by Ash Harlow
“Don’t do that, Luther,” I warned.
He shot me a pitying look. “Oh, Christ, you’ve got it bad.”
7 ~ DARCY
After four days of meeting people and getting a feel for my new hometown I was ready for that drink with Maraea and her friends. The HR guy at Tradewind had asked for my bank details and I discovered half of my monthly contract fee deposited in my bank account the following day.
I tried to thank Oliver who waved it off in the same manner as the new hot water tank I now enjoyed. He claimed it was in my contract. It wasn’t, I’d checked, but I was also cash-strapped and ridiculously grateful. Hot water and money. Life was on the up.
I made another trip to the second-hand clothes store I’d found down a side road just off the town’s main center to expand my wardrobe. Somebody around the same size as me had decluttered their wardrobe and I was totally impressed with their dress sense and the size of their clothing budget because there were a number of excellent pieces they’d discarded for charity. My own wardrobe was growing more respectable.
For a small town, Waitapu had a variety of bars and the one Maraea had suggested we meet at for drinks was Solar, at the top end of the main beach. It was modern with lots of white paint, bleached timber and glass. It also enjoyed a lively mix of young patrons. The table where we sat gave us a view down the beach in one direction and the ferry wharf in the other.
“Sitting here,” Maraea said, “we get to scope the male talent no matter where they appear from.” One of her girlfriends was due to arrive but we’d started without her. “We’ve got to welcome you to town properly, and I need to give you the low-down on that bunch of deviants you’re working for.”
“Deviants, huh?” I sipped my wine.
Maraea grinned. “Around town the Lodge is often referred to as the Lair.” She leaned forward using a faux conspiratorial whisper. “It’s said that any woman who enters the Lair never returns the same, if you know what I mean.” She straightened and winked. “Therefore, the gang of four who own the place are known as The Lairds.”
“Will I escape unscathed?”
Maraea replaced the glass on the table. “Doubt it. I’ll give you a rundown on each of them. It’s not gossip, because it’s all public record and in winter, when things go a little quiet around town, feeding the myth of the Lairds gives us something to do. First and foremost, they’re all single but they’re not fanny rats.”
I nearly choked. “What the hell is a fanny rat?”
“You know, man-whores. Rather, the Lairds seem to be commitment phobes. Oh, except for Oliver who managed to get engaged but even he didn’t make it to the altar. And he was the one to call it off, a couple of weeks before his date with the preacher, so I guess he slots pretty well into that commitment phobe folder. Not that it bothered me he called off the wedding. Annabelle, his fiancée, was not someone I looked forward to having around.”
Maraea looked around the bar, maybe to check who might be listening. “You’ve met Cole, who runs the Lodge. He’s American. Then there’s Beck, or Doctor BAD, as we like to call him. Beck Ainsworth Dalgleish. He’s not around here much because he works in Auckland. He’s a pediatric cardiologist, and a total bad boy. Stay away from him.”
“Doctor BAD is bad. That should be easy enough to remember.”
“Oh, and of course there’s Luther—”
“No, not Luther, where?” A red-haired woman had joined us at the table pulling the stool out beside me. She offered me her hand. “Hi, I’m Ginger,” she announced with the sort of smile that wrapped around you.
“Darcy,” I replied, taking her hand.
“Nothing at all to do with the hair,” she explained. “It’s short for Virginia. When I was a kid, my older sister reckoned I was fiery and wild. She used to call me Ginger and it stuck.” She turned to Maraea. “Sorry I’m late, what are you all drinking?”
“We’ve got a bottle of wine here, grab yourself a glass.”
As Ginger filled her glass she asked, “So, what’s the gossip about Luther?”
“I’m choking back an eye-roll, here, Ginger.” Maraea turned to me. “She’s been crushing on Luther since about kindergarten, but she won’t make a move on him.”
“What’s the point? I’m invisible to that guy. And, hello, big-shot lawyer versus total loser from the shitty part of town. Like he’s going to look at me?”
