by Kara Isaac
“Tell me, Dr. Shire. What do you think about God?” He took a tentative sip of his coffee.
She startled. Now there was a question she hadn’t been asked in a long time. “Honestly, I try not to these days. I’m pretty sure He doesn’t think much of me.”
Not that she could blame Him. He’d given her enough blazing signs not to marry Derek, an astronaut could’ve seen them from outer space—but no, she’d had to bowl on through them all. Choosing to believe her own naïve, foolish heart over all the warnings and people telling her she was making a mistake.
One side of his mouth lifted up. “Oh, I know you’re wrong about that. Trust an old man who has seen a lot. God always has a way of working things out if we step back and let Him. He’s especially good at the ones that appear impossible, because that’s when we usually give up trying to fix it ourselves.”
She almost laughed. Easy for him to say when he was crazy rich and returning from what had clearly been a successful dinner date with one of the spinsters. She had lost everything. And so far God didn’t seem to be going out of His way to help her out with any of it.
“Well, I’d better turn in. I’ll be praying for you.” He stood, knees cracking.
As much as she resented his assumption that she needed him to, knowing that he would be felt kind of nice.
“Oh, and Mavis has bluer eyes.”
“What?”
He gave her a wink. “That’s how you can tell her and Ethel apart.”
What was the guy, a mind reader? Oh well, at least that was one problem fixed. These days she’d take whatever crumbs she could get.
Thirteen
JACKSON WAS PRETTY SURE THIS had to count as one of the longest days of his life. It was midafternoon and they’d been on the go since early morning, traipsing after some new guide to obscure places all over Wellington that had allegedly been Lord of the Rings or Hobbit film locations. Judging by the enraptured expressions of everyone else in the group, he was the only one who thought hammering a tent peg through his forehead would be more enjoyable than this.
He’d managed to show an appropriate amount of enthusiasm hour after hour. They’d been shown the locations where Aragorn was washed ashore after being attacked by another evil thing whose name he couldn’t remember, the Gardens of Isengard, the site of the orcs felling the trees, where the hobbits hid from the Nazgûl, and a bunch of other places he had zero interest in, but now he’d officially lost the will to live.
Even the knowledge that his uncle, if he was paying attention, would be able to tell Jackson wasn’t exactly an ardent fan wasn’t enough motivation to continue on with the charade—especially since his banged-up face throbbed like it had its own pulse.
The best part of the entire day had been when Elroy and Sofia had an altercation because Sofia questioned Elroy’s credentials as a true Tolkienite. Something about how if he was a true fan, then he wouldn’t have visited the Helm’s Deep location, as the Elves were never there in the book, it was made up for the movies. Allie had moved in to smooth the waters just as it started getting interesting by pointing out that if people only went to the same locations their characters were in the books then everyone would miss out on half the tour.
At least they were at the last stop—Rivendell, aka Kaitoke Regional Park—so the torment would be over soon. They had to get back to the hotel to pack their bags and fly to the South Island first thing in the morning.
Jackson stifled a yawn as the film location guide warbled on enthusiastically in the background. The group moved forward, but he lagged behind, flapping his Boromir cloak in the breeze, feet treading on lush green grass.
“Blah blah Elves blah blah hobbits blah blah one ring to rule them all.” Jackson muttered the words under his breath.
“What did you say?” Allie’s voice cut through his thoughts. She was in a new hobbit dress today. A blue one. He hadn’t thought it possible, but it was even uglier than the green dress. It must have been smaller, too, because the fat suit was gone. And the feet. The horrible frizzy hair was back, though.
Her face was scrunched: most likely, she was offended by his lack of appropriate reverence for her imaginary best friends. Hmm, this could be fun.
He looked down at her and smirked. “I said blah blah oh look there’s a bunch of trees that were in the movie for less than a second! Oh wow—if you stand on one leg and tilt at exactly twenty-seven degrees with one eye closed you can see a rock that was part of Helm’s Deep!”
It wasn’t like she could deny it. It had been over a decade since Lord of the Rings was filmed. Foliage had grown and land had been acquired for other purposes.
“C’mon,” he continued. “Even you have to admit the guide’s enthusiasm for a few things was way over the top. Trees. And hills. And a river. And rocks.” He leaned forward and whispered: “Just between you and me, I’m not sure if you noticed, but they all look the same. You can tell me. You guys just point to any old thing and tell people it was in the films, don’t you? It’s not like they’d ever know.”
The fact that he didn’t even pretend to be interested seemed to grate against something deep inside her. He could practically see a fierce protectiveness rise up within her at his blatant derisiveness.
“You realize you are talking about some of the greatest movies of all time? Seventeen Oscars. And that’s just the Rings, not the Hobbit. Eleven for The Return of the King—making it tied for the most Oscars for one film ever!” She was almost spluttering with indignation and outrage. Jackson imagined he had just done the equivalent of telling a new mom her baby was ugly.
He raised an eyebrow. “True. But excuse me if I’m skeptical of the Oscars as a way to judge a film’s worth. I remind you that one of the other films that also has eleven gold statues involves Leonardo and Kate making out on a sinking ship and the worst pop song of all time.”
