“Good night.” I closed the journal, turned out the light, and snuggled under the covers, but a moment later I hopped out of bed and ran over to peer through my balcony door.
It was snowing.
Nineteen
N
ew Zealand, it seemed, wasn’t quite ready to let me go. Cameron announced at breakfast the following morning that we would have to postpone our departure for one more day because Mother Nature had sabotaged our escape route. The aftershock that had shaken my bed had also triggered a landslide that had blocked the road to the airport. The landslide wouldn’t have been a big deal—the locals were adept at earthquake cleanups—if the blizzard hadn’t complicated matters by dumping a foot of snow on top of it.
We were, for all intents and purposes, marooned.
Fortunately, Queenstown was a pretty fantastic place in which to spend a snow day. While Cameron went off to visit a friend, and Bree returned to the gallery to help her former boss cope with the prospect of losing her, I played tourist. I sailed across Lake Wakatipu in the TSS
Earnslaw,
a beautifully restored vintage steamship, rode an enclosed gondola to the top of Bob’s Peak, and watched a profoundly adorable kiwi forage for grubs at the Kiwi Birdlife Park. I was so taken by the bird’s perky personality that I bought a pair of stuffed-animal kiwis in the gift shop to bring back to Will and Rob.
After downing a burger that was nearly as big as my head at a place called Fergburger, I decided to work off the extra calories by hitting the shops. I returned to the hotel late in the afternoon, loaded down with gifts for my nearest and dearest as well as a few key items of clothing for Bree.
It had occurred to me that, despite all evidence to the contrary, it was springtime Down Under, which meant that the Northern Hemisphere was heading into winter. A hooded sweatshirt wouldn’t protect Bree from the biting winds that occasionally blew through Finch, but a down jacket and a handful of merino wool sweaters would. Having spent the previous six years of my life buying clothes for two little boys, it was a pleasure to pick out items for a young woman.
Dinner became a farewell feast when Holly Mortensen, silent Simon, and Gary Whiterider joined me, Cameron, and Bree at a cheerful seafood restaurant called The Fishbone Bar & Grill. I savored every succulent bite of my steamed crayfish because I wasn’t sure when I’d have another.
Bree and her friends went out for drinks after dinner, but Cameron and I elected to return to the hotel. We didn’t take the most direct route, but ambled slowly along Marine Parade, past the waterfront park, the jet-boat dock, the bronze statue of the bearded man and the woolly ram. It was my way of saying a fond farewell to Queenstown.
When we reached the gravelly beach, Cameron stopped short and looked at me questioningly.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he said. “Something wrong?”
“No,” I replied. “Everything’s right. Mission accomplished. Ruth and Louise are still alive and I’m bringing their great-grandniece home to them. I couldn’t be happier.”
“You don’t sound happy,” he said.
“I am,” I insisted. “I’m extremely happy. I can’t wait to see Bill and Will and Rob and my father-in-law, but . . .”
“Here it comes,” Cameron said under his breath.
“But I wish they were here with me,” I exclaimed, sending slush flying in all directions as I stamped my foot. “And I wish we could spend the next six months exploring New Zealand. I’ve fallen in love with your ridiculous country, Cameron. So what if it’s tried to kill me a few times? No place is perfect. I want to hike with a fantail and zoom around in a jet boat and listen to kiwis call in a kauri forest. I want to see the
real
Southern Cross and cruise Milford Sound and take a bath with Bill in Frodo’s jacuzzi. I want to bake cookies with Donna and I want you to see how well my sons ride.” I shook my head dismally. “And I don’t think any of it will ever happen.”
“It will,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” I said, shaking the slush from my sneaker. “Donna’s not the only woman with a workaholic husband. It takes ten strong men with crowbars to pry Bill away from his desk. The two of you must have had perfect attendance records at school.”
“Hardly,” said Cameron, laughing.
“Then you’ve forgotten how to play hooky,” I declared. “Bill doesn’t know the meaning of the word
vacation
.”
“He’ll learn,” he said. “In fact, I can guarantee that Bill will come to New Zealand with you.”
“How?” I asked.
“Follow me,” he replied with an enigmatic smile.
