by Diana Fraser
“Evening, Rachel. Had a good day?”
“Yes, thanks, Dad. You?”
“Same as usual. Unlike you, I suspect.” He gestured toward the car. “That’s the fifth day in a row you’ve walked into town. Not that I’m counting,” he added with a smile.
“Right! And why not? The weather’s been sunny—good for a walk.” She sat in one of the chairs and poured herself a glass of water.
“It’s good. About time you saw the world around you as something other than a view to admire from a car window. Or through a camera lens, come to that.”
She settled for a vaguely reproving glare. It was the best she could do in response to his jibe. It was too nice a day to argue with her father, and that had nothing to do with the sun and all to do with her memories of talking with Zane, of the way his eyes looked at her, making her dizzy with desire. She shifted her gaze to the abundance of the garden where bright red poppies rose from a carpet of pale pink thyme.
She inhaled the mingled scents. “The flowers here are amazing. I remember Mom used to have huge bowls of them all over the house.”
Her father’s mouth twisted but he didn’t look up.
“She always used to pick them,” Rachel continued. “The garden was always perfect and she kept the house so nice. And sorted us all out, too. I don’t know how she managed it.”
“I don’t know how your mother managed many things.” He sighed and set down his paper and fixed his gaze on Rachel once more. “You can pick them yourself, you know. The flowers I mean. Bring them into the house.”
Rachel was surprised she hadn’t thought of it. She shrugged. “I guess. But that was something Mom did. I’m not Mom. She was a nurturer and I’m so obviously not.”
“How can you say that, when your career is about food. Isn’t that nurturing?”
“Not in front of a studio audience, it’s not. It’s… entertainment more than anything.”
“Anyway, what are you doing about those remaining programmes you’re committed to? You don’t seem in a rush to return to Wellington to film them.”
The warm afterglow of her time with Zane immediately evaporated.
“No. I don’t want to go back. Not yet.”
“You have to face reality sometime,” Jim said impatiently. He got up and walked into the kitchen.
For once Rachel wasn’t bothered by her father’s needling. She was filled with the afterglow of snippets of exchanges with Zane, of a buzz of contentment, and she wanted to hold onto it as long as possible. She followed her father inside where he was tying a cotton apron around his waist. He picked out some potatoes from a drawer and began to peel one.
“Do you want a hand?”
“I may be old, but I’m not helpless, you know.”
Rachel shook her head and picked up the tea towel instead and began drying up the lunch things.
“I know you’re not helpless, but that doesn’t mean you can’t accept a little help now and then. Especially while I’m here. You may as well make use of me.”
He stilled instantly. “You know, I’ve had an idea. Why not have your film crew come to you?” He gestured to the sprawling old interior of the homestead. “Film your episodes here.”
“Are you kidding?” was her first response.
“No. It’s a genuine brainwave,” he said, in all seriousness.
She looked around the kitchen through professional eyes. What was lacking in efficiency and modern appliances was made up for by the eccentricities and character of the old place. The kitchen table dominated the large space. Behind that was the butler sink in the wooden bench top and two long concertina windows, which folded back to reveal a view of the bay, framed by pohutukawa trees. It was a setting which her agent would jump at. Then she looked at the antiquated appliances, the rusting edges of the dishwasher, the Aga which had been installed in the 1950s.
“I can’t cook on this!”
“What do you mean? You do cook on this. You cook wonderfully in this kitchen. Most of the world cooks wonderfully under these conditions. Not everyone has all the latest gadgets, you know.” He huffed irritably and continued to peel the potatoes. “Trouble with you, my girl, is that you don’t know what most of the world is like. This is real, not that stuff you cook on.” He slid the pot onto the hot plate and stomped off.
Rachel lingered in the kitchen, considering her father’s words as she took another look at the kitchen. He was right. Most of the world did cook in kitchens like this—old, familiar, battered and, she had to admit, charming. But people wanted aspirational cooking, didn’t they? Her marketing brand had always been high end, glamorous cuisine, the sort of cooking which suggested a lifestyle which women of all ages and backgrounds aspired to.
