I stop and read the inscription.
There are two sets of names, not one. Christopher and Vivienne Marchmount. Walter and Alison Repati. I have found both of them.
Do I stop now and return to Wellington?
The blood races through my veins in anticipation. I lift my foot gently from the brake and turn up the driveway.
Invisible dogs bark as I drive up and stop the car in front of a sprawling farmhouse of gray clapboard with white window frames. A battered SUV is parked in the car shed and a dirt-embossed motorbike leans against a water tank.
I pause with my hand on the door lever, and then I press it down, push open the door and step out of the car.
Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I approach a porch adorned with Wellington boots, a basket of wood, two cat food bowls, a walking stick, and four umbrellas in various states of disrepair. When I reach the door, I knock lightly, three times. It seems appropriate. I wait, listening, but there is no noise from within, no patter of feet across old wooden floorboards coming to meet a long-lost prodigal sister.
I knock again, loudly this time. Still nothing. I walk around the back. The dogs start barking again, more of them joining in, until there is a crescendo of dog noise coming from the hill beyond the house. On the far side is a large veranda facing north to capture the sun, with doors opening from the house, but all are closed today.
The house has a sleepy air, as if it waits like a faithful dog for its owner. I want to walk up to the glass and peer inside, but I am not certain it is empty, so I look from afar, but see nothing. I circle around to the entrance and knock again, but there is no response.
Back in the car, I reverse down the driveway and pause. The driveway goes around a rose garden and up a hill.
There must be another house farther in. I drive forward, past bluebells pushing up their petaled heads amongst the ferns beneath the trees, and climb to the top of the rise.
To my left, now, is a grassy tennis court. To my right, a swimming pool, an elegant structure of red metal and glass and terra-cotta tiles. Ahead lies a beautiful country house. Not a castle, not a villa, but a colonial mansion built on a grand scale. Trees frame the house, and flower bushes spill out of the beds that fill its many crevices.
I drive up to the porch. Pots in rich shades of blue and red are artfully placed on the terra-cotta-tiled steps. The door is wide open.
As I sit in my car anticipating what might come next, a man emerges from the house, a dog at his side. I get out of the car and walk toward him. He is younger than I expected, tall and handsome, with fair hair, dark glasses, and a tanned face.
“Can I help you?” he asks, staring at the car.
I can’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses.
I clear my throat. “I am looking for Vivienne or Alison. Is either of them at home?”
He drops his gaze to my face.
“I am Christopher Marchmount. My wife is shopping in Hastings and Alison and Walter are at the dog trials,” he replies. “Perhaps I can help?”
I don’t want to speak of who I am to anyone but my sisters.
“Will Vivienne be home soon?”
He leans down and touches the dog’s head. “I don’t expect her back until this evening. And Alison and Walter are in Wairoa so they won’t be home until late. What do you want with them?”
“I’ve seen one of their mother’s paintings,” I tell him. “I was wondering if there were any available to buy.”
It is a lie, but I do need a painting or two for my office wall. Although I’m not sure I would want a painting by my father’s spurned first wife.
His jaw moves into a smile, showing a set of even white teeth. “Come in,” he says. “I think Vivienne has some of her mother’s pieces in the hall.”
He stands to one side and puts out his hand, brushing my shoulder as I pass. I flinch involuntarily.
“They are here somewhere,” he says, as I stand blinking in a large hallway. “But I cannot recall where.”
I walk up the hallway, looking at the artworks on display. “I can’t see Rose’s signature on any of these,” I say.
Still wearing his dark glasses, he seems to gaze right through me. I start to feel uncomfortable.
“Perhaps they are in the studio.” He walks past me and opens a door to the outside. “Follow me.”
He leaves the house and crosses the lawn to a gate beyond. The dog paces silently beside him.
He fumbles with the gate. I look back at the house. We are now on the northern side, and as with the farmhouse below, there is a wide veranda built for the sun. The house looks beautiful from this angle as well, with its deep windows, gray-painted wood, white walls, and the profusion of flowers bordering the deck. There is a scent of lavender in the air.