“You’re right, because he won’t if you keep putting yourself down. I was filling Darcy in on the Lairds. She’s coordinating the January fundraiser.”
Ginger took my hand. “You have no idea what you’ve walked into. They’re all heart-and-soul suckers. Come February 1, you’ll be nothing but a carapace bleaching out on the sand. Run while you can.”
They couldn’t all be that bad. “Really?”
Ginger’s eyes went wide as she nodded slowly. “Really. Check the beach, it’s covered in Laird cast-offs.” Then she smiled. “Okay, back to Luther, what’s the news?”
Maraea lowered her voice. “The news, girls, is that the Lairds have just entered the bar.”
Ginger slumped across the table. “What are they doing here? They usually go to Bang Bang on a Thursday. I can’t look. Is Luther with them?”
“Oliver heard me invite Darcy out for a drink. He’ll be checking to see that I’m not leading her astray. As if. Sit tall, Ginge, they’re heading our way.”
The men approached our table at the same time as what seemed like every woman’s head in the bar swivelled to watch them.
“Ladies,” they said almost in unison as they passed by.
“Virginia, everything good with you, Hot Spice?” Cole asked.
I looked at Ginger to see she had turned beet red, mumbling something in reply.
Oliver touched my shoulder. “Don’t believe a word these two tell you. They’re full of it.” He left me feeling much the same way Ginger looked.
Ginger patted her cheeks. “Pass me an icepack. The way Cole drags out my name with that southern accent makes it sound filthy. And I wish he wouldn’t call me Hot Spice as if I’m the leftover member of a girl band?”
“And you want us to believe that’s the reason you’ve changed color?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing to do with the way Luther—”
“Completely ignored me.”
“He didn’t.”
“You’re right. He scowled at me, then he ignored me.” Ginger did a quick sweep around the bar. “Look at the women, they’re all high on the testosterone that just flooded the room. Each one of them has probably released a dozen eggs, all jostling for pole position, ready for fertilization.”
I snorted and choked on the sip of wine I’d just taken.
Ginger was on a roll. “I swear those men cause spontaneous ovulation wherever they go. I don’t know how you girls work for them. Why don’t they affect you, Maraea?”
“Easy. I’m immune to their man-fumes because I receive a testosterone booster shot every morning when one of them wanders through reception at the Lodge, half-dressed from a swim. Damp, tousled hair, Ginger. Water running in rivulets across the corrugations of their sculptured abs. Board shorts clinging, slung low on their hips.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You should see their Vs.”
Ginger covered her ears. “Stop already before I lose more eggs.”
“Fair enough. Let’s interrogate Darcy.” Maraea nudged me. “Pretty lady like you. Single. In a strange town to start a new life. What’s your story?”
This moment was always going to come. I planned to give them just enough to satisfy their curiosity without letting too much away. “My story’s pretty dull, really. Born and raised in Auckland, two older brothers, middle-class parents who are still married, moved to Sydney a couple of years ago with my boyfriend. It never worked out for us and we busted up, so here I am. Back in Godzone. I didn’t want to go back to Auckland and the rut I’d left that’s probably still there, so I decided, what the heck, hang out on the Co
romandel Peninsula for summer. Go me!” I gave them a broad grin and took a large gulp of wine.
“What happened in Australia? The people I know who’ve gone over are having a great time and earning good money.”
“It was a relationship thing. Didn’t work out for us after all. He stayed, I left.”
“Sorry,” Ginger said, “none of our business. I thought about moving to Australia but then I decided I would end up wading through the same old shit but with different scenery. I’ve decided I’m going to start a business here in town. I’m doing a small business course online, part time, but I struggle a bit.”
I was relieved they’d backed off so easily. “I’m happy to help where I can. I did a few business papers at varsity before I switched to marketing. What sort of business do you want to open?”
