Will they look like me? Not very like, of course that’s not possible with my Chinese blood. Will they like me? How will they explain their rejection of past attempts to contact them? Was their mother’s hatred so strong that they couldn’t—wouldn’t—think about me in a kindly way?
Eventually I put on a CD and try to drown out the questions.
“This car is a dog,” Ben says when we reach the zigzag hill and the car chokes and gasps as we climb the first zig.
“I think it’s pretty. And a beautiful shade of orange, don’t you think?”
“I thought you preferred yellow?”
“That was last year.”
“The oil light is on. Have you checked the oil?”
“Not recently.” Not ever.
“You can ruin the engine if you don’t.”
“Mm.”
“And it’s a junk heap! Don’t you ever clean out the rubbish?”
“If I get home in the daylight, I do. We’re getting close. Keep an eye out for a very large mailbox on the left-hand side.”
The weather is warmer and the skies are brighter than when I drove this way two months before. It feels natural to be sitting in a car beside Ben. I glance sideways at his face. His eyes are focused on the road and his mouth is curved into that familiar half smile. I remember how I used to kiss that mouth. I let my eyes slide down his neck and shoulder to his sinewy tanned arm and his long-fingered hand. I remember what he can do with his hands.
He glances across at me and I look away quickly. I keep my head still and move my eyes to the right so I can see his tanned thigh emerging from the khaki shorts. I can remember embracing his thighs with mine. My eyes slide up, but his groin, of course, is hidden behind the folds of cloth.
I remember what lies within the khaki.
“Do you want to go down?”
“What?”
“Isn’t this the driveway?”
We have reached the turnoff with the sheep-size mailbox.
“This is it.”
“Ready?”
My heart increases its beat. I can stand in front of an audience of hundreds with far less trepidation than sitting here now in the car, about to meet my father’s first family.
The hot sun of Hawke’s Bay heats the back of my head. I close my eyes for a moment, and breathe in the scent of grass and of livestock, with a hint of some blossom, perhaps honeysuckle, perhaps wild rose. I hear the faint baa of a lamb seeking its mother and birds twittering amongst high-up branches. When I open my eyes, the image of the entrance to Ngatirua etches itself on my brain. Grass dancing on the hillside, blue sky above, an avenue of tall trees pointing us toward the farm.
I smile my careful smile. “Of course.”
Ben turns into Alison’s driveway and parks behind the SUV. The dogs start barking. I get out of the car.
The door opens and a woman comes out, wiping her hands on the legs of her jeans, and shushing the dogs. She is taller and wider than me, and her hair is short and sandy colored. But you can see the family resemblance in the shape of the cheekbones and the tilt of her chin. Her eyes are hazel like our father’s.
Her face breaks into a smile like the sun, and she holds out her hand.
Chapter 26
“Come in and meet the family!” Alison says, even her voice sounding a little like mine, but with a Kiwi accent not mid-Atlantic.
We enter a living room where a thickset man greets us with a wide white smile.
“This is my husband, Walter,” she says.
He envelops me in a bearlike hug. “Look at you, just like your sister!”
“My friend, Ben,” I say.
He leans over to Ben and grabs his hand, shaking it. “Nice eye you’ve got there.”
“Wal,” says my sister, “leave the poor man alone.”
Ben explains he got the black eye protecting his sister from her drunken partner.
Wal nods approvingly. “Good on you, mate.”
I’m not used to this. I’m not quite sure how to act. I look around the living room in my sister’s house. Papers are scattered over most surfaces and books bulge from the shelves lining one wall.
Alison looks at me and smiles again. She turns to the open doorway and calls, “Jess!”
A teenaged girl with a full-lipped mouth, dark hair, and brown eyes like her father’s, emerges from the house’s other wing.
“Your aunt Lin,” says Alison.
“Hi,” the girl says.
Jess has the archetypal teenage expression in her eyes—annoyance that she has been interrupted, embarrassment that these clumsy beings are her parents, tepid interest in any visitors over the age of twenty-five.