“Come,” Christopher says and so I follow him through the gate and into a paddock.
Now the air smells more of rural countryside; grass and earth with a hint of dung, a waft of decay.
My cell phone rings and I stop to answer it. “Hello? This is Lin.”
“Where are you?” asks Sally’s voice.
“I’m at a place called Ngatirua,” I reply. “In Hawke’s Bay.”
Christopher has paused to wait for me.
“That’s a bloody long drive,” she says. “Anyway, I’ve asked the gay guys for dinner tonight. You okay for that?”
“Sure,” I reply. We say good-bye and hang up.
“Sorry,” I say.
Christopher is standing facing the paddock but turns back to me, his gaze fixing just above my forehead. “Actually, I don’t know if there are any of Rose’s paintings in the studio either,” he says. “I can’t find them for you. You see, I am blind.”
“Blind?” I feel foolish for not having realized his odd manner was due to lack of sight. “I am sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“You should come back when my wife is here.” He turns and walks back to the house, with me trailing along behind.
“So this was the family farm?”
“Rose’s parents’ farm, yes. Vivienne and her sister inherited it from their grandparents.”
“Nice that they still live so close to each other.”
“They have always been close,” he says. “Since they were children and their mother killed herself.”
“Oh?”
“Vivienne said that Rose was devastated when her husband left her for another woman. And when he had a child with the new woman, Rose broke down completely. Vivienne found her body.”
“Oh.”
“Vivienne has never been able to forget her mother’s agony. She hated her father. Never mentions his name.” Christopher says this as he ushers me back to the front door and stands at the entrance, waiting for me to go away.
“Well, thank you for letting me take a look. I’ll call,” I reply.
My blind brother-in-law closes the front door, and I return to the car.
The house sits in the sun looking like a painting of a perfect home. I let out my breath in a long sigh, turn on the ignition, and wend my way back out of the hills, onto the highway again, pointing the nose of my car toward Wellington.
If I could just meet them, with a hand held out, surely there would be some kind of feeling between us, a warm feeling, of family and everything that family meant? Or did they only see me as the indirect cause of their mother’s death?
The road home is long and dull. As if in sympathy with my mood, the rain starts when I reach the Rimutakas, and I slow to a crawl behind a stream of trucks grinding their cautious way up and over the pass.
When I reach the harbor, Wellington itself is gray, the clouds mirroring the grayness of the buildings and the gray sea. My car swishes along the motorway, through the wet streets, and up the hill to home.
By the time I pull into the garage I have decided to let sleeping sisters lie. For now, anyway, until I work out how to get through to them. I don’t want to take the risk and hold out my hand only to see them turn away.
&n
bsp; I walk up the path to my father’s old home. All the anticipation and the enthusiasm I had been feeling have fizzled out in the rain.
I wonder, again, what the hell I am doing here, following my father’s cold trail.
Chapter 9
Dirk is a big man with sandy hair and freckled skin and Jiro is small and dark and has a Japanese cast to his features.
Their accents are pure American. We play the game of establishing whereabouts in America we are from. Jiro and Dirk are L.A. from the top of their well-groomed heads to the pointy tips of their elegant footwear.
“I grew up in Portland,” I say.
“Do you get home often?” Dirk asks.
“I stopped in to see my stepmother a month ago,” I say. “But I wouldn’t call Portland home.”
“So,” interjects Karim, “what movies are you guys working on?”
“The Hobbit,” Jiro replies.
Bloody hobbits, can’t get away from them.
“And where is home?” Dirk asks me.
“Ah. Home is where my clothes are. Last year Sydney. Right now, Wellington. Next year, who knows?”
“What do you think of New Zealand?” asks Jiro.
“Don’t you guys start! Of course I think it’s beautiful. And friendly.”
