineyard. 

Reading about vineyards gave him a
different life to ponder.   Would he enjoy waking up each day on his
own land?  Would he feel proud that what was growing in the fields was
because of his own hard work?  Did he have the ability to create drinkable
wines, pitting himself against a steep learning curve, against nature, and
against established vintners?  Was it even in the realm of possibility or
was it only a delightful dream?  Would he be creating a financial sinkhole
and setting himself up for sure failure? 

Mathew wished his Dad was alive to
discuss the risk of squandering even part of the fortune that he had
inherited.  His Dad had left the bulk of his money to Mathew, although he
set up a generous trust for Mathew's Mother, as well as a substantial
charitable foundation that helped fund her causes.  Mathew saw himself as
obligated to honor his Dad with a legacy of remembrance.  After his whole
life of living alone, he found it unexpected that he needed parental approval
at this late date.   He wanted to talk with Steve, but he would be
disappointed that Mathew wanted to leave the FBI.  He hated to let Steve
down, especially now with all he was doing for him.   Mathew decided
to seek Ivy's advice sometime when Steve was out of earshot.  Perhaps she
could assist with how to communicate his decision to Steve. 

His life clock was ticking.  He
had set a deadline of February 9th to have a plan to change his life.  Did
he have it?  Leave the FBI and open a vineyard?   From that
base, could he put his heart into a search for that elusive woman to share his
life?  Were these objectives achievable?  As so often, a Latin phrase
came to him to sum up his mental meanderings, this one from Seneca the Younger
--
Non
est
ad Astra Mollis e Terris Via
, The Road from the Earth to the Stars is not easy. 

***

As Ivy drove home from work the
following Friday afternoon, she was thinking about her relationship with Steve
and where it would head.  With Mathew healing, Ivy wondered when the two
agents would depart.  During this time, she had come to see Steve as the man
she wanted.  The care he gave Mathew, the way he had settled so
considerately into her life, how he put Mathew ahead of the case he was on --
all told her so much about him.  The more she discovered about Steve, the
more she found to appreciate about him. 

Mathew had quickly become a part of
her life too, a bit like the son she never had.  She could not understand
how his mother could have only called once and not come out to see him. 
She almost treated him as an inconvenience.  His face lit up when she
called, only to be followed by him withdrawing when she dismissed him as not
needing her help.  Ivy nearly grabbed the phone from him to lecture the
self-absorbed woman.

She had just turned off Vista to take
the road up to Council Crest, when she noticed an SUV behind her make the same
turn.  It was a black Ford Cruiser and she had seen it before that
day.  She realized that vehicle or one like it had been parked across the
street from her work parking lot when she drove out.  It stood out to her
because with its dark shaded windows, it seemed out of place in Portland. 
She kept her speed a steady 35, then hooked a sharp right away from the road
that led to her house, scooted under a little overpass and drove down towards
the small Heights Shell station, intending to cross onto Humphrey, follow that
twisty-turny road, and if still followed, try to lose the Cruiser in the
traffic on Highway 26 while heading back into town. 

She stopped for the intersection,
waiting her turn in the traffic rotation to cross.  The Cruiser pulled off
the road about a block behind her, letting a couple of cars pass before moving
back in line.  Trying to push back her fear, she reached over, moved the
car’s controls to dial her cell and hit Steve’s number.  It rang four times
with no answer.  She left a short voicemail as she let her SUV creep
forward to the stop sign.  She crossed the road and shot down Humphrey
knowing that to lose the Cruiser, she would have to drive as fast as the many
turnings of the road would allow.   She was almost to Highway 26 when
her phone rang. 

“Ivy?  Did you call?”

“Think I’m being followed.  Black
Ford Cruiser with dark tinted windows.”

“Damn.  Where are you?”

“Heading back into town.  Didn’t
want to lead them home.”

“Good.  Is there a hotel where
you can park inside that has an attendant?”

Ivy thought quickly.  “Fifth
Avenue Suites.  Valet parking.  All inside.”

“Head there.  Tell the attendant
you may be leaving in a few minutes.  Mathew and I will meet you in the
lobby.  Stay where other people are in the hotel.”