She walked around the kitchen, smoothing her hand along the wooden bench tops, which had the patina of long use, her duck-egg blue bowls lined up along one side. Above her a rustic wooden pot rack hung from the ceiling, dangling pots and pans mostly from her range, mingled with her mother’s and grandmother’s worn utensils. And then there was the Aga—worn, marked, but very, very real and full of character. She paused before the window and folded them back wide, allowing the wall behind the sink to disappear and the view of the bay to dominate the space.
Why hadn’t she seen it before? This place was perfect. Maybe not her usual brand, but everyone developed and tweaked their brand, didn’t they? She’d keep a tight rein on what was brought in for the shoot. Nothing to alter the image, only a few essentials to make sure the cooking itself went smoothly. Thinking about it, her new range would go perfectly here—its modern lines and nod to nostalgia would fit right in with Belendroit’s character. The whole would be a mixture of old and new, not competing but blending the best of both worlds. With her back to the window, she stood at the old wooden island, and looked into the room. She gripped the edges of the island and grinned. Plenty of room for the cameras in front and, providing they didn’t shoot when the light was bright behind her, it would work out fine.
For once, her father had come up with a brilliant idea. She reached for the phone. The sooner she got this organized, the sooner it’d be done and she could meet her commitments and move on.
It was past six and the Akaroa pub was packed. Rachel had managed to secure a window seat for her and her brother, Gabe, newly returned from working overseas. She watched him wend his way through the crowds with their drinks. He greeted people as he passed with his easy-going style. He was so deceptive, Rachel thought, as she watched him exchange pleasantries with a couple as he passed by. No one would know that, behind that incredible ease and charm, a cord of steel ran through his long, lean body. And it was this strength which made him so sought after by the international group Doctors without Borders.
“So,” she asked Gabe, as he handed her a glass of wine. “How was Papua New Guinea?”
Gabe’s smile faded. “It’s an amazing country, but the things I saw… the violence…” He took a swig of beer. “Let’s not talk about that. Tell me about filming. Dad said you’re going to go ahead and film at Belendroit.”
“Yes. It’s all arranged. My agent was so relieved to get the episodes completed that she’s organized everything for next week.”
“Brilliant suggestion of Dad’s. I’m glad you took it up.”
“Me too. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
“I reckon living here suits you,” said Gabe. “I’ve never seen you so relaxed.”
Rachel glanced away, trying to hide a smile which seemed to be permanently on her lips at the moment. She shrugged. “It’s summer, a break from work, what’s not to be relaxed about?”
“Exactly. But you’ve always been fidgety with no work before.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “Maybe I’m just becoming more chilled as I get older.”
Gabe scoffed. “Doubt that. Not without some encouragement. And some of my patients are suggesting you’re receiving exactly that.”
She frowned. Simply t
he hint of gossip rattled her, bringing back images of indiscreet social media posts, of conjecture about her love life.
“Not like that,” said Gabe, obviously able to read her like a book. “They’re simply saying that you’ve been seen in company—regular company—one man in particular.”
“Oh, well, that’s true, I guess.” She could hardly deny it. A day hadn’t gone by of the past few weeks without Zane making an appearance wherever she was. “Akaroa is a small town.”
“Big enough to avoid someone if you wanted to. And also to see someone if you wanted to.” He paused. “Do you like him? I don’t want you messing him around. He’s a good bloke.”
“Of course I like him. He’s…” She fizzled out as she wondered how to describe him. “He’s a gentleman. He’s really nice.” Rachel could see different thoughts flitting through Gabe’s brain as he raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Gabe,” she warned.
“That’s good! That’s all I’m thinking. Honest” He grinned again, picked up the menu and looked around for the waitress.