“New Zealanders are the most gay-friendly people we’ve ever met,” Jiro says. “People dislike the fact we’re American more than that we’re gay.”
Dirk laughs. “Yeah, Kiwis think it’s okay to trash Yanks. That’s not being racist, is it! Not like saying anything negative about the Maori. You get crucified for criticizing Maori.”
Karim frowns. “I don’t find it so racist. I am doing very well.”
“New Zealanders don’t much like people from the countries they think are doing better than they,” says Dirk. “Americans. Australians. Increasingly, the Chinese. Kiwis call it the tall-poppy syndrome. We call it small-dog syndrome.”
“Although they wouldn’t recognize my qualifications,” says Karim.
“In America, we worship the successful and it’s the poor who are disliked—especially the Mexican poor,” says Dirk.
“And it was hard to get a place to rent,” says Karim. “But apart from that, New Zealand has been fine.”
“It could certainly be a lot worse,” says Jiro. “The Japanese don’t like any other races at all.”
“I guess everyone is a little racist, against somebody or other,” I say. “But admitting it is taboo.”
Sally joins us. “What’s taboo? Enjoying anal sex?”
“No, no, no!” Jiro’s face flushes. “We’re talking about having racist thoughts.”
Dirk’s eyes rest on Sally with an expression of anticipation. “And about how Kiwis suffer from small-dog syndrome. You guys are ankle biters with a chip on both shoulders.”
“Americans,” Sally shakes her head. “At least we are brave little dogs who do our humble best to fight back. Your lot are raving paranoids, so scared of being attacked you have to carry a gun to protect your sissy arses.”
“Oh, not the gun argument!” Jiro says hastily. “Can I get you another glass of wine? What shall we open next?”
Dirk laughs and holds out a bottle. “This is a five-year-old Chardonnay from the Napa Valley.”
“Damn, it’s got a cork. Screw caps are easier. And they keep the wine fresh and crisp,” says Sally. “At least that’s what the local winemakers tell us.”
“More like raw and sharp! I’d rather drink mellow and smooth. Which means a few years under a cork so the oxygen can dribble in,” Dirk replies and removes the cork for her.
I find myself relaxing with these people, interesting people, who don’t notice the color of my skin, the angle of my eyes, or how I talk. I take another sip of the smooth, yellow Chardonnay.
“Have you met Peter Jackson?” asks Karim. “Is he cool?”
“In a hairy sort of way,” Dirk replies.
“Do you get to meet all the stars? What are they like?”
“Like normal people,” Dirk says. “They eat, they drink, and they shit, just like the rest of us.”
Michael darts back into the room with napkins and lays them carefully on the plates. He has laid the tables with the knives and forks reversed. At least I hope it was Michael. I’d hate to think our resident pathologist doesn’t know her right from her left.
Sally has roasted a large piece of lamb, with potatoes and kumara, the sweet potato they eat here, and cauliflower with cheese and peas. Sally carries in the lamb. Polly pads hopefully behind her and lies at our feet, licking her chops.
The meat has a hot kick. “Cayenne pepper smeared over the surface,” says Sally. “The gravy is made with butter and red wine.”
“Butter?” asks Dirk anxiously, holding the gravy boat as if it is poison.
“Don’t be afraid,” coos Sally. “It won’t hurt you so long as you drink red wine as well.”
I pick up the red wine bottle to examine the label. “Martin-borough. People keep telling me I should visit the wineries.”
“Are you going to the Martinborough Wine Festival?” asks Sally.
“I’d like to see more of New Zealand,” I say. “Ask me again, closer to the date.”
Michael carefully clears away the dishes. Polly scoots into the kitchen before him and waits by her bowl, tail high and eyes alert. She is rewarded with the scraps, makes a strangled yelp as the cayenne hits, and submerges her nose in her water bowl.
Sally brings out a large white dessert covered with fruit, sitting on a crystal platter.
“Pavlova!” she cries, brandishing a butcher’s knife.