I take a step forward to hug her. With a look of alarm, she takes a step back.
I figure I should take my cues from my family. “Cool dress,” I say. She is wearing a caramel-colored shift draped in loose black netting, with clusters of beads and feathers decorating the bodice.
“She designed it herself,” says my sister proudly.
A golden-haired young man walks in the door behind us. Wal lays an arm across the boy’s shoulder and pulls him forward.
“This is our nephew, Max. Your aunt Lin and her friend Ben.”
He offers me his hand and a shy half smile. “Mum says she’ll be along later.”
Max has clear blue eyes, a halo of gold curls, and the kind of fair skin that flushes readily into pink, especially when embarrassed as he is now.
I glance at Alison and see her smile fade. There is a brief silence. Wal opens the French doors to the terrace and tells us to take a seat outside while he brings us a drink. Alison returns to the kitchen. I am given a Chardonnay and Ben and Max are handed cans of cold beer.
“Jess?” asks Wal and offers her a bottle of ginger beer.
Her mouth turns down, but she takes it. My sister carries out a platter of olives, sun-dried tomatoes, and pâté. She catches my eye and smiles, then carefully places the tray on the table. I keep staring at her, looking for the traces of my own face in hers.
“Sit down, Ali,” her husband tells her. She gives him a brusque dismissive grimace and returns to the kitchen.
Wal turns back to Ben and me. “How do you like Wellington?”
“It’s very beautiful,” I say.
“You’ll find it hotter up here,” Wal replies.
“Has the weather been good?” I ask him.
“Nah,” he replies. “Not enough rain.” He laughs. “You city folk think it’s good when the sun shines and it’s dry, but we farmers need the rain to grow grass to feed the lambs. We don’t do too badly here; we’re higher up so we get more rain, and the land is limestone so it holds the moisture in the ground.”
Max smiles, his face flushing. “We’re biodynamic. We farm without chemicals. Uncle Wal pioneered our methods,” he adds. “I’m just the apprentice.”
“Dunno for how much longer we can keep it up. Organic certification is a nightmare,” Wal says. “The bureaucrats justify their existence by finding something wrong. You have to pay to fix whatever they demand and then pay for them to recheck everything. It’s got to the point the cost of compliance is more than any premium you get for organic beef and lamb.”
“Maybe one day nonorganic producers will be the ones who have to pay the extra costs and fees instead,” Ben says.
“Fat chance in my lifetime,” says Wal.
“What about you, Jess?” I ask. “Are you planning to work on the farm too?”
“Not bloody likely,” she says.
“She wants to go to university and study fashion design,” says Wal. “But her mother’s not keen on her going so far away.”
“What am I not keen on?” Alison joins us and hands her wine glass to her husband. “Chardonnay, Wal. Oh, Jess going to university? Of course, she can. But to the local institute, not the one down in Wellington.”
She gestures to Wal to refill my glass. “Do you like the wine, Lin? It’s local. Clearview.”
“It is very good,” I tell her.
“Hawke’s Bay makes the best Chardonnay in New Zealand,” she says with satisfaction.
She moves the platter and passes out the plates and forks and napkins that Wal had forgotten to distribute. She looks at me and catches me staring at her and smiles again. It’s okay for her, she is used to seeing a sister’s face; she’s been seeing Vivienne’s ever since they were born. But I am not used to this sudden familiarity. I turn and look at Jess’s profile, hoping to see something I recognize in her. But Jess has her father’s features. Perhaps something about our chins?
Wal keeps the conversation going while Alison ducks in and out of the kitchen. He laughs a lot. Max is quiet, but smiles and replies when Wal brings him into the conversation. My niece looks bored and soon makes an excuse to return to her room. She vanishes across the terrace with her hands before her, clicking away at her cell phone.
Ben watches her go with a smile. “Very like Emmy,” he says. “They’re always on those bloody cell phones, aren’t they?”
Alison calls Max into the dining room. “Can you chase up your mother, dear?” she asks in a loud whisper. “Dinner will spoil if we wait any longer.”
