A Madness of Sunshine

by Singh, Nalini

  Anahera passed him a mug of hot coffee, having become Matilda’s assistant in the task. The other woman had rallied and was once again making coffee and ensuring everyone logged their searches on the map Nikau had put up.

  “Thank you,” Shane said with a smile, Ireland rolling through his words so thickly that Anahera could almost see the velvet green hills. “It’s pissing down, isn’t it? But that’s the rage of the wild for you.”

  “You don’t strike me as the outdoors type.”

  “I grew up walking over some green hills of me own.”

  If he laid on the Irish any thicker, she’d be drowning in shamrocks. But Anahera played along. “Do you know Miriama?”

  His smile deepened to reveal dimples in both cheeks. “I’m guessing you mean in the biblical sense.” Dancing eyes. “She’s too clever for me, alas. Not that I didn’t try to rob that particular cradle.”

  Amused despite herself, Anahera was about to tell him to grab a towel when Shane shoved back his dripping hair again and said, “She knows what and who she wants, does Miri. And it isn’t a ­washed-­out novelist drinking himself to a slow death on some excellent whiskey.”

  “The doctor, you mean?”

  Shane lifted one shoulder in a move that could mean anything. “Doc’s only been around for a year. Pretty girl like that, I don’t think she was sleeping alone before he came along.”

  “Shane!”

  Looking up at the sound of his name, Shane said, “I’ll be off, then. Seems you’re too smart for me, too.”

  “Wait.” Anahera put a hand on the ­rain-­soaked sleeve of his jacket. “Do you know who she was dating before the doctor?”

  “No, but she had a watch with a platinum band that she started wearing a couple of months after she turned eighteen.” He absently tapped his wrist. “Most people took it for a pretty fake with colored stones, but I was born in the ‘right circles,’ as my sainted mother used to ­say—­that watch is real and those stones are pink and blue diamonds.”

  As Shane went to join the group that had hailed him, Anahera thought about what might lead a man to give a woman such an expensive ­gift… and was hit by the memory of the diamond pendant Edward had given his mistress two months before he simply dropped in the street and never again moved.

  The insurance documents for the pendant had been in his desk drawer, a drawer she’d had to empty after his death. He’d also bought the other woman a car around the same time, and begun to pay the rental on her home. The mistress had said it had all been done out of love. Maybe it had been, but Anahera wasn’t so sure it was for his mistress that Edward’s heart had beat.

  Miriama, ­though… she was as bright as a star. A shining creature who could make a man fall so deep that he’d lay treasures at her feet.

  “The watch?” Matilda frowned when Anahera asked after the item of jewelry Shane had mentioned. “Yes, I remember it. She told me she picked it up at a market, but I knew it was a gift from that man she dated before settling with Dr. de Souza, the one she used to go to Christchurch to see.”

  “Does Miriama still have it?” It should be simple enough to confirm if Shane was right about its value.

  “I haven’t seen her wearing it lately.” Matilda poured another mug of strong black coffee. “But I don’t think she would’ve got rid of it. She loves that pretty thing, used to wear it all the time before she and the doctor became a couple.”

  Not wearing one lover’s gift while with another? It was a sensitive thing to do. “Do you think you could look for it for me?” Anahera asked. “I want to show it to the cop, in case it helps him track down the Christchurch man.”

  Matilda’s jaw firmed. “My girl wouldn’t just have gone off with him and left me to worry.” The words were censorious. “But I’ll look for you, Ana. You make sure you give it back for when Miriama’s home again.”

  “I will.” Anahera picked up the fresh tray of coffees, drifted back into the crowd to make sure everyone had a mug. And she listened as she’d told Will she’d do.

  Most people were despondent.

  “I even went ­off-­track,” one of the ­gray-­bearded locals was saying. “Did the parts I knew you buggers might not be able to. Didn’t find no sign of her.”

  Kyle Baker, his hair wet, murmured, “Do you think the water took her?” He directed the soft, worried question at Nikau.