“I’m helping him out with the school fundraiser. I’m going to use some of the equipment at the school for a cookery demonstration. Apparently the ticket sales are going really well.”
“That’s great. I bet Zane’s chuffed.”
“He doesn’t know,” she said quickly. “He’ll be away for the week before the fundraiser so he won’t see any of the advertising and so I thought I’d keep it a surprise.” It would also mean she could enjoy his treating her like a regular girl for a little while longer. But she didn’t share this with Gabe. “You won’t tell him, will you?”
“No, not if you don’t want me to. Of course not.”
“Cool.” She sat back and took a sip of her chilled white wine.
“Anyway,” he said with a grin. “It appears you’re irresistible.”
Rachel looked up with a start into Zane’s dark eyes. His face broke into a grin, radiating lines from his mouth and eyes like the sun emerging from a dark, serious-looking cloud.
“Zane!” She glanced at Gabe, embarrassed by her school-girl tone.
“Rachel, Gabe,” acknowledged Zane. “I was passing and saw you through the window. Mind if I join you?”
“Zane, mate!” Gabe rose from his chair. “You don’t need to ask. I’ll get you a beer, and”—he glanced from Zane to Rachel and back again—“and I’ll leave you in my sister’s capable hands.”
Rachel would have hit him if he were closer but he’d risen from his chair and was on his way to the bar, as if he’d anticipated her reaction.
“How are you?” asked Zane as he sat opposite and gazed at her appreciatively. Rachel could take any amount of that. “You’re looking… good.”
She grinned at his low-key compliment. She was so used to men making her extravagant compliments, whether she warranted them or not. “Excellent. Because I’m feeling good.” She hesitated. “Especially now you’re here.” She indicated Gabe who was leaning against the bar, chatting amiably with one of the waitresses. “Little brothers tease so much.”
Zane glanced at Gabe. “It’s our sworn duty. To make sure sisters and nieces and cousins don’t get too big for their boots.”
“Are you like that with your family?”
“Yep. I give them all a hard time.”
“Well, thank goodness for men who aren’t related to me.”
“I can tell you, in all sincerity, that I’m very pleased to be a member of that group.”
His grin made her blush.
“Zane Black!” said Gabe, placing a beer in front of his friend. “You’ve done the impossible! You’ve made my sister blush.”
Zane gave Rachel a very self-satisfied smile. “Is that right?”
Rachel cleared her throat and shot Gabe a warning look. “It’s hot in here, that’s all.”
“Not as hot as you’re going to be in that kitchen of yours soon.”
“Oh,” said Zane, frowning in confusion. “Are you having a party or something?”
“No, it’s—”
Rachel kicked Gabe under the table. “It’s nothing.” She really didn’t want Zane to know about her work. Not yet. It seems no one had told him and he was totally unaware of her TV show. He might be friends with Gabe but Gabe was so unimpressed with celebrity that he probably wouldn’t have even thought to tell his friend what Rachel did for a living. “I’m cooking dinner for Dad and Gabe later. You know, the usual.”
Gabe rolled his eyes at Rachel and struck up a conversation with a friend at a neighboring table.
“Ah,” said Zane. “Lucky them.”
“You’ll have to come round some time.”
“Sounds good.”
“How about after the fundraiser?”
“Cool. I’ll be back from Christchurch that morning. Hope it goes okay. The teams need the money.”
“Oh, I think you can confidently expect it will.”
“How? I’ve been out of the loop with other commitments.”
“I hear numbers have exceeded expectations with the arrival of some last-minute acts.”
“Really? That’s fantastic. It’ll mean that anything above the target can go towards another group.”
“But they won’t have to do any more fundraising, will they? I mean, all those car-washing sessions and sausage sizzles, you can forget them if you’ve made enough money from the weekend, surely?”
“No way. Those kids have to work for what they want. Simply because we’ve done well at this fundraiser doesn’t mean they can slacken off. They need to learn they have to work hard to get on in the world. I’m not having them waste time on Xbox, or Facebook, or whatever the latest fashion is.”
