by Diana Fraser
They walked up to the arch where the whole church was in view, and paused as every face turned to them. The whole of the church’s interior seemed to glow. The wooden walls of the church were bright with the warm radiance of candles, and people’s faces reflected, or emanated, the same kind of radiance—one of love. Rachel couldn’t see Zane and Gabe—his best man—as they were hidden behind bobbing heads, and flashing cameras. There were so many people here, and she knew them all.
She smiled as she caught different people’s gazes. Her family: Max and Laura, Amber wearing something bright and exotic, her elder sister Lizzi and Pete and their daughter, Aimee. Even her elusive brothers Rob and Cameron had showed up, tanned from goodness knows what continent they’d been traveling on. Zane’s family was everywhere. His grandmother sat at the front, dignified and commanding as always.
Rachel glanced behind her at Etta, who, faced with the entire congregation, looked suddenly nervous. Rachel smiled encouragement and Etta grinned back. A ‘let’s just get on with this’ kind of grin. Then the photographers and people moved aside, allowing a clear view up the aisle to where Zane waited with Gabe. And from that moment, there was no one else. Rachel’s nerves vanished but she could see Zane was nervous and the knowledge gave her confidence.
There was a murmur from people as she walked past, but she didn’t hear them. She kept her eyes on the one sure thing that kept her steady, that gaze that had kept her moving forward, since the day she’d first seen it. Zane’s gaze, his eyes—Zane, willing her on to him, Zane’s love keeping her safe like a treasure.
When she reached him he whispered in her ear, “I like your necklace.”
She glanced down at the jade necklace and touched it with her forefinger. Then she looked up at him. “Me, too. I’ll treasure it, always.”
A discreet cough from the priest made them turn around and he began to speak. The words of the ceremony felt weighted with meaning. Before today they’d been merely words, but now, with Zane beside her, his eyes fixed on hers, and his hands holding hers tightly, she understood every nuance, every syllable of them. With the last of the responses uttered, she lifted her face to Zane’s and he kissed her.
The forgotten congregation roared their approval. The sound echoed around the old colonial church as everyone rose and began to applaud. Above it all, the sound of a Maori waiata rose—an ancient song sung by the whole of Zane’s whanau about love, respect and family. They walked back down the aisle where now people moved, offering them congratulations and kisses.
Eventually they emerged from the church into the bright sunlight and looked out to the blue harbor, golden hills above, and to the white-sprinkled cloudy sky. Rachel looked around, searching for one pair of eyes, cheeky eyes—her eyes—and found them. She’d done what Zane had suggested, taking one day at a time, one step at a time, so slowly that she hardly noticed the imperceptible daily changes. But now, as she looked at Etta, her daughter, laughing with her friends, throwing clouds of confetti over Zane and her, all smiles, just for Rachel, that she realized exactly how far they’d come. And they had still further to go and, with Zane at her side, Rachel couldn’t wait.
Yep, she thought, as Zane’s arm tightened around her waist as he hugged her to his side, she was in the right place. She was home.
* * *
Gabe stood a little apart from the newly married couple, beside Amber.
“What is it with this family?” asked Amber. “They’re getting married at a rate of one per year. It’ll be you next.”
“Me?” He huffed. “Not likely. I’m fine as I am.” He glanced at his red-headed little sister, dressed in bright colors, with flowers in her hair. She walked to a different tune to the rest of them. “It’ll be more likely you.”
She smiled a far-away smile. “Marriage? No way. But if a long-haired poet with dreamy eyes and hair—a little bit too long, perhaps—comes walking along, a guitar slung over his shoulder, then I’m open to offers.” She gave him a disarming grin. “Come on, I’ve bags of heart-shaped confetti to throw at the happy couple.” She handed Gabe a bag and they proceeded to deluge Rachel and Zane.