  Anahera was surprised. Not by the ­question—­everyone was wondering if the sea had taken Miriama, if she’d slipped and fallen in the wrong place and been swept out without a trace. No, what surprised her was Kyle’s deferential tone.

  Last time she’d seen Kyle Baker, he’d been a boy of eleven, but he’d been a boy well aware of his “station in life,” as one of Edward’s more pompous friends had used to say. A ­private-­school boarder during the week, he’d come home to Golden Cove for the weekends. Where he’d made sure the local children knew he had the best of ­everything—­the best music player, the best shoes, the best education.

  Anahera had thought him an obnoxious prat.

  From what she could recall, Nikau had shared her opinion. Today, however, he gave the younger male a tight smile. “Miriama’s too respectful of the ocean to get so close to the water.”

  “Yeah, yeah, she is,” Kyle said, his relief open.

  Eight years was a long time. Maybe Kyle had grown out of his prat nature.

  “What about those hikers from back when we were kids?” Tom said, his beard glittering with droplets of rainwater and his callused fingers closing gratefully over the last mug on Anahera’s tray. “Josie was saying last night how it was strange, so many women going missing in the bush near here.”

  “I’ve heard the stories,” Kyle said. “It was three women, right?”

  Nikau nodded. “Pretty young women.” Unspoken were the words “just like Miriama.”

  After drinking down half the mug of coffee, Tom said, “We should tell the cop.”

  “I’m pretty sure Will already knows.” Dark clouds rumbled across Nikau’s face. “You realize what it would mean if Miriama’s disappearance is connected to the missing women?”

  Puzzled expressions all around.

  Anahera, unblinded by fresh bonds and able to look at things as an insider who’d turned outsider for a while, said, “It would have to be one of us. A stranger who came back fifteen years apart would’ve been ­noticed—­and there are no strangers in town.”

  Tom, ­Kyle—­everyone but ­Nik—­all stared at her before Tom swore under his breath.

  “This has nothing to do with those lost hikers.” Vincent’s voice. He’d come to stand beside his taller younger brother. “Golden Cove has its problems, but a serial murderer?” A hard shake of his head. “Even the police back then said it was just bad luck and coincidence.” His tone was calm, practical. “We’re not kids making up scary stories now, and Miriama is alive, probably hurt. I, for one, am going to keep looking.”

  Several heads nodded at his firm statement, but Anahera caught the bitter truth in too many ­eyes—­most people thought Miriama was gone, never to be found.

  As she began to move on, Kyle stepped out of the group and toward her. “It feels weird to say this now”—­an uncomfortable teenage ­shrug—­“but welcome back to the Cove, Ana.”

  “Thank you, Kyle.” Leaving him with a small smile, she headed back to the table that held the large coffee urn.

  A slender woman stood nearby: blonde, with lovely green eyes, she had the kind of face and bearing that shouted private schooling and wealth. Or maybe it was her waterproof jacket. Though that, in itself, wasn’t unusual in this crowd. All the ­old-­timers as well as many of the younger crew had brought along waterproof gear when they saw the clouds on the horizon.

  What made the blonde stand out was that her waterproof gear likely cost something like five ­times—­no, that was being ­conservative—­it was probably more like ten times the price of what everyone else was wearing.

  She also wore a black
knit cap, which had survived being soaked through, so she’d been smart enough to pull the hood of her jacket over it while outside. Her facial bones were the kind that would age beautifully. But she wasn’t beautiful, this woman. She ­was… elegant. That was when it clicked, the woman’s identity.

  Jemima Baker, Vincent’s wife.

  Anahera had seen her in the photos Vincent had posted on his social media page. In those photos, however, Jemima was always dressed to the nines and out at some charity gala or other ­black-­tie event. Her hair was usually a sleek blonde sheet, glossy and without a strand out of place, her makeup flawless.

  In the last image Anahera could remember seeing, the other woman had worn a black sheath dress, a string of pearls around her neck. In her hand had been a little clutch with the double C logo that defined Chanel.

