The dirt road took us into a kauri forest so dense that the canopy dimmed the bright sunlight. As we inched along, I heard bird calls I’d never heard before and saw flowers that would have been the pride of any greenhouse in England growing wild and in astonishing profusion. Finally, Cameron pulled off of the road and parked in the grassy, uphill driveway of a five-sided house on stilts.
The house’s roof was made of corrugated iron and its outer walls were covered in orange shingles. Three peacocks—one male and two females—perched on the wooden railing of its elevated front porch, and the clearing in which it stood looked as though it had been shorn by a flock of sheep. A tree dripping with bright yellow blossoms stood in the center of an octagonal picnic table that occupied the only piece of level ground I’d seen since we’d left the hotel.
“Looks like an artist’s house to me,” I commented.
“Very atmospheric,” Cameron agreed.
“And the guy with the paintbrush is a dead giveaway,” I concluded.
A man holding a slender paintbrush stood hunched over the picnic table. He was several inches shorter than Cameron and more slightly built. His features were pleasant, but not particularly memorable, and his short-cropped brown hair was touched with gray at the temples. He was dressed in a baggy gray sweater, faded jeans, and black flip-flops.
“I’d like to have the flip-flop concession in this country,” I murmured.
“We call them jandals,” Cameron murmured back. “It’s short for Japanese sandals. They’re a popular form of footwear in New Zealand.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said dryly.
We got out of the car. The paraphernalia on the picnic table suggested that the man was working on a watercolor. I was sorry to interrupt his creative flow, but he didn’t seem to mind. He dropped his brush into a water-filled jam jar and smiled amiably as we approached.
“Lost?” he asked.
“Not if you’re Daniel Rivers,” said Cameron.
“I am,” said the man, folding his arms. “So you must be in the right place. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Cameron Mackenzie,” said Cameron, “and this is my friend Lori Shepherd. We’re looking for a young woman. Her name is Aubrey Aroha Pym.”
Daniel’s smile faded and he glanced anxiously toward the house. “May I ask why you’re looking for her?”
“I’ve come all the way from England to deliver an important message to her on behalf of some distant relatives,” I explained. “Alison at the Copthorne told us that you might know where she is.”
“You’d better speak with my wife.” Daniel gestured toward the benches surrounding the octagonal table. “Have a seat. I’ll get her.”
Cameron and I chose a bench on the far side of the table, where we had an unimpeded view of the house. Daniel crossed the clearing, climbed the stairs, and went through the front door. Several minutes passed before the door opened again. When it did, I stiffened slightly and gasped in surprise.
The woman who followed Daniel onto the elevated porch was in every respect save one the spitting image of Bree Pym. She had the same petite build, the same heart-shaped face, and the same long, lustrous dark hair, but her eyes were sea green instead of rich brown.
“She was right,” I said under my breath. “Bree
was
looking for her mother.”
Cameron gave me a questioning look. “She?”
“Never mind,” I muttered. Nothing on God’s green earth could have forced me to admit to Cameron Mackenzie that I had an invisible friend who wrote to me on the pages of a blank journal.
The woman was barefoot and the hem of her colorful cotton dress brushed the grass as she walked toward us. Her sole piece of jewelry was a polished stone pendant similar to the one Toko Baker had worn. She carried herself with great dignity, but her expression was difficult to read.
Cameron and I stood as her husband presented her to us.
“Amanda Rivers,” he said. “My wife.”
“I think our guests would like a cold drink, Daniel,” said Amanda.
When her husband hesitated, she reached out to squeeze his hand, as if to tell him that she would be all right without him. He kissed her forehead and went back into the house.
Amanda motioned for us to be seated and lowered herself gracefully onto the bench opposite ours. She studied us in silence, then asked abruptly, “Did Ed send you?”
My heart plummeted. In the rush of events, I’d forgotten that Nurse Bridgette had been unable to communicate with Edmund Pym’s ex-wife, either before or after his death. I didn’t want to be the bearer of such tragic tidings, but I couldn’t think of any way around it.
“No,” I replied. “Ed didn’t send us. I came to New Zealand on behalf of two Englishwomen named Ruth and Louise Pym. Ruth and Louise are Bree’s great-grandaunts.”
“They’re real,” Amanda said half to herself.
“I beg your pardon? ” I said.
