Just Say [Hell] No

by Rosalind James

“Just… going,” Victoria said. “Unloading. Come help me, Ella.”

  Nyree waited until they’d left the room to answer Marko. “No. We’re going to do purple accents, like the duvet cover we bought yesterday. It’ll be pale yellow and deep purple. Quite lovely, really. Charming.”

  “Painting can’t possibly be good for the baby,” he tried next. “Fumes.”

  “Weak,” Nyree said. “Try harder. I did the painting. And bought zero-VOC paints. She’ll sleep in here with me tonight, and the windows are open. Painting is my profession, remember?”

  “Not house painting. And in case you haven’t noticed, yellow and purple isn’t exactly to my taste.”

  “Fortunately,” she said sweetly, “your female guests will have a refuge.”

  He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “As long as you aren’t painting this room.”

  “Oh, but I am. I have to live here for five months. I can’t live in black and white. All right, it has a sea view. But still.”

  “Maybe you can put in a big mirror,” he said. “I’m fairly certain you’re a rainbow.”

  It took her a minute. “Unworthy of you,” she finally said. “After I told you my secret. And that I can’t see myself.”

  He had the grace to look slightly ashamed. “Tell me what color, so I can brace myself for the worst.”

  “Orange. I’ve always wanted an orange room.”

  She didn’t have any trouble interpreting that expression. “No. Absolutely bloody not.”

  “Marko.” She took a step closer and put a hand on his forearm. The bunched muscles tensed even more, and she took her hand off again. Whoops. No touching. She went on fast. “We’ll paint again, Ella and I, before we both leave. After the baby. This room, and hers, too, if you really hate the yellow. The painting will be good for her, a good step. It’ll mark the transition, be a way for her to know she’s moved on, that she’s entered into a new phase. And you’ll have white walls again.”

  “I’d think she’d already have a fairly good idea that she’s moved on,” he said, “considering that there’ll be one less person inside.”

  “I don’t think it happens that fast. Change is a process, right? Your mind can be the last part of you to complete it. You were injured last year. How long did you take to adjust to that?”

  He went even more still before he said, “Not long at all. I’m used to being injured. And is that what it’s going to be like with you here? Are you going to be saying things like, ‘change is a process?’ Bloody hell.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “It’s going to be just like that. Unless you give me the sack.”

  What would a man actually have to do to impress her? Or even to make a bloody impression? He was intimidating. That was his job.

  He didn’t want to intimidate her. Not exactly. He just…

  He stood there, dimly aware that the kitten was kneading his shoulder and purring like she had a motor under there, and did his best to gather his wits.

  He should sack her. Advertise. Get some older lady with spectacles. On one of those beaded chains. Who would cook. She’d cost more, but she’d be guaranteed not to walk up the stairs in front of him with the curves of the most bite-worthy arse he’d ever seen in his life showing under her tiny shorts. Not to mention that she wouldn’t put her hand on his arm, lean in close, look up at him with those eyes, and push his self-control all the way to the screaming limit.

  Which would be why he said, “Of course I’m not sacking you. And cheers for the suggestion about the background check. Although if I do it now, I’m removing all the satisfaction from it, since I’m pretty sure it won’t turn up anything exciting.”

  “You’ll turn up that I’m skint,” she said. “And that my car’s fifteen years old. Both of which you already knew.”

  “Right, then.” He put his hands on his hips, looked around, and sighed. “Going downstairs for the tallboy and the rest of it. Make me happy and tell me you cooked my tea and it’s waiting in the fridge.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been painting all day. Not a good housekeeper, remember? Ella went to Eden Foods and picked up a few things, though, when she registered for school. Which she did by herself, by the way, so you might mention it. She got yoghurt, I think. Apples, too.”

  He definitely needed the lady with the spectacles.

  When he went back upstairs an hour later to collect the two of them, things didn’t look much better. Ella’s mattress was out of Nyree’s doorway and on the floor together with Nyree’s smaller one, and the tallboy stood in the corner where Nyree had directed him to put it, but the passage was still crammed with boxes, bags, and a rolled-up carpet.