  No wonder Anahera hadn’t immediately recognized her; today, despite her expensive gear, Jemima Baker stood as damp and bedraggled as everyone else. On her feet were worn-­in hiking boots suitable for this climate and area, and the backs of her hands bore fresh scratches, as if she’d pushed through the dense growth looking for Miriama.

  Shame pricked ­Anahera—­she, along with all their friends, had just assumed that Vincent had married Jemima because she fit the mold of what his parents would’ve wanted for him: an educated, lovely woman who’d be the perfect hostess, but who was also smart and intelligent enough to rise with him as he climbed the political ladder. The timing of the ­marriage—­a bare year after the elder Bakers’ ­deaths—­had only cemented that general opinion.

  None of them had ever considered that Vincent might’ve fallen for his wife because she had a heart as down-­to-­earth as his own. Seeing Jemima as she stood looking at the search map with worry carved into her features, Anahera resolved to do better, to get to know this woman her friend had married. “Here.” She handed Jemima a mug of freshly poured coffee. “You look like you could use this.”

  Jemima’s fingers brushed hers as she took the mug. They were like ice. “I hope Miriama isn’t out in this,” the other woman said in a soft tone that wouldn’t reach Matilda. “It’s getting cold out there. Really cold.”

  “Which section were you in?” Anahera asked, and was surprised when Jemima mentioned a location quite distant from Vincent’s. As if reading her surprise, Jemima said, “I arrived a little after ­Vincent—­I wanted to make sure the children were settled.”

  Anahera kept forgetting Vincent was now a father. “I’m Anahera, by the way.” She held out her hand. “The one who’s been in London for a while.”

  Jemima’s face softened as they shook hands, her grip firm but not crushing. “I was so sorry to hear about your husband.”

  Anahera still didn’t know what to do when people offered their sympathies about Edward; it wasn’t as if she could open her mouth and say, “I’m not sure I’m grieving for the bastard. You see, I found out he was a lying, cheating piece of scum two hours after I stood trembling over his body in the morgue.”

  His lips had been blue, his face so waxy he hadn’t looked real. A mannequin shaped like Edward, that’s what her brain had kept trying to tell her. Just a mannequin. Not real. Nothing to do with her.

  One hundred and ­twenty-­seven minutes later, ­forty-­nine minutes after news of Edward’s death hit the media, she’d opened the door of their home to a sobbing stranger who’d collapsed into her arms with a wail of grief.

  23

  Anahera’s tight smile seemed to satisfy Jemima.

  The other woman sipped at her coffee, then said, “Not the kind of homecoming you would’ve wished for.”

  “No.” She’d expected and been prepared for old memories and older anger, but not this. “I remember Miriama as a young girl, but I’ve only met her twice as an adult.”

  Jemima’s eyelids lowered, her hands cupping her mug as she took a deeper drink. When she looked up again, her gaze was softer yet oddly difficult to read. A woman, Anahera thought, who was used to putting on a mask that didn’t look like a mask. Necessary for someone who wanted to stand next to the man who would be prime minister.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never really gotten to know her,” Vincent’s wife admitted. “She’s so much younger. Just that age gap where we don’t really have anything in common, you know? I feel so old saying that.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” Anahera said, liking the ­self-­deprecating woman under the polish and spin. “There’s such a difference between nineteen and ­twenty-­nine. Ten short years but a lifetime apart.”

  “It’s even worse between nineteen and ­thirty-­one.” Jemima’s smile was quick, bright. “I married a younger man,” she whispered.

  “Sorry, you fail the scandalous test. Unless you were sixteen and Vincent was fourteen when you met, and I know that didn’t happen.”

  Jemima’s smile deepened, reaching the sea green of her eyes. “After this is all over”—­the smile rubbed away, her gaze going to the map before meeting Anahera’s ­again—­“and I mean when it’s settled in a good way, with the best news, I hope you’ll come up to the house for a coffee or to have lunch.”

  Anahera hesitated; she hadn’t come to Golden Cove to make friends. She’d come here to lose herself in the shadows.