“I thought the English aunts were a fantasy,” she told me. “Ed cursed them sometimes, when he was drunk. I thought he invented them.”
“He didn’t,” I said. “Ruth and Louise Pym are as real as you and me.” I clasped my hands together and leaned forward on the picnic table. “I shouldn’t be the one telling you this, Amanda, but there’s something you need to know.” I took a steadying breath and looked her straight in the eyes. “Edmund Pym passed away yesterday morning.”
Her expression remained impassive as she asked, “Was he alone? ”
“No,” I said. “He was in the hospital. A nurse was with him when he died.”
“He drank himself to death? ” she asked.
I nodded.
“Bree thought he would,” she said. “She told me he went on a bender after A. J. died. She took off because she couldn’t bear to watch her father kill himself.” Amanda lowered her eyes. “I didn’t leave her with
him,
you know. I left her with her grandparents. They disowned Ed years before he met me, but they welcomed their granddaughter with open arms.” She shook her head. “I thought Bree would be safe with them. I never dreamed that they would take Ed back.”
I glanced uncertainly at Cameron. Amanda’s confession had caught me off guard. The news of Ed’s death had evidently reawakened memories she’d tried to forget.
“Amanda,” I said, “you don’t have to explain yourself to us.”
“I’m not,” she said softly. “I’m trying to remember why I abandoned my child.”
“I’m sure you wanted what was best for her,” said Cameron.
“I did,” said Amanda, still gazing at the table. “Ed didn’t just drink, you know. He gambled, lied, slept around. I waited far too long to divorce him. By the time we split, I was a broken woman. I was certainly an unfit mother.” Amanda closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “Bree’s grandparents made me promise not to contact her after they took her in. I was willing to make the sacrifice because I believed they would raise her properly, send her to a good school, see to it that she had everything I couldn’t give her. I didn’t know that Ed would worm his way back into their good graces.”
“Bree went to a fine school,” Cameron offered. “She was an excellent student.”
“School was her only escape from the hell Ed created at home.” Amanda clenched her jaw. “If I’d known what was happening . . . But I never dreamed . . .” Her words trailed off.
“I thought she was a tramper,” said Daniel.
I looked up, startled. I’d been so absorbed in Amanda’s story that I hadn’t noticed Daniel’s return. He carried a wooden tray laden with four tall glasses and a glass pitcher filled with freshly made lemonade.
“There’s a bush walk not far from here,” he said, placing the tray on the table. “It leads to a waterfall. When Bree turned into our drive, I thought she was a tramper looking for the waterfall.”
“But she was a daughter, looking for her mother,” Amanda murmured.
Daniel sat beside his wife and put an arm around her.
“How did she find you? ” Cameron asked.
“She read an article about me in an art magazine,” Daniel replied. He looked at the yellow blossoms dangling overhead. “The article featured a photograph of me and Amanda, sitting here, beneath the kowhai.”
“Bree recognized me straightaway,” said Amanda. “She’s a bright girl. It didn’t take her long to track me down.”
“If she knew where to find you,” I said, “why did she take the job at the Copthorne?”
“She didn’t want me to think that she’d come here, wanting a handout,” said Amanda. “She wanted to prove to me that she wasn’t like her father.” Sunlight rippled on her dark hair as she shook her head. “As if I needed proof. . . .”
Daniel filled the glasses and passed them around, but no one drank.
“It took my wife a long time to recover from her marriage to Ed,” he said. “When I met her, she was ready to begin a new life. We married and started a family of our own.”
“We have two boys and a girl,” said Amanda. “They’re at school now, but they were at home when Bree turned up.”
“We asked her to stay, to become a part of our family,” said Daniel, “but she didn’t want to intrude.”
“I think she was crushed when she saw our children,” said Amanda, “especially our daughter. Bree must have felt as if I’d replaced her. I’m sure it’s why she quit her job at the Copthorne. She couldn’t stand to be near me. She felt as though I’d abandoned her all over again.” Amanda swallowed hard, but her gaze was steady when her eyes met mine. “What do her English aunts want with her?”
“I don’t know for certain,” I admitted. “The letter they asked me to deliver was originally meant for A. J., but I arrived too late to give it to him or to his son. Since Bree is A. J.’s granddaughter, they want me to give it to her.”