Max leaves the house. Wal opens more wine, and Alison takes her seat with us.
“Does Vivienne have a problem meeting me?” I ask.
She looks down at the table and straightens the food, moving the plate nearer to Ben.
“Vivienne is always late,” she says. “What do you think of the bread? I get it from Havelock North. Good, isn’t it? Ben, have some more olives. Finish them, there’s plenty left in the jar.”
She rises abruptly and takes the empty bowl into the kitchen to refill.
Ben reaches across and pats my leg. “Okay?” His blue eyes look into mine and he smiles encouragingly.
“Okay,” I reply. I put my left hand over his, briefly.
A cold draft blows across the back of my neck as a door opens behind me. The scent of something sweet, spicy, and exotic catches my nostrils. When I turn, she is standing there.
My other sister, Vivienne.
Chapter 27
Vivienne’s hazel eyes are large and her cheekbones high, her nose is straight and her mouth curved and generous. She has our father’s auburn hair, coiffured in sculpted waves to her shoulders. Her elegant body, a slimmer version of Alison’s, is encased in a ruffled black dress and her long, shapely legs end in high-heeled shoes.
She stares at me, taking me in just as I am her. No one says a word. Then Vivienne’s face relaxes into a small, polite smile and she pats my arm with red-nail-tipped fingers.
“Lovely to meet you,” she says, and turns to Ben, ignoring his eye. “How do you do?”
Ben puts out his hand, and she touches it briefly.
“My husband, Christopher,” she says, gesturing at her two silent menfolk. “And my son, Maximilian.”
Christopher reaches out his hand.
“We’ve already met,” I say, taking it in mine, realizing that while he cannot recognize my face, my voice with its accent is unmistakable.
“What?” says Vivienne, her eyes widening.
“The lady who came to the door,” Christopher replies. “I forgot to tell you someone was asking for you.”
“I didn’t give my name.”
“Dinner’s on the table,” says Alison. “Come inside. Don’t worry about your glasses. I’ve got fresh ones. Wal, haven’t you opened the red wine yet?
“Lin, you sit there on Wal’s right. Ben, you sit here next to me. Viv, put Christopher next to me and then you and Max. Jess, over there next to your father. Oh, Jess, not those napkins. Go and get the black-and-red ones.”
Dinner is a large filet of beef, accompanied by roasted root vegetables, mashed potatoes, and a dish of green beans, broccoli, zucchini, and peas.
“So, what is it you do?” Vivienne asks.
“Wal, the wine.”
Wal pours red wine from a decanter into each glass. “It’s Stonecroft,” says Alison. “The best Syrah in New Zealand.”
I am describing my working day. “And then the Government told us we must—”
“Darling, would you like yams?” Vivienne says to Christopher. He nods and she serves him two perfectly pink grub-shaped objects.
“Oh, dash, I’ve forgotten the—” and Alison leaps up and returns to the kitchen.
“Baked tomatoes,” she says and wedges the final serving tray on the table.
“Terrific spread, Alison,” says Ben.
“Yes, lovely,” I say.
Alison beams, her gift of food acknowledged.
I stop talking about what I do. No one is remotely interested in Chief Executive Lin Mere. It is curiously cathartic to be just me for a change.
“And what do you do, Ben?” asks Vivienne.
“I make furniture,” he replies. “One-offs mainly, on commission.”
“Oh, you must come up to the house,” she says. “I have some fine pieces.”
“Vivienne has excellent taste,” says Christopher and reaches out to touch Vivienne’s arm. “She’s made the house a showcase.”
Vivienne smiles and puts her hand over his.
“Where are you guys staying?” asks Wal.
Ben glances at me before replying. “We were planning to drive into Hastings to find a motel.”
“Oh, no, you mustn’t do that,” cries Alison. “We have plenty of beds here. And you won’t want to be driving these roads so late at night.”
Alison pauses and glances at Vivienne, whose face has stiffened.
“You guys stay with us, okay?” says Wal. “Plenty of room.”