Ginger’s eyes lit up. “I want to open an old-fashioned dairy, you know, milk bar, soda fountain, gelato kind of thing. I make all these old-fashioned syrups for the sodas. People really like them. And I want to make my own gelato, I’m pretty good at that. There’s a place just along the road that’s empty right now which is the perfect location. The lease is pretty expensive, and it’s run-down. Money’s my problem. The bank turned me down as too high risk—”
“Get that application in to Luther’s lot,” said Maraea, before she went on to explain to me. “The Lairds are eager to help Waitapu grow rather than die like many New Zealand small towns. They put a lot of investment back into this area and they run the Anahera Trust, an angel fund which invests in small businesses. Except ol’ Chicken Ginge won’t apply.”
“It’s not my fault I become a wobbly mess around Luther. If it was anybody else, I’d have that business plan together and my application on the table.”
“Well, stop crushing on him and get un-wobbly.”
Ginger took another sip of wine. “I’ve been trying, you know, I really have. I’ve avoided him and I had a few dates with other guys, but I saw Luther the other week and suddenly other guys just don’t measure up.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At the mountain bike park. I’d gone for a ride and it had been raining. I arrived back at the parking lot, covered in muck, and discovered Luther about to set off. I did my best to get past without him seeing me, but our eyes met across the gravel parking lot.”
“Ginger’s a crazy romantic,” Maraea explained.
Ginger continued. “When he smiled at me, I melted. Honestly, usually he scowls. It was such a shock I almost forgot to unclip from the pedals before dismounting, and that made the bike all off-balance and as I tried to get my leg over the seat my pants caught and Luther had to grab me to keep me upright.”
“You fell into his sinful arms and you expect us to believe it was an accident?”
“I swear that is exactly how it happened.”
Ginger made me laugh. “And then you kissed, right?”
“He went to grab my arms and I got such a surprise I sort of jerked. One of his hands took hold of my upper arm, but the other hand missed my other arm, and he finished up grabbing my boob.”
We were still laughing when the bar owner, Henry, arrived at our table. “Courtesy of the Lairds,” he said, placing a plate of food and three flutes of champagne in front of us. “Oliver mentioned something about keeping your mouths too busy to talk. Luther suggested using gags. I suggested champagne, so you can thank me, first.”
“Thank you, darling Henry,” Ginger said, aiming what must be a trademark wrap-around grin at him. “Though I’m sure you were only thinking of your profits when you suggested the champagne. This is our friend, Darcy, she’s new in town.” Ginger lowered her voice, “Works for those terrible men over there.”
Henry winked, then took my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Darcy, you have made my humble bar even more beautiful.”
“Keep your hands where we can see them, Henry, and your lusty Italian thoughts inside your head.” Maraea laughed and flicked her chin with the back of her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Italian men, all crazy.”
After blowing an elaborate kiss, Henry returned barside.
I raised my glass. “Cheers, girls.” We touched glasses, then turned to the guys and raised our glasses at them, mouthing thank yous. “If this is how you people live, a girl could easily be tempted to stick around this town.”
Maraea launched into a pep talk aimed at encouraging Ginger to get her business plan together and apply for trust funding. I cast what must have been my tenth glance over at the table where the men sat. Most times I’d caught Oliver’s eye and my stomach quivered so that I quickly dropped my gaze. You’d have to be dead not to be affected by him and I thought about what lay ahead over the next few months with a mixture of dread and excitement.
We talked about the weekend and I told them I had plans for Saturday. Oliver was taking me out in a boat to show me around the area. Ginger suggested I join her for a mountain bike ride on Sunday, while Maraea offered to take me for a hike. Like a lot of small New Zealand towns relying to some extent on the visitor dollar for survival, Waitapu was like an enormous outdoor pursuit center.
I drained my glass and said goodbye.
“Any Thursday, Darcy, there’s a bunch of us here. You’re always welcome.”
I liked them and I felt blessed that some luck had appeared for me at last. On my way out I stopped by the bar to pay Henry the tab.
The simple act of paying my way gave me an even bigger boost. Energized this way made the fifteen-minute walk home seemed shorter because of the spring in my step.