Gabe stood beside Zane as the family grouped together for a photograph in front of the church. It took a while to settle everyone. Long enough for an ache to settle in Gabe’s heart as he watched his beautiful sister put her arm around her daughter and gaze lovingly up to her new husband. The photographer snapped the photo, immortalizing Gabe’s love for his sister and his own empty heart forever.
Epilogue
Twelve months later…
Zane stretched across the crispy white linen on the tablecloth and held up his glass of beer to Rachel’s champagne flute. “Happy anniversary, Mrs Black!”
Rachel clinked his glass with hers. “Happy anniversary, Mr. Black. What a year!”
He placed his glass on the silver coaster and took her hand in both of his. “The best year. I mean, the best year.”
“Best, and most difficult, and most rewarding, and most joyful. Most everything, really.”
“I guess it’s better to have something of everything rather than a lot of nothing.”
“Yeah, ‘nothing’ is very over-rated. I did nothing for ten years.”
“Come on! You built a career—a career which is still going well.”
“True.” She smiled. “A bit of re-branding and voila! A family show—”
“Syndicated around the world.”
There was a subtle cough from behind Rachel. “Excuse me, would you care for a starter? It’s a twist of seafood with avocado on a bed of puha… I mean watercress.”
“Strictly speaking,” said Rachel, “puha and watercress are two different vegetables.”
Zane grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Maori kai, eh? Fusion food—Maori-European.”
The waitress shrugged, her face a study of seriousness. “That’s correct, sir.”
“Then count me in.”
The slender, dark-eyed waitress carefully placed the unusual starter on the duck-egg blue plates, from Rachel’s collection, before her and Zane, and stepped away.
Rachel could hear a giggle come from behind her but she didn’t turn around. The view in front of her—Zane, tanned, handsome in a white shirt, his suit jacket having quickly been hooked on the back of his chair, as it was too hot in the evening sun—was too mesmerizing to take her gaze from. Twelve months with this man who’d barely left her side, fifty-two weeks with someone who’d proved his love every single day as her husband. She could still scarcely believe it.
She took a bite of the food. “Um, tender and tasty, a fine starter.” She gave a thumbs-up to the waitress who grinned at the sign of approval. “Although… maybe a little lemon juice. What do you think, Zane?”
“It’s fine as it is.” Typical Zane—he ate with relish without any thought to its subtleties. He’d half-finished it already. She didn’t think she’d ever really educate his taste buds into fine dining. “But you’re the expert.” He looked over to the waitress. “A little lemon juice for my wife, please.”
The waitress scowled and muttered something to another waiter—dressed in black trousers, which were too large for him, and a white shirt which had seen better days—who stood next to her, and punched him on the arm. “I told you not to forget the lemon.”
“We haven’t got any,” the boy complained.
“What’s that, then?” the waitress asked, pointing to a lemon tree which grew by the steps of the small deck on which Zane and Rachel were eating. She punched him again for good measure. This time Zane noticed.
Zane frowned. “Etta! What have I told you about punching people?”
“To only do it if they deserve it,” she muttered, as she pulled a lemon off the tree. She stabbed a knife into it and cut off a chunk on the preparation table to one side, where the anniversary feast had been prepared. Etta took a deep breath and walked over to Rachel again. “Lemon juice, Mom, I mean madam, I mean Rachel, I mean Mom.”
“Thank you
.” Rachel watched as Etta carefully squeezed the chunky slice over her starter. Rachel jumped as a stray squirt sprayed her cheek. She quickly brushed it away and returned Zane’s grin.
“You’re welcome.” Etta looked up into Rachel’s eyes. “I did it just like you showed me at Belendroit. Just like you did on TV.”
Rachel reached out and squeezed the young hand in hers. “You did. You wait, you’ll be the next TV star in the family.”
“No way. I’m going to play international rugby.” Etta grinned, and was shouting at her cousin to bring out the next course when a rugby ball whacked against the deck. She looked up sharply, yelled at the kid who’d booted the ball and ran out, tucked it under her arm, and ran off.