She flinched. Ah. He smothered a smile. He’d bet good money teenage Allison had had Jack and Rose posters plastered all over her bedroom wall and that her CD player had blasted Celine Dion on replay. Not that she’d ever admit it.
Allie seemed to regain some equilibrium. “So you’re saying you didn’t even like the movies?” She looked at him like he’d said he didn’t believe in gravity, or the sun, or Double Stuf Oreos.
Jackson shrugged. This was the most fun he’d had all day. By a very wide margin. “Look, clearly we are polar opposites on this, but I’m not sure why they matter anyway. I mean, they’re just a bunch of really loooong books and movies. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not bad, but deserving of all this madness?” He waved his hands in the general direction of the entire universe. “I don’t get it.”
She didn’t even attempt to restrain her outraged expression. “You can’t be serious.”
Maybe if he got her mad enough she wouldn’t speak to him for the next two weeks. Better yet, she’d avoid him as much as possible. That would be ideal. Let him get on with why he was here rather than remain distracted by her feisty nature and general pocket-size cuteness. “Dead serious. So a bunch of little people save Middle-earth. Big deal. It’s not like that plot isn’t the same as those of thousands of other books and movies. I mean, it’s all very nice and cuddly and feel-good, but not exactly life changing. Except I guess for the people who made their squillions out of it.”
Her fists clenched at her side; he bet she itched to give him a matching set of black eyes. Too late, he realized that he’d miscalculated—that in his desire to do whatever it took to stop Allie from getting any further under his skin, he hadn’t considered that razzing the one person on this tour he needed on his side would be a really bad idea. And now he was in too deep to try and retreat.
“You are so, so . . .” She trailed off, as if there weren’t adequate words in the English language to describe him.
“Right. And you know it.” He’d been intending to say something placatory, but the
even more inflammatory words just slipped out. Why didn’t he just take a spade and dig his own grave? There was no way she wouldn’t rat him out to his uncle after this. And part of him didn’t blame her.
Allie’s face turned an interesting shade of red and she stood on tiptoe in an attempt to get in his face. In her flat shoes, she barely came up to his nose.
“You know what? I feel sorry for you, because the only reason you can possibly not get why Tolkien is so great is because he writes about themes that are sooooo far outside of your frame of reference. It’s like your brain flashes a big red ‘Cannot compute, cannot compute.’ ”
“Really? Well, since you apparently know me so well, why don’t you enlighten me?”
“Like honor and sacrifice and valiance and doing something bigger than yourself for the greater good. Like struggling with your own doubts and fears and frailties and coming out stronger—”
She was still ranting, but Jackson was having trouble concentrating. All of his efforts were going into not focusing on how cute she was when she was mad. Her petite frame was fairly bursting with indignation and disgust.
He had to admit that as pure entertainment, Tolkien was definitely up there. There were even a couple of moments during the movies he’d felt a twinge of something, not that he would ever admit it to her. But since he’d already cast his die, it was way more fun getting her worked up over her beloved author. Where would the joy be in letting her think he might even be finding his way to a begrudging admiration of the guy?
A sharp poke brought him back to earth. “Ow!” He rubbed the tender spot on his left side where she jabbed him. “What was that for?”
Allie glared at him. “You aren’t even listening to me.”
He struggled to keep the smile off his face. “You know why?”
She threw her hands up. “Why?”
“You’re pretty cute when you’re mad.”
Where that had come from, he had no idea, but apparently he couldn’t have said anything to throw her more off-kilter if he tried.
She stumbled, grabbing onto his arm to stop herself from falling. She blinked up at him. Once. Twice. “You are such a . . . such a . . . man!”
And with that, she spun around and stormed away, hideous dress flapping in the wind behind her.
* * *
What was wrong with him? What did he think she was going to say? Oh wow, thanks. Well then, that changes everything. You’re not a total moron after all.
Stupid, insufferable man. Too bad she hadn’t done her thesis on Jane Austen. One of Austen’s heroines would have had the perfect line to describe him. Probably Lizzie Bennet, since she seemed to have gotten the monopoly on good lines when it came to insufferable men.
Instead, she’d studied a guy who wrote real heroes, whose characters said things like, “All you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to you.” Who battled dragons and orcs and took three arrows in the chest but still kept fighting. Jackson might have been dressed up as Boromir, but Boromir would sooner have died than said something so ridiculous as “You’re pretty cute when you’re mad.” So would Aragorn. Or even naïve, bumbling Sam for that matter.
She tried to ignore the thought tugging at her underneath the surface as she stormed after the rest of the group. So what if Jackson thought she was cute? The words held all the meaning of those of some drunk guy hitting on her at a bar. He hadn’t even meant it. He’d said it to throw her off-balance. And it had worked perfectly.
What was wrong with her? Why did she keep letting him get under her skin? What did she care if he didn’t recognize the genius of Tolkien? Why hadn’t she told his uncle the truth about him? The guy was an arrogant, obnoxious moron who probably aspired to marry someone off The Real Housewives of Orange County.