Back in the cottage I opened an old email account; a privileged address known to very few people. An address that was part of another life. I hadn’t been near it for months, my curiosity only piqued because of the wine I’d had and the fact that despite the nice, friendly people in this town, I was alone.
The most recent message was from Rob, received yesterday.
He shouldn’t have had the address. I hovered the cursor over his email, zipping back and forth to the trash icon. I was curious to know what he wanted, but Rob had probably put some stupid bug in the email that would tell him if I opened and deleted the message. He used to boast about his hacking skills and how most people left themselves wide open for attack. He was a software engineer and had been a highly sought-after banking systems analyst. I had no idea what he did now, and his was a can of worms best left unopened.
8 ~ DARCY
Saturday morning Oliver picked me up right on time. He seemed to have that time-and-tide mentality that I’d noticed among others I knew who were involved with boats. In spring the weather could be changeable, the equinox winds inclined to roar in a couple of hours after sunrise so I packed a small bag with every type of garment I’d need for a day out on the water. Realizing I looked as though I’d packed for a weekend getaway, I ditched most of it and left with a sweater, hat and sunscreen. I was wearing my bikini under my clothes, because one can always hope the weather might turn unseasonably hot.
The boat we used was like something out of a James Bond movie. I’m not kidding, the craft was amphibious. We climbed onboard while the boat was still inside the boatshed, motored across the sand and straight into the sea. Once we were afloat, the wheels tucked up like the undercarriage of a plane and we were away.
I was sent to take the seat up in the bow until we cleared the breaking surf. I considered bracing my feet and spreading my arms in the full Winslet Titanic stance when we approached the third wave of the set. It’s the one which always appears to be the largest, the swell building like the onset of an orgasm. As we rode then thumped over the crest the sea crashed across the bow completely drenching me. The shock of the cold dousing drew an expletive from my lips at high decibels.
It might have been a stunning clear day but it was still spring and the water was freezing.
Oliver’s apology was laced with laughter. “It can be a bit wet up the front,” he said, his comment redundant. “Come, sit here with me.”
&
nbsp; “So you can what…pitch me over the back?” The front of my shirt was soaked, my nipples trying to drill their way out of the wet cotton clinging to my skin.
“So I can keep you warm.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Now you’re hurting my feelings. Trust me.” He reached behind him, lifting a seat cushion and tugging a towel out from the storage locker beneath. He shook it open then gestured at me with it. I took hold of the edge and in one move he pulled me toward him, wrapping me in the cotton.
“Come here and keep warm.” He made some space in front of him, his steering hand still steady on the wheel.
He bent his head close to me so that I could hear him over the noise of the engine and the crashing sounds as the boat thumped over the heavy swell. Five minutes into the trip and his breath warmed the back of my neck, a place where every nerve in my body subsequently rushed to gather and party. I was already beyond thinking about anything but him.
I honestly tried to keep my body away from Oliver but pressing against the console meant I was at risk of interfering with the controls and anyway, the rough ride we were having was throwing me off balance so that every so often I was forced against his body. He was immovable, feet braced, a solid wall.
We carried on in silence. Behind us Waitapu Bay became a curved sliver of gold sand fringed by a tiny town. We followed the coastline, heading north, and Oliver scarcely spoke beyond pointing toward various landmarks.
I was surprised that he eased off the throttle when we seemed to be in the middle of the ocean. The boat slowed, the bow lowering, and the hollow sound of pounding against the swell became a settled, easy slap of the sea against the hull.
Oliver nudged me. “Look,” he whispered.
I turned to the direction he was pointing and saw below the surface were a number of large dark shapes moving through the water.
“Dolphins,” he said, his face beaming with pleasure.
I’m sure my face was the same. “Wow! Did you just dial these up?” The only place I’d ever seen dolphins was on television. I loathed theme parks where animals were held captive so I’d never entertained the idea that I would see them up close. We watched from the boat for a few minutes as we idled along slowly. The dolphins came to the surface and when the first one breached I couldn't contain a squeal of delight.