Rachel’s eyes lingered on Etta as she out-ran a group of boys across the marae and out into the open hills. Her girl.
Zane followed her gaze. “She’s getting there, Rachel. You’ve both come a long way.”
“And sometimes I feel there’s a long way to go.”
“You’ve got a lifetime to get there. But, you know, you’re both doing fine.”
They looked over to their families. Jim was talking to Zane’s grandmother—having overcome their decade-old feud, they were now chatting like old friends. Amber was also there, working on some Maori crafts with Zane’s cousins.
“Where’s Gabe? I thought he said he’d be here tonight.”
Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not like him to refuse a free hangi.”
“Maybe something’s come up.”
She shrugged. “He doesn’t usually have any problem getting a locum to cover for him.”
“Then maybe he’s out on a date.”
“Gabe? You’re kidding. He’s hopeless with women. He’s holding out for some special woman who doesn’t exist.”
“You don’t know that.”
“True. But that appears to be exactly what he’s doing. I simply want him to be happy.”
“He will be. You’ll see. He just has to find someone. You never know, maybe he’s found someone already.”
“Yeah, right.” Rachel suddenly twisted uncomfortably in her chair. “He needs to hurry up. I want our little one”—she rubbed her pregnant stomach—“to be raised surrounded by cousins.”
“No worries there, my love. Look around.”
Etta suddenly emerged, dusted herself off and took on the role of waitress which she’d insisted on as her present to her uncle and mum. She cleared the plates away and placed the main hangi course in front of them. While the rest of the family and whanau were eating in the marae, seated together, the deck around Zane and Rachel had been kitted out like a first-class restaurant in honor of their anniversary dinner.
Etta held up the pepper grinder. “Would Mom, I mean madam, care for some pepper on her lamb?”
“I would.”
Etta carefully ground a dusting onto Rachel’s dinner. “Is that enough?”
Zane and Rachel grinned as Etta swatted away her helper who was lurking with the salt. “That’s perfect,” said Rachel.
And it was.
The End
Yours to Cherish
New Zealand Brides, Book 3
1
Madeleine MacGillivray watched the departing bus lumber up the hill and over into the next valley, leaving behind a trail of dust. She shifted her rucksack on her shoulder and looked around. The sea was a pale shade of green in the early morning light, reflecting the color of the trees and open hillsides on the opposite side of Akaroa Harbor, the detail obliterated by the brilliant glare of the sun that had just emerged over the farther hills. It was a larger harbor than she’d imagined when he’d told her about it.
To her other side, the town was a mixture of old and new—a two-story colonial building with its rounded metal roof and white pillars and fretwork was freshly painted and still held the prime position overlooking the tree-lined harbor. Around it were ranged newer, single-story buildings which housed shops and cafés, set around paved pedestrian areas, dotted with umbrellas perched over café tables and terra cotta pots filled with fragrant lavender.
So this was it. Akaroa. The place she’d heard so much about. While the harbor and hills were bigger than she’d imagined, the town was smaller. Behind the shops that fringed the shoreline were the houses, some small, some grand, that rose around and above the bay, to the highest ridge. But that was it.
She grunted softly. Just showed how much the place had meant to him. He’d built it up when he’d recalled it, to something far more imposing. She could imagine him growing up here, his big personality dominating the small community, just as he’d been the center of her world. She felt a chill seep into her heart before she stopped it dead. She couldn’t think of that now.
She hitched the bag higher onto her shoulder and walked along the footpath. The town was a strange mixture of European charm—with its cute, cottagey veranda-shaded decks and brightly planted hanging baskets—and New Zealand drama. The pale, wheaty-green hills which sheltered Akaroa were the product of seismic activity, and appeared rumpled and creased as if a soft cloth had been pushed together. And the native trees—gnarled and spreading—were like huge, ancient, ungainly giants. Born in Denmark, she was accustomed to European charm and, having worked in the US, terrain shaped by seismic activity wasn’t new to her, but the whole picture combined into a landscape which was uniquely New Zealand.