“There’s a bit of urgency involved,” Cameron chimed in. “Bree’s great-grandaunts are quite elderly now, and they’re seriously ill. We’re racing the clock to find Bree before they run out of time. Do you know where she went after she left the Copthorne? ”
“Ohakune,” Amanda answered promptly. “She told me that she had a friend there who could find her a job.”
“Did she tell you the friend’s name?” I asked.
“Angelo. He owns a café, apparently,” said Amanda. “I didn’t press her for details. At this late date, it would have been presumptuous of me to claim a mother’s right to pry into her business.”
Cameron turned to Daniel. “How did Bree get here? Does she have a car?”
Daniel nodded. “An aging Ford Laser. Half red paint, half rust.”
“It was A. J.’s,” Amanda put in. “Bree said it was all he could afford after Ed gambled away his savings at the track.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. I had no idea how to conclude such a painful conversation. I wanted to jump into Toko’s car and take off for Ohakune immediately but “Thanks a bunch, gotta run” seemed a tad insensitive. I breathed a sigh of relief when Cameron found the right words to say.
“Is there anything you’d like us to tell Bree when we speak with her?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” said Amanda. “Tell my daughter that I’ve held her in my heart from the moment she was born. Tell her no one else can fill that space. Tell her she has always been and will always be my
taonga
.”
“My treasure,” Cameron murmured to me.
“Tell her . . .” Amanda’s voice betrayed not a quiver of emotion, but tears filled her green eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she reached for Daniel’s hand. “Tell her that our home will always be hers.”
“We’ll tell her,” Cameron promised.
We exchanged phone numbers with Amanda and Daniel, thanked them for their time, and left them sitting hand in hand beneath the kowhai. We bumped and juddered for a half mile before either one of us spoke.
“No wonder Bree was a mess when she left the Copthorne,” I said. “The poor kid had her heart broken, all right, but not by Daniel.” I gazed forlornly at a clump of long-stemmed lilies growing along the side of the road. “I understand why she needed to leave the Hokianga, but I wish she hadn’t. I don’t know how we’re going to track her down in Ohakune. Angelo-who-runs-a-café isn’t much to go on.”
“Ohakune isn’t Las Vegas, Lori,” said Cameron. “It’s a very small town. If Bree’s still there, we won’t have any trouble finding her.”
“If . . . ,” I said, sighing.
We lapsed into a thoughtful silence and didn’t speak again until we were seated at Morrell’s Café in Waimamaku, where we stopped to grab a quick bite of lunch.
“What’s the plan?” I asked, after I’d swallowed my first mouthful of a scrumptious vegetarian quiche. “How do we get to Ohakune? ”
“We drive to Dargaville and fly south,” said Cameron.
I paused with a forkful of quiche halfway to my mouth. “How far south? ”
“Far enough,” he said.
I lowered my fork and eyed him suspiciously. “Are you telling me . . . ?”
“That’s right, Lori,” he said cheerfully. “You’re about to visit one of New Zealand’s most active volcanic regions. Won’t it be fun?”
“Oh, joy,” I said, pushing my quiche to the side.
It seemed to me that, between snarky lows and active volcanoes, I’d be lucky to survive my trip Down Under.
Eleven
W
e pulled in to the Dargaville Aerodrome at half past two. While Cameron made a few phone calls, I chatted with Toko Baker, who’d come to collect his car and who cheerfully accepted a handful of Anzac biscuits from Donna’s tin. When I offered to pay for any damage the dirt road might have done to his vehicle, Toko responded with a hearty laugh and a carefree wave of his hand.
“It’s my boy’s car,” he said. “It’ll do him good to repair it. How else will he learn? ”
After tossing our bags into the plane’s cargo compartment, Cameron conducted a thorough flight inspection, boosted me into the cockpit, climbed into the pilot’s seat, and waved good-bye to his friend. Toko stuck around long enough to watch us take off, then puttered slowly away in his son’s underpowered and much abused car.
Thanks to calmer weather, my second flight in New Zealand was less lively than the first and I was able to appreciate the beauty of the landscape unfolding beneath me. The small villages, the farmsteads, and the intensely green, sheep-dotted fields surrounding them reminded me forcibly of the Irish countryside, which came as a bit of a surprise, as I’d spent the morning in a subtropical rain forest.