She laughed. “You’re not into any of that, are you?” She knew the answer and loved the fact he wasn’t.
“No. I know enough about social media to not want anything to do with it.”
“I know what you mean. How my brother Max, and his wife Laura, cope with it all is beyond me. Mind you, Max would do anything for Laura, he’s besotted with her.”
“Ah well. Love makes fools of us all.”
There was a sudden silence in which Gabe turned back to them. “Any more drinks, anyone?”
“Nah,” said Zane. “I need to be going.”
Rachel rose. “Me, too. Thanks Gabe. I’ll call you later.”
Zane opened the door for Rachel and she stepped out onto the hot pavement. “Are you walking?” asked Zane.
“Yes.” She stood twisting her bag in her hands like a school girl, hoping he wasn’t going to disappear immediately.
“Good. Because I am, too.”
They fell into step and were soon at Beach Road.
“What you said back there, about love making fools of us all.”
“What about it?”
“You called me cynical when we first met. I reckon you’re the cynical one.”
“Once bitten, twice shy.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Not really.” He looked at her askance as they walked along the harbor side. “But I guess you’re not going to rest until I do.”
“You’ve got it.” They’d reached a picnic bench under the trees.
“Well then. Take a seat, and I’ll tell you.”
“I thought you had to be somewhere.”
“I did. Alone with you.”
There was that look again in his eyes which transformed her into a fluttering melting mess of a woman. It was a wonderful feeling. She sat on the picnic bench, her feet nearly touching his as he sat opposite her. It was all she could do not to not move her foot until it touched his. She was wearing jandals, he, smart dress shoes. She shifted her foot and brushed her big toe against the polished leather of his foot so gently she didn’t think he’d notice. It did strange things to her inside.
He didn’t take his eyes off her but his smile broadened a little. “Okay. What do you want to know?”
Rachel kept her foot where it was, needing that connection now.
“You said once bitten, twice shy. I can’t imagine anyone biting you. Not without them coming off worse, anyway.”
His gaze was level. “I can take a nip or two without retaliating. You can try it some time, if you like.”
The blatant sexual innuendo made the heat rise even higher. She was thankful for the cooling breeze blowing in from the harbor. She licked her lips as her gaze lowered to his and tried to regain focus. “Maybe later.” She shifted her foot closer to his so that he’d definitely notice. “In the meantime, I’d be interested to know why you’re avoiding love. What happened?”
“That, Rachel, is a very personal question.”
“It is,” she admitted. “But I’m helluva interested.”
He grinned. “There’s no huge mystery. I fell in love, we were engaged to be married. I thought the world of her and thought she did of me. But…” He paused as his eyes wandered back into a world of his past. “But then I fell in a game. My knee was bust and so, apparently, was my relationship. You see, it appeared she was keener on the glamor of being an All Black’s girlfriend, than my girlfriend.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. But maybe you’re better off without her if she’s like that.”
“Yeah. But it didn’t feel like that to begin with. I guess that only really hit home when, a month later, she started a relationship with one of my mates who’s still an All Black with his sights on management. She got what she wanted.”
“And your friend? He doesn’t think he’s being used?”
“He doesn’t care. He’s using her as much as she’s using him. A perfect exchange. Ah, that’s me being cynical again. You’re right. Maybe cynicism comes with age.”
“Are you calling me old?” she teased.
“No. I’m calling you… experienced. Something’s happened to make you want to change your life. You haven’t told me much about your work in Wellington except that you’re a chef. I guess the long hours got too much. It must be hard to have relationships with people when you work unsociable hours.”
She half-laughed. Her work hours had only occasionally extended into the evening. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him but she stopped herself. His ignorance of her fame was refreshing. Besides, he’d find out soon enough. At the weekend, in fact. And wouldn’t he get a surprise? Especially about the fundraising.