  He didn’t say anything, because there was no point. Instead, he said, “Tea’s ready.”

  Ella bounced off the mattress and said, “Awesome,” and Nyree said, “Give me five minutes.” Victoria had left a while ago.

  When they came downstairs, Nyree had changed out of the shorts. Unfortunately. She must have taken a shower, because her hair was wet and pulled back in a ponytail, from which tendrils were already escaping like nothing could contain her energy. She’d changed, too. She was dressed in a pair of black leggings, a thin purple jumper that clung to her breasts and revealed a lace-edged something, and the black silk dressing gown he’d seen in her bedroom before.

  This was bad.

  Did she notice his reaction? She did not. Instead, she joined him at the sleek black induction cooktop and said, “Smells yum. I was afraid to touch this thing. You have a seriously scary house. What did you make?”

  “Venison stew. Extra veggies. Greens. Bread, if you like.” He dished up a heaping bowl for himself, and put it on a plate.

  The bowl and plate were both white, because it had been easier than figuring out anything else. He was sure she’d say something about that, but instead, she just asked, “No bread for you?”

  “Nah. Not tonight. I’ll have extra of this instead. Nutrition, eh.”

  “Oh.” She considered that for a minute, then said, “Guess you won’t be eating any of Ella’s and my ice cream, then. Always a bonus, especially as it’s chocolate.” Then she hacked off a slice of ciabatta loaf, buttered it extravagantly, and took her plate to the third stool in line.

  Ella eased herself onto the middle stool, pulled out her phone, held it in one hand and her spoon in the other, and started to text. Nyree put down her own spoon and said, “Well, no.”

  “Pardon?” Marko asked.

  “You know what?” Nyree hopped off her stool. “Would you carry my coffee table downstairs for me again? Please?”

  He stopped in the act of taking another bite. “Now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Of course he did it. When they were upstairs, though, and he was carrying furniture once more, he said, “I reckon you’ll explain eventually.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And yes, it’s your house. If you want to eat dinner at your perfect marble breakfast bar and look at your high-tech phone, that’s OK. But I need Ella to do something else, if I’m here to make things better.”

  “That’s what you’re here for.”

  “Awesome.” She gave him that wide smile again. “Let’s go.”

  Downstairs, she directed him to set the poppy-painted coffee table down in the absolutely empty dining room, its glass walls reflecting only darkness now, distributed three of her ridiculously furry orange cushions around it, then picked up her plate and glass from the breakfast bar and said, “We’re eating dinner over here, Ella.”

  Ella looked up at last from her screen. “What?” And when Nyree picked up her plate from under her hand, she said, “Oi. Why?”

  “You know what my rules are?” Nyree said. “The ones I made up for myself?” She transferred her silverware to the coffee table, then sat on her knees on her cushion and waited until Ella joined her.

  “What?” Ella asked.

  “No screens at dinner,” Nyree said. “I can read a book, or a newspaper. I can
sketch. I can think. I can look out the window, or sit outside and look at my flowers. If I’m lucky, I can talk to a mate. But I can’t look at a screen. It’s too lonely anyway, eating side by side like that, staring at the cupboards. I’ve never understood why people think that’s better. Talk about Android World.”

  Marko said, “Huh. I can go along with no screens, I guess.” He’d moved his dish over as well, and now, he sat at the end of the table, where the kitten instantly jumped into his lap.

  “Also,” Nyree said, “no screens once I go to bed. That’s my other one. Just anticipating you,” she told Ella. “Since we’re sharing tonight.”

  Ella sighed. “When am I supposed to text Caro, then?”

  “Between dinner and bed?” Nyree suggested.

  Ella gave another exasperated sigh, and Marko said, “Not watching telly in bed, then, Nyree? Texting the boyfriend?”

  As a subtle information-gatherer, it failed. But then, he’d never been good at subtle. “Hurts your sleep,” was all she said. “And…” She hesitated a moment, then added, “Not good for communication, either.”

  Ella said, “If you mean sex, just say sex. I’m already pregnant. The damage is done.”