She cuts portions and slides the slices onto our plates. The meringue has a soft marshmallow center, a chewy outer layer, and a crisp shell, and is piled with fresh whipped cream, raspberries, slices of green kiwis, and chunks of yellow pineapple. Silence falls, eventually broken by the sound of spoons scraping on empty plates.
Sally takes Michael to his room, and Karim heads out to a night shift, leaving the Americans alone at the table.
“What do you think of Kiwis?” asks Jiro.
“They’re—I was about to say nice, but that’s such a favorite Kiwi word!” I reply. “I’m slipping into Kiwisms.”
“Nice reflects the Kiwi very well,” says Dirk. “Nice has a connotation of pleasantness in a modest kind of way, a way that doesn’t aim for anything outstanding.”
Jiro adds, “If you want to please a Kiwi, you don’t compliment them on anything special they’ve achieved as an individual, all you need do is tell them what a great country it is.”
Dirk laughs. “Yeah, they love being told New Zealand is beautiful. It’s easier than complimenting people on how they look. The women wear too much black—black tops, black trousers, flat black shoes. All Blacks, eh? Nothing too distinctive. And the men make no effort at all. Gray, gray, gray.”
“It’s a good lifestyle, though,” says Jiro. “Good wine and food, not corrupt, safe.”
“But expensive,” adds Dirk. “Everything is expensive to buy.” He looks at me with a slight smile. “Are you thinking of settling here, Lin? Do you think you can hack it?”
“Maybe. As you say, they are very friendly people. They make you feel at home.”
“At home? Yes, but only if you keep telling us we’re wonderful,” Sally returns to the table with a platter of cheeses.
“You’re wonderful, Sally!” I reply, and smile up at my wonderful Kiwi friend.
Upstairs I put the leftover piece of Pavlova in the refrigerator to eat for breakfast and sit gazing out on Wellington. Okay, so I’ve found my sisters, but I can’t see any way to meet them that will work out well. I think I’ll just have to park that possibility for now.
Instead, I open up my laptop and start an e-mail. I write that I’ve got a job in Wellington, a good one, for six months anyway, and that I’ve applied for a New Zealand passport.
I write how I am enjoying the city and my friend Sally, a pathologist who drin
ks a little too much. I write that I have found my sisters but I haven’t met them yet.
I’m making myself a home here, I say.
I read the email, make a couple of corrections, push the cursor up to the SEND icon, and pause.
The wine sings through my brain, telling me to reach out and take the risk. I read the draft again but it isn’t quite right, or maybe I’m just not ready.
Instead of pressing SEND, I save the draft, close my laptop down, and head to bed.
.
Chapter 10
Projects have three parameters—money, time, and functionality. If you’re good, you manage to hit one of these. If you’re very good as well as lucky, you might hit two of them. But never all three. So, as in life, something has to give, and you have to compromise.
Sometimes you have to spend more; sometimes you have to take more time. Sometimes you reduce the scope of what you’re trying to deliver, or defer parts of the functionality until a later date. Sometimes the best solution is to accept lesser quality in areas where quality is not so critical.
The hard part is knowing which compromises to make and what risks you can afford to take. That is where my skill comes in.
In the boardroom, chief consultant Scott Peake is presenting his summary of the support systems options to Hera’s executive team. He smiles widely as he turns from the screen to face us. He is a great smiler, is Scott.
“The first option, from VNL, is what we call the ‘Best of Breed’ solution, based on the leading packages in each of the areas and integrated using an enterprise service bus.”
His eyes move from Ian to Fred before finally resting on Tom’s face. He doesn’t look at me or at Deepak. I don’t take it personally. He hasn’t liked me ever since I asked him to explain the figures in the summary and then asked for the source documents so I could check what he said. I haven’t liked him since he refused to give me the documents, telling me it was important to interpret the information correctly, and he didn’t want any misunderstandings. I looked into Peake’s eyes then and saw what lay behind. Dollar signs, mainly, for himself and his consulting firm.
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