Cameron led me to the edge of the gurgling brook we’d crossed on our way to the Queenstown Gardens. Although my feet were officially frozen, I watched curiously as he took from his pocket a small object wrapped in crinkled tissue paper.
“The friend I visited today is a greenstone artist,” he said. “I asked him to make a pendant for you. He carved it in the shape of a triple twist because a triple twist symbolizes the bond of friendship. Though our paths may diverge for a time, they will inevitably come together again.”
He pulled the tissue paper apart to reveal a gleaming spiral of polished greenstone strung on a thin black cord.
“Greenstone is filled with mana, or spiritual power,” he went on. “If you bathe it in a running stream, it will always remember where it came from, and its mana will bring you back to Aotearoa. And next time, you’ll bring your husband and your sons. I promise you, Bill won’t be able to resist.”
He handed the pendant to me. Tears stung my eyes as I stooped to dip it into the dancing water, straightened, and hung it around my neck.
“Cameron,” I began.
“Problem solved,” he said, before I could even think of the right words to say. “Time for bed, Lori. You have a long trip ahead of you tomorrow. And in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s
cold
out here.”
He shivered theatrically, laughed, and hauled me unceremoniously up the slippery bank. New Zealanders were good at many things, I thought, but they were just plain terrible at accepting thanks.
My last day in New Zealand seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. We flew from Queenstown to Auckland, picked up the luggage I’d left at Spencer on Byron Hotel, and drove across town to the international airport. Before I knew it, I was hugging Cameron good-bye.
“It’s not good-bye,” he reminded me, touching my greenstone pendant. “Until we meet again,
kia ora
!”
“Kia ora,”
I said, my voice quavering, and gave him another hug.
Neither Bree nor I talked much on the homeward journey. I was absorbed in memories of the Land of the Long White Cloud, and Bree had a veritable smorgasbord of thoughts to keep her occupied.
It was cold, dark, and rainy when we reached London, as if the monsoon that had beset me when I’d gone to see Fortescue Makepeace had continued, unabated, in my absence. I didn’t have the heart to tell Bree that England’s bouts of gloomy weather tended to last longer than New Zealand’s. I figured that, if she stuck around for a month or so, she’d discover the unpleasant truth for herself.
Bill picked us up at Heathrow, as planned, but instead of driving us to the cottage, he took us directly to the Pym sisters’ redbrick house.
“There’s no time to spare,” he informed us quietly. “They’ve taken a turn for the worse.”
Bree hastened through the wrought-iron gate without pausing to survey the house, as though she didn’t want us to suspect her of being more interested in her inheritance than in those who were leaving it to her. It was just as well, I told myself, because the front garden looked depressingly neglected.
Nell met us at the door. She greeted us serenely, but as she ushered us inside and took our coats, I detected an unmistakable trace of sadness in her eyes.
“They’ve asked to see both of you,” she said, and motioned for me and Bree to go upstairs.
The first bedroom on the left was much as I remembered it, subtly scented with lavender water and warmed by a crackling fire, but there was no denying that Ruth and Louise had changed. Their cheekbones stood out sharply in their hollow faces and their skin was almost translucent. Their eyes, which had always been as bright as a thrush’s, took a long time to focus after Bree and I entered the room.
I remained near the door, but Bree crossed to stand between their beds.
“Hello, Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise,” she said softly, nodding to each of them in turn. “I’m Bree, your great-grandniece.”
“Of course you are,” said Ruth. “You have . . .”
“. . . Aubrey’s eyes,” said Louise. “We thought we would never see . . .”
“. . . his beautiful eyes again,” said Ruth. “Our brother was . . .”
“. . . so handsome,” said Louise, with a little sigh. “Perhaps a bit too handsome . . .”
“. . . for his own good,” said Ruth.
If Bree was confused by their unique manner of speech, she didn’t show it. She turned her head from side to side with great composure, then paused until she was sure they’d finished speaking.
“I never met my great-grandfather,” she said, “but rumor has it that he was a bit of a rat.”
I gazed at her in horror, but to my astonishment, both Ruth and Louise emitted wheezy chuckles.
“He was a naughty boy,” Ruth acknowledged. “But he had a good heart . . .”
“. . . to go along with his good looks,” said Louise. “Papa told us we were mistaken in him . . .”