  “Right, then,” Nyree said after a moment. “Bedrooms are for sleep and sex. That’s what they say. And talking. That’s what I say. Lying in the dark, facing the person you love, telling him your secrets, there where it’s safe, and hearing his. Connecting.”

  “You’re a romantic,” Marko said.

  There went that chin again. “What’s wrong with that?”

  That you aren’t going to be sleeping with me. “Nothing, I reckon. If you can handle the disappointment. Men, eh.”

  “I’ve tried it the other way,” she said. “I’d rather be up front and get my disappointment out of the way early. Life’s too short not to be the person you are.”

  Ella was asleep. It had happened during the five minutes Nyree had been in the bathroom. So much for texting her cousin.

  Nyree hesitated, then headed down the stairs again. Marko was still down there, she was fairly sure. Light glowed from the asymmetrical, nickel-accented sconces in the entryway, and she could hear soft music from somewhere. He was watching telly in the lounge, probably, sitting on his black leather couch with his bare feet on the chrome-and-glass coffee table, getting in that screen time.

  His house was intimidating enough, all echoing spaces, enormous windows, dramatic curves and angles, breathtaking views, and high-end materials. And he was intimidating the rest of the way. She needed to get used to co-existing with him, and there was no better time than tonight.

  No light from the lounge, but the music was definitely coming from somewhere. Beyond the kitchen, she thought. She padded across acres of pale hardwood, laid on a diagonal to the white walls in thoroughly modern fashion, to the dining room where they’d eaten. One of the trifold doors was shoved to the side, and the music was louder.

  Discreet lighting illuminating the greenery beyond the deck. Smooth teak under her bare feet, two minimalist black iron chairs. And a tall, long-legged figure in one of them, his bare ankles crossed on the deck rail.

  And the music. Liquid notes falling into the dark.

  He didn’t see her until she was leaning against the rail herself.

  “Don’t stop,” she said when he looked up.

  He didn’t smile, just looked at her as his nimble fingers flew over the strings of the guitar. His big body was relaxed, nothing moving but his hands. He was playing finger-style, so every note landed distinct, pure, and mellow.

  Minor chords, those had to be. Melancholy. Beautiful.

  “Sit down,” he said, “if you like. Get yourself a beer.”

  “D’you want one?”

  “Nah. I’m all good.”

  “Me, too.” She sat in the other chair, scooted it closer to the rail, and put her feet up next to his.

  “Tired?” he asked. Still playing, soft and pure and complicated.

  “Maybe. Painting all day, eh.”

  “Mm.” More of the slow, sweet melody, then he said, “Moon’s coming up. Nearly full tonight. I still like to watch the stars come out. Even though you can’t really see them here. Shock to me, when I first moved to the city.”

  She leaned back and let the music wash over her, let it draw out the kind of wordless yearning that made your chest hurt and your heart fill, and saw what he saw. The curve of cool white edging its way up over the horizon, and a few pale pinpricks of stars beyond its glow. “I know,” she said. “Same for me, when we moved from Northland.”

  “I didn’t know you couldn’t always see the Milky Way,” he said. “Or that blaze of stars. Thought it would be like that wherever I went, I guess.”

  “Tekapo’s famous that way, I know,” she said. “I’ve never been. Seen photos, though. Beautiful as Northland, but in a different way.”

  “A wilder way.”

  The song rose, fell, ended, and she was sorry. “I didn’t know you played the guitar. What was that?”

  “Still Loving You, by the Scorpions. Sounds different like this, I guess. Not so metal, eh.”

  “You’re good.”

  “Nah. Just played a lot.” He started again. Haunting, this time. Hurting. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Basque dad, hippie mum. Grew up on a farm. No choice. Family time was music time. We can all play something. Turned out all right, though.”

  “Helps you unwind,” she suggested. “To process, maybe. Things that are hard, or things that are new.”

  “It does.”

  “You play more after a loss, maybe.”

  “Shh. Secret.”

  She smiled, tipped her head back, found the Southern Cross, and surrendered to the music and the night. Let it wash over her skin, seep into her bones. “It’s so beautiful,” she said, “that it hurts.”

