Karma. It had finally swung around and knocked Ivy on her ass.

CHAPTER TWO

IVY

Tuesday, January 18, 2022, 7:00 a.m.

Ivy was up as the sun was rising, a habit ingrained after years of rising early so she could scour the farmers’ markets for the best produce. She’d been at the restaurant a year when Mario had invited her to the early-morning markets and begun introducing her to the vendors. The outings reminded her of the North Carolina farmers’ markets, where she’d bought fresh fish, whole chickens, sweet potatoes, corn, and collard greens. In New York, she hunted for varieties of tomatoes, cuts of prosciuttos and veal, and spices she’d never seen. She grappled with and then marveled at the sensory overload as Mario explained why he made his choices, which vendors were honest or affordable, and how much product was enough for the evening dinner service. Wasted food was lost revenue, and like the Seaside Resort, Vincenzo’s operated on razor-thin margins. She never felt closer to Ruth and home than she did during the morning market trips.

By her last year at Vincenzo’s, she was going to the market alone. Mario’s cancer had gone into remission, but his knees were bothering him, and his diabetes, which he refused to acknowledge, left him light headed at times. Gino had three babies at home now, and he was finished with early mornings. The extra sleep, Gino said, would do him good.

And so she’d risen early and been at the market by sunrise, moving among the venders, tasting the fresh vegetables and fruits, smelling meats, squeezing melons. It had always remained a feast for the senses and a boost to her creativity.

She slid on her jacket and shoes. The sun peered up from under the horizon as she moved outside toward the dunes and watched the waves crash hard against the beach, pebbled with a line of seashells. As tempted as she was to walk along the beach and inspect the ocean’s latest offerings, the primary objective was to get coffee and then a few groceries. Tomorrow morning, with a coffee warming her hands, she might linger and enjoy the sunrise.

Back in the cottage, she dug a gallon-size zip-top bag filled with toiletries out of her suitcase. She went into the first-floor bathroom, still containing Ruth’s toothbrush and a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste. She gently touched the brush.

Lifting her gaze to the mirror, she groaned and dug her own supplies out of the bag. She brushed her teeth, combed her dark hair that looked so much like Ruth’s, tied it back in a ponytail, and applied a little lipstick to brighten her face.

She grabbed her purse and hurried outside through the cold to the van. Unless the world had turned upside down, Dotty’s Pancake House was still two miles north and open during the off-season. The five-minute drive rewarded her with Dotty’s flashing red OPEN under the giant pancake-shaped sign.

The few cars in the lot were trucks and service vans, indicating that the local tradesmen tasked with the endless list of off-season fixes and repairs were grabbing breakfast. Inside, she inhaled cinnamon and bacon scents that immediately sent a hit of dopamine through her brain. Many of Ruth’s guests often remarked that the smell of the Seaside Resort’s apple pie always righted the wrongs of the world.