“. . . and perhaps we were,” said Ruth, “but we loved him all the same. Rumor has it . . .”
“. . . that you have tattoos,” said Louise.
“May we see them?” the sisters chorused.
Bree looked so thoroughly disconcerted that I had to turn away to hide my grin. Ruth and Louise seemed to be stimulated rather than abashed by their outspoken great-grandniece. They didn’t need my help to handle Bree.
“We knew a sailor who had an anchor tattooed across his chest,” said Ruth, “and a farmhand . . .”
“. . . who had a naked lady on his biceps,” said Louise. “But we’ve never seen tattoos . . .”
“. . . on a young woman,” said Ruth. “Is it the fashion nowadays? ”
“Tats are, um, fairly popular in New Zealand,” Bree said, folding her arms self-consciously.
“The Maori influence, I expect,” said Ruth. “The peoples of the South Pacific have always had . . .”
“. . . such a creative way of expressing their spiritual beliefs,” said Louise. “Though it is, I believe . . .”
“. . . rather more painful than flower arranging,” said Ruth. “Your middle name, Aroha, is . . .”
“. . . a Maori word, is it not?” said Louise.
“It is,” said Bree. “Aroha is the Maori word for
love
. It was my mother’s idea. She liked the sound of it.”
“And the meaning, I suspect,” said Ruth. “You carry with you a reminder of your mother’s love . . .”
“. . . wherever you go,” said Louise. “And now love has entered . . .”
“. . . our home,” said Ruth. “Do show us . . .”
“. . . your tattoos,” Louise coaxed.
Bree sighed resignedly, then pushed her sleeves up to her elbows and held out her arms to allow Ruth and Louise to examine her body art.
“Splendid,” said Ruth. “I see a bamboo orchid . . .”
“. . . and red mistletoe,” said Louise, “and white tea tree blossoms.”
The expression on Bree’s face told me quite clearly that she’d never expected anyone, much less a pair of ancient and eccentric English spinsters, to take a horticultural interest in her tattoos, but again, she rose to the occasion.
“The Maori know them as peka-a-waka, pirirangi, and kanuka,” she informed the sisters, pointing to the relevant blossoms as she named them. “I have a Ruru, a morepork owl, on my left shoulder.”
“Fascinating,” said Ruth. “You must be . . .”
“. . . fond of nature,” said Louise, “and flowers in particular.”
“I used to cut pictures of English gardens out of magazines,” Bree admitted. “But I’ve never had a garden of my own.”
“You do now,” said Ruth. “But you must tend it . . .”
“. . . only if you love it,” said Louise. “And you must love it for its own sake . . .”
“. . . not for ours,” said Ruth. “When a gift becomes a burden . . .”
“. . . it ceases to be a gift,” said Louise.
“You’re getting ahead of yourselves,” Bree protested. “You’re not gone yet.”
“We will be shortly,” said Ruth. “Lori?”
“I’m here,” I said, stepping forward.
“Thank you,” said Ruth.
“Thank you,” said Louise.
It was the first time I’d heard them speak as individuals. I was so surprised, and so deeply touched, that I nearly forgot my manners, but I managed to blurt an inadequate, “You’re welcome.”
“Tell Will and Rob,” said Ruth, “that we depend upon them . . .”
“. . . to carry on our tradition,” said Louise. “Finch wouldn’t be Finch without . . .”
“. . . a set of twins to call its own,” said Ruth.
“I’ll tell them,” I promised.
“Bree is a clever girl,” Ruth continued. “If she stays on, and if she chooses to cultivate her mind . . .”
“. . . as well as our garden,” said Louise, “you must help her . . .”
“. . . to attend university,” said Ruth. “We hear there’s quite a good one . . .”
“. . . not too terribly far from here,” said Louise.
“Oxford’s not too shabby,” I agreed, smiling. “Don’t worry. If Bree wants my help with anything, she’ll have it.”
“Lori is a woman of her word, Bree,” said Ruth. “If you need assistance of any kind . . .”
“. . . you can rely on her to provide it,” said Louise, “even if it means leaving her family . . .”
“. . . and traveling to the ends of the earth,” said Ruth.
“I’d do it all over again, if you asked me to,” I said.
“We won’t,” said Ruth. “You have brought our treasure . . .”