  “Mm. Love the Way You Lie. About hurting, I guess. About being willing to hurt.”

  “So that’s why you took Ella. Farm family. Close family.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Nobody else available to help, with all that family?”

  “Nah.” The music went on, and his voice did as well, deep and slow and easy. “Mum and Dad are in the midst of breeding season. Merinos. Mum’s doing a lodge now as well. A cross between a farmstay and a luxury B&B, I guess you’d say. Still busy, at the edge of summer.”

  “No helpful grandmother?”

  His fingers stilled on the strings for a moment, then started up again. “Yeh. My Amona. My dad’s mum. She’s not so mobile anymore, though, and she doesn’t like leaving the farm much. Never been off the mainland since she married my grandfather. Sixty years ago now.”

  Something different in his voice. “Your granddad’s gone, I guess. I’m sorry. But doesn’t she come see you play?”

  “A few times. Christchurch, Dunedin. But she never liked going. Never mind. She doesn’t have to.”

  Protectiveness. That was what she heard. “I think,” she said, “that I may have been wrong about you.”

  “Nah. Probably not. Any South Island boy’s likely to be a family man. A quiet man. In the blood, isn’t it.”

  “Basque.”

  “Among other things.”

  The song ended, and he didn’t start another one. She stood up, gathered her silk dressing gown around her, shook back her hair, and said, “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Maybe for not chucking me out. Maybe for letting me take a wee peek inside that locked box.”

  “Best not look too long,” he said. “Could be dangerous.”

  “Like looking at the sun.”

  “No,” he said. “That’d be you.”

  Something squeezed in her chest, and the tears pricked behind her eyes. “I’ll say good night, then. See you in the morning.”

  “Good night,” he said. “Nyree.”

  Marko was late getting home the next evening. He’d run a couple errands first.

  At least h
e could get into the driveway tonight. He was hauling his burdens up the stone steps when he had to retreat again, because there was a whole family coming out his front door.

  “Hi,” he said. “You took the plunge, eh. Evening, Kate.”

  It was Koti’s family. He had the black dog on a leash and Maia by the other hand. The little girl concentrated on getting to the bottom of the steps, then told Marko, “We gots a doggie. His name is Blackie. I can pat him over and over, ’cause he is mine.”

  “Sweet as,” Marko said. “Going to be your good mate, sounds like.”

  Koti told his daughter, “She’s a girl doggie, remember?” He told Marko, “And don’t say it. I didn’t get a vote on the name.”

  “That’s what you get,” Kate said, “for letting Maia and me choose.”

  “Stay on for a bit, if you like,” Marko said. “We could do a takeaway.” Why were they here?

  “Nah,” Koti said. “Bedtime. We just came by to show Nyree that we got, ah, Blackie, and to get some advice. I didn’t realize she’d be exactly here. With you. Color me surprised, cuz. That’s some fast work.”

  “She’s staying with Ella,” Marko said. “As my cousin’s come to live with me for a few months, and she needs the company.”

  Koti exchanged a look with Kate that Marko didn’t miss, then said, “Right. Moving on. Am I old enough to know what that thing is, or am I going to wish I hadn’t asked? At the moment, my mind’s boggling.”

  Marko had long since set it down. It was heavy. “Cat, ah… gym. Cat gym.”

  “Cuz,” Koti said. “That cat isn’t big enough to need a weight bench, let alone an entire gym. I’d call that two meters tall. And it’s leopard print. That’s just sad.”

  Marko was getting narky, especially since he was clearly going to be a conversational topic in Koti’s car on the way home, in so many wonderful ways. And he wasn’t one bit sure Koti would keep his mouth shut about any of it around the boys. He said, “I’m not the one with a dog named Blackie. The cat won’t let me sit down without her. Right now, I’m the cat gym.”

  “I saw the photo,” Kate said. “Of her on your head. That was great. I laughed so hard. I’ll bet everybody did.” That was wonderful news. She shifted her hold on the baby, who was in a carrier, and told Koti, “Time to go, buddy. The natives are restless.”