She was such an idiot. After yesterday, she had actually thought there might be more to him than she’d originally thought, but she was no better than some girl starring in some teenage rom-com thinking she could convert the bad boy. Convinced that underneath that tough exterior was really a sensitive caring soul that would find its way into the sun if given some tender watering.
The only kind of watering she wanted to do with Jackson Gregory involved holding his head under some.
Before she knew what she was doing, her feet had turned themselves around and she was marching back to where he still stood. “Were you brought up by the state?”
“Huh?” He wielded his fake sword at her and made some large slashing motions with it through the air.
She tried to ignore his forearms flexing as he completed a figure eight and rested the weapon on his shoulder—the same way she’d been trying to ignore how good he looked in his costume all day. Focus, Allie. Focus!
“You know, in foster care. Did your father beat your mother? Did your puppy die when you were little and you’re still grieving? Were you bullied for being fat in high school? Did a girlfriend cheat on you? Do you have some sort of mental illness?”
His mouth hung slightly ajar at her onslaught. “What?”
“I’m trying to work out if there’s some legitimate reason why I should give a nit on a monkey’s behind about you, or if you actually are just a total jerk for no good reason.”
“Oh. Well in that case.” He scrunched up his face. “To answer your questions. No. No. No. No. Yes. No.”
She stared at him. Five nos. One yes. Only problem was that in her outburst she couldn’t remember the order she asked the questions or even what all of them were. Except she was pretty sure the mental illness one was last and that was a no. Thank goodness. Because that would have been beyond mortifying.
“And no.” He was grinning down at her, perfect white teeth gleaming.
“No?” Another no?
“No, I’m not going to tell you which one I answered yes to. You’re a smart girl, Dr. Shire. You work it out.”
He sauntered away, then paused, looking over his shoulder back at her. “Let’s clear one thing up, though. Jackson Gregory has never been fat.”
Argh! If she didn’t need this job so bad it would be worth it to smack him in his smug purple face.
This was meant to be a low-stress day for her. Someone else had been paid to be the primary entertainment, allowing her to zone out and worry about a myriad of things that could go wrong early tomorrow in the attempt to relocate nine people and a ridiculous amount of luggage over the Cook Strait.
Instead, she was standing in the middle of a park in the back of beyond, more steamed than a Chinese dumpling.
“Jackson Gregory was never fat.” The man was unbelievable. What kind of person said that? No doubt it was true. He had the confident bearing of someone who had never gotten a day’s grief about his physical appearance in his life, but still.
She tried to ignore the way the smile he tossed back over his shoulder had made her heart kick up a notch, and not out of anger, either. For some completely insane unknowable reason, the guy was growing on her.
Not to mention the glint in his eye now had her wondering how much of his Tolkien-hating had been real and how much had just been him messing with her. And she’d walked straight into it.
Nothing to worry about, Allie. They had less than two weeks left on the tour. Then he would be gone, back to America, back to his life. Whatever that held. Who cared what it held? Just as long as it had nothing to do with her.
Fourteen
ALLIE PEERED UP AT THE evening sky as the minivan pulled in to a spot on Wellington’s wharf. The occasional cloud waltzed far above and the air still held the remnants of the warm day. The lights of Eastbourne sparkled in the distance across water as flat as her mood. At least the weather was perfect for the evening cruise. Thank goodness. Late April could go either way, and it wasn’t the same on a cold, rainy night.
She studied the boat sitting alongside the wharf. This whole dinner cruise on the
harbor was a new addition to the itinerary. In the past, this night had been designated for a low-key quiet dinner at the hotel for people to order room service or do whatever they liked, since they were exhausted from another big day and needed time to pack for the flight the next morning.
But nooo. Someone had to go and complain that they hadn’t come all the way to New Zealand and paid through the nose for a luxury tour to be left to eat in the hotel and—ta-da!—here they were.
Her suggestion that she would happily organize dinner out for anyone in the group who wanted it had been met with a determined silence from the head office. The updated itinerary now came with a price increase that more than covered the cost of the cruise.
She sucked in a breath, stared out the front windshield, and tried to pull herself together. Derek’s phone call still had her shaken up. The guy always, always, had an ulterior motive. It unnerved her not being able to figure out what was behind yesterday’s call.
And now, she had to spend the evening stuck on something she ordinarily avoided at all costs—a boat. What a fitting end to a stinking couple of days.
Good grief! She dug around in her handbag, trying to sift through the contents in the dim light. She’d totally forgotten to take her seasickness medicine before they left the hotel. Oh, this was not good, not good at all.
“Are we here?” Elroy’s voice called out from the back.
“We are indeed.” Twisting open her bottle of water, she liberated two pills from the packet of Kwells and knocked them back. Please act fast. Please act fast.
Swallowing another gulp of water, she put the lid back on and turned around. “All right. Everyone ready?” It wasn’t really a question, so she didn’t wait to hear any answers. Opening her passenger door, she dropped onto the pavement and slid open the back door, holding out her hand to help Mavis—thanks to Louis’s little tip, she could now tell the two sisters apart—then Ethel, down the awkward step and onto the ground.