  In front of her, Jemima’s expression began to grow distant and Anahera knew suddenly that the other woman was used to rebuffs from Vincent’s ­friends—­or perhaps it was from all of the locals. She certainly didn’t seem the kind of person others would shut out, but on the other hand, she was wealthy and lovely and an outsider; just because she’d married one of their own didn’t mean she would’ve been welcomed with open arms. Still, it was odd, given how well Vincent was liked.

  “I’d like to,” she found herself saying. “I may not be the best company, ­though—­I’m not sure I’m at the point where I can socialize.”

  Jemima’s expression fell. “Oh, God, I’m stupid. I should’ve realized.” She touched her fingers hesitantly to Anahera’s hand. “Whenever you’re ready, the invitation is open. Here”—­she dug around in a jacket pocket, found what she was looking ­for—­“this has all my contact details.”

  Anahera took the crumpled card, slipped it safely away. “Thank you.” She could detect nothing false in Jemima, which made the fact that she seemed to have been braced for rejection even less understandable.

  Jemima spoke again, both slender hands back around her mug. “I love this part of the country, but Vincent and I are away so often that I haven’t had a chance to really nest here, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do.” She’d loved Edward, and so she’d tried to love London, too. Just as she’d tried not to miss the water that crashed so hard against the rocks that it sent up a white spray, the grit of sand between her toes, and the green, the endless dark green that could never be tamed.

  All things she’d wanted to escape as a girl.

  All things she’d ached for desperately when surrounded by red ­double-­decker buses and stately museums, designer shops and theaters that glittered, the civility of it threaded by a constant buzz of humanity.

  “You and Vincent have two kids, right?” she said. “I’m sorry, I forgot their names.”

  This time, Jemima’s smile lit up her entire face. “Jasper and Chloe. My little cheeky monsters. One’s four and the other’s three. They’re with their nanny now, a wonderful older lady who used to look after Vincent when he was young.”

  That there was one reason Jemima might’ve had trouble fitting into Golden Cove. Women here generally didn’t get the opportunity to have nannies or to fly around the country and the world. Sometimes, even the nicest people could give in to the ­green-­eyed monster of jealousy. Especially when Jemima had married one of the few bachelors in town who offered a ticket out of poverty or a humdrum ­small-­town experience.

  “Jemima.” Vincent’s hand on his wife’s lower back, his face worn. “Do you want to get back? Kyle’s about to leave so you can catch a ride with him
again. I might stay a little longer.”

  Jemima nodded. “The kids will be missing me.” Leaning in, she kissed Vincent on the cheek, the fingers of one hand rising to touch his jaw. “Don’t stay out too long, okay? You’ve done everything you can. No one could ask for more.”

  As Vincent and Jemima walked away after Jemima said a warm ­good-­bye, Anahera wondered if Vincent saw Golden Cove as his responsibility. It wasn’t out of the realm of ­possibility—­the Bakers had always been big on public service. While Golden Cove didn’t have a mayor, if it did, it was probably a Baker who would’ve filled that role. And now Vincent was beating himself up because Miriama had disappeared on his watch.

  “Trust Vincent to take this on his shoulders,” she said to Nikau when he came to join her.

  The man who’d once been her friend, and who she thought might still be, stared after the departing couple. “Vincent always seems so straightforward, doesn’t he?” He folded his arms, his shirt a checked blue; he’d hung up his wet outdoor jacket by the door.

  “Do you have any reason to think he isn’t?”

  Nikau shrugged. “He never talks about her, you ­know—­the wife, I mean. But all the times I’ve met her, she seems nice enough. A little posh, but you expect that with someone Vincent would hook up with. He never brings her to any of the town events, either. It’s weird when you think about the parties and things he takes her to all across the country.”

  Someone hailed Nikau just then and he walked off to talk to a grizzled older man with blue prison tattoos across his knuckles. His words, however, stuck with Anahera. Jemima didn’t seem the type of person who thought she was too good to attend Golden Cove events. Perhaps her absence was a case of jealousy of another kind. For Vincent, Golden Cove was his home. Maybe he couldn’t share it even with the woman he loved.