It was still early, but there were already people around. Outside one café a woman was busy typing into a laptop, and a middle-aged man was getting stuck into a cooked breakfast which smelled divine. From across the road an old lady emerged carefully from a building whose front door opened directly onto the street.
As Maddy walked past the building, she noticed it was a doctor’s surgery. Below the sign, obscuring the doctor’s name, was a handwritten sign saying “Drowning in paperwork—Need help!” Brightly colored flowers decorated the sign.
The old lady laughed when she saw it and called out a name which Maddy couldn’t quite hear as she crossed the street. A taxi drew up outside the surgery, obscuring her view. Only the top of a man’s head, his golden curling hair bright in the morning sun, was visible to her. It was pretty hair. It was curl-it-around-your-fingers kind of hair. It was hair that tugged a little at her memory. She paused and turned a stand on which picture postcards were displayed. As the picturesque images of Akaroa whirled in her vision, her mind focused on the voice of the man with the curly hair. She couldn’t hear what he said, just his deep ironical tone. Whatever his words, it made the old lady laugh even louder. Other voices joined in as passers-by greeted them. They were both obviously well known to the community.
It seemed to take an age before the old lady was safely deposited into the taxi, but Maddy continued to wait. She had a curious desire to see what the rest of that golden-haired man with a deep voice looked like. But, by the time the taxi pulled away from the sidewalk, the door was closed and there was no golden-haired man in sight. And the sign was gone.
She shrugged and moved on.
There were more cafés and shops advertising tours and events aimed at tourists than she’d imagined. But not so many as to spoil its character. Her stomach growled at the smell of fresh baking and she looked around for its source. She hadn’t eaten since she’d got off the plane early that morning. She’d come straight to Akaroa—an hour out of Christchurch—on the bus, and was starving.
She peered in the window of a small café. Freshly baked loaves whose glaze was enriched by the early morning rays of the sun filled the window, together with pastries that could have graced the most sophisticated French patisserie. Then a woman appeared and slipped a tray into the window, filled with melt-in-your-mouth croissants, the warm chocolate oozing out of the ends. The woman looked up, caught her eye and smiled. Maddy smiled back hesitantly. It didn’t pay to catch people’s eye in some of the places where she’d traveled, and she’d developed a caution with people which he’d used to tease her about. Now she was here, in
his hometown, she understood his amusement. It was the kind of place where trust was more in evidence than suspicion. And the woman in the café was no exception. Her smile hadn’t faded, despite Maddy’s wariness.
Instinct told her to leave, but he’d insisted she come here if anything ever happened to him, and she’d promised him she would, never in a million years imagining she’d have to keep her promise so soon, if ever. So here she was, forcing herself not to run away at the sight of a warm smile. She swallowed, pulled her bag more securely over her shoulder and walked into the shop.
The old-fashioned doorbell jingled, and Maddy stepped into another world.
“Hi!” the woman called out, as she made her way back behind the counter. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
Maddy nodded. “Yes. Arrived this morning.”
“Staying long?”
Maddy hesitated, trying to fight the need to leave, to run away from this woman whose interest she really didn’t want. “A few months. Or more,” she added quietly. She didn’t want to go around admitting that she’d committed herself to staying six months in Akaroa. People would ask questions, and that was one of the conditions she’d agreed on. No one must know.
“Ah, I thought you had a different look about you. I saw you walk up the street earlier and I thought to myself, that’s not someone who’s just passing through.” The woman grabbed a bag. “Would you like some of chef’s baking? I’d offer you mine, but it’s an acquired taste, so I’ve been told.” She grinned disarmingly, once more. “What would you like?”
Maddy looked longingly at the pies, whose flaky pastry lifted at the edges, promising succulent meat within, as she mentally converted the New Zealand dollars to US. She didn’t have much money and, until she found a job, she had to be careful. She selected one of the smaller pies. “How much is this?”