I look at Alison’s face and can see only kindness in her eyes. “If you’re sure it’s not an imposition?”
She smiles at me. “No, no, not at all.”
Ben asks Wal about organic farming practices, and the conversation rushes around the table like a Mexican wave.
For a moment I detach myself from the strands and let the voices wash over me. I look around the table at my newfound family. At Alison’s kind face and comfortable body. She has welcomed me into her home and her family. She doesn’t treat me like an alien. She doesn’t treat me like a chief executive. She treats me like a sister. It is an odd feeling.
Vivienne is harder to fathom. She seems devoted to her blind husband. I glance across at her son, Max. A nice boy, looks nothing like either of them. Seems closer to his uncle Wal than to Vivienne or Christopher. I catch his eye, and he smiles automatically. Good-looking and doesn’t know it.
And Jess? Scowling silently into her meal. I’ll bet she’s going to be a handful when she finally cuts loose from her parents.
“What have you made for pud, Ali?” asks Wal as she clears the plates away.
“Jess! Help!” she says to her daughter.
I stand up, but she shakes her head. “No, no, it’s Jess’s job. I’ve made prune cake,” she says in reply to Wal’s question. “Figure they won’t have had that before.”
“Never heard of it,” says Ben. “But it sounds terrific.”
I take another sip of wine, rest my elbows on Alison’s white tablecloth, and let my body relax from its habitual stiff poise.
Later, after we have eaten Alison’s cake, Vivienne and Christopher prepare to leave.
“Pop in tomorrow before you head off, if you want,” she says, with tepid enthusiasm. “Max, are you ready?” and they climb into their car to drive up the hill home.
“She’s pretty black out here,” says Wal. “No streetlights so when the clouds cover the moon and stars, it’s easier to drive between the houses.”
It must be cloudy tonight because as I look around I can see nothing apart from the taillights of Vivienne’s car. You forget how very dark it can be without the city lights.
“Mind you, Christopher can walk the farm pretty easy, day or night. But we don’t want Vivienne falling off those shoes of hers and into the roses, do we?” Wal laughs and shuts the door.
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Back inside Alison is tidying the kitchen and refuses my offer of help. I return to the living room and Wal tops up my glass. The two men are having one of those male things, some kind of ritual of bonding. They talk about the cricket and then about the rugby, and match each other as they drink their beer, glass for glass.
Suddenly a rifle shot crashes into the silence of the night. I start and spill my wine.
“Max must be shooting possums,” Wal says. “You shine a flashlight up the tree and when you see their eyes shine back, wham!”
He sees my expression. “They’re vermin, city girl! You have to get rid of the vermin. Max is a good kid. Don’t know what I’d do without him. Christopher’s not much use around the farm, of course.”
“Has he always been blind?” I ask.
“He was in a bad car accident when he was in his twenties. Went through the windshield. He used to have a little sight in one eye but, apparently, it’s gone now.”
“Must have been hard for Vivienne and Max.”
“Christopher isn’t Max’s father. Viv was married to Fergus McDonald, but he walked out on her. Not that I blame him, Viv can be bloody hard going.”
“What’s that, Wal?” calls Alison from the kitchen.
“Nothing, dear.”
There is an awkward silence as Alison reenters the room. She is frowning.
“Vivienne and Christopher met in hospital,” says Alison. “Viv had a breakdown when Fergus walked out. We still worry about her.”
She returns to the kitchen. There is another awkward silence.
“Another glass, Ben? Since you don’t have to drive,” says Wal. “That’s some ugly car you’re driving.”
“It’s gutless, too,” says Ben.
“But it’s in very good condition,” I excuse myself. “I don’t have to maintain it or anything.”
“Just as well,” says Ben. “You barely know where the oil goes.”
“That’s not quite right, Ben,” I say.
“No?”
“I don’t even remotely know where the oil goes.”
Wal laughs. “Typical sheila,” he says. “And they never bother filling the car with petrol either, do they? Run it on empty until muggins here fills it.”
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