The muddy clouds gradually disappear, leaving the sky clear, deepening from baby-blue to navy-blue and eventually to black. Above my head, the Milky Way stretches across the dark velvet as if someone’s spilled a bucket of stars. Will and I were into astronomy when we were kids, and we used to spend hours trying to make out the various constellations. I follow the ecliptic and trace Aries and Taurus. I find Orion, the warrior who stands on his head Down Under, and watch Betelgeuse glowing red like a firework.
Then I spot Sirius, and I sigh. Our mother read us Dodie Smith’s The Twilight Barking—the follow-up to The Hundred and One Dalmatians—when we were young, and the two of us used to quiz our boxer dog as to whether he would want to stay behind with us or go with Sirius to the Dog Star. The consensus was always that he’d want to stay.
Grief is a strange beast. Everyone thinks it’s just about being sad, but it’s not. Grief sends out feelers into all areas of your life. It’s insidious and menacing, like a poisonous weed that’s infiltrated your garden. It affects everything—your relationships, your job, your family, because it makes you question your mortality, your character, and your own self-worth.
I don’t know why God chose to take Will and not me. I wish he had taken me. I’m half of a man now, and maybe even less than that. Monozygotic or identical twins are formed from a single fertilized egg that divides into two embryos. We used to joke that we were one person split into two, and that’s certainly how it feels now. Will died and took with him everything that was good in my life, and he’s left me with darkness and shadow. Or maybe it was inside me all the time, and when he died, the light was extinguished, and it revealed my true self.
Because when he died, a part of me hoped that I’d finally be the one standing in the light. The smart one, the funny one. The one who got the girl. But nothing’s changed, and now I can’t live with the guilt. His death ruined my life. I hate him for it. And here, on the beach on Christmas Eve, is the only time and place I will let myself admit that.
I finish off my glass and pour another.
Before long, I’m not tasting the whisky, and even the grief has faded into the darkness.
Chapter Two
Jess
He finally stirs around nine-thirty a.m.
The sky’s a cloudless blue and the sun’s already hot, but he’s in the shade of the canopy, so at least he won’t wake with half of his face lobster-red. He slept outside all night, hardly stirring, having passed out after drinking three-quarters of a bottle of whisky. In the early hours of the morning, I thought about trying to wake him to get him into bed, but he’d be too heavy for me to lift, and besides he obviously didn’t want to be disturbed. In the end, I threw a blanket over him and left him to it.
I’m on the deck, reading, when I glance over to see him roll his head on the sun lounger and then push up, slowly, as if he’s on a tiny boat floating in the sea and he’s afraid any sudden motion will tip him over. He lifts the blanket off, stares at it for a moment, then sits forward, his elbows on his knees, and rests his head in his hands. I imagine he has one hell of a hangover.
As the evening progressed and I watched him gradually down glass after glass of what looked like expensive whisky—none of your cheap white cider for this guy—I’d wondered what terrible thing had happened to him that he was sitting here on Christmas Eve drinking himself into oblivion. He’s young-ish, early thirties maybe, and he’s gorgeous, and he’s obviously here alone, so I suspect it’s love that’s driven him to drink. I get that. After all, love’s why I’m here, on my own and attempting to pretend Christmas doesn’t exist, trying desperately not to look at my phone to see whether there are any messages waiting for me.
Presumably, he’s lost someone close to him. I wonder who she was. I’m guessing she left him, because I can’t see a guy being so broken up by a relationship that he ended. I doubt that Alastair is alone staring wistfully into space somewhere as he thinks of me. He’ll be building his son a train set, or watching Frozen with his daughter, while his wife prepares the turkey in their designer kitchen. If she let him stay, that is. I try to dredge up some smugness at the thought that she might have thrown him out on his ear, but all I can summon is tiredness and an annoying sense of shame that he managed to make me sink to his level.
I promised myself I wouldn’t think about Alastair today, so I push all thought of his blond hair and sexy smirk to the back of my mind, go inside, take my phone out of the pocket of my shorts, and toss it irritably onto the bed.
After a few minutes, I come out again and cross the fifteen-or-so feet to the next bach. I stop by the side of the stranger’s lounger. He hasn’t moved. He turns his head an inch, his gaze falling on my bare feet, but he doesn’t say anything.
He’s a good-looking guy, and it’s sad to think that someone broke his heart. He looks Maori, or part Maori, with mid-brown skin and black curly hair, and his left arm is tattooed from beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt all the way to his elbow, which is kinda sexy. I wonder if it goes across his chest. Maybe I’ll find out later, if he decides to go for a swim.
He doesn’t look as if he’ll be moving very far in the foreseeable future. I put a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and two Panadol on the table. Then I go back to my bach and start making breakfast.
When I come out again fifteen minutes later, the glass is empty and the Panadol have gone, and he’s lying back again, his sunglasses over his eyes and his arms tucked under his head. Hiding a smile, I cross over to him and put a bacon-and-egg sandwich and a large mug of strong coffee on the table.
“Merry Christmas,” I announce, because it’s Christmas Day, and it’s the kind of thing you say whether you feel it or not.
He doesn’t turn his head, but, even though I can’t tell because of his dark sunglasses, I have a feeling he’s looking at me.
“I don’t do Christmas,” he says.
“Me neither,” I say cheerfully. “Fuck the festive season, eh?”
He gives a short laugh. “Yeah. Fuck the festive season.”
I gesture at the sandwich. “Eat that. It’ll make you feel better. Or not, whatever.” I start to walk away.
“Hey,” he calls.
I stop and turn, wondering if he’s about to say he doesn’t want it, and tell me to mind my own business.
“Thanks,” he says.
I smile. “You’re welcome.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jess.”
“I’m Rich,” he says.
“Rich by name, rich by nature?”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Your voice.” I feel foolish now. “It’s kinda deep and rich. Like Nat King Cole’s, you know?” I explain with the first line from The Christmas Song, the one about roasting chestnuts.
An eyebrow rises above his sunglasses.
I clear my throat. “Forget it.” Embarrassed, I turn and go back to my deck, where I sit in the creaky old wooden chair, open my book, and start eating my bacon-and-egg sandwich.
I shouldn’t be allowed to talk to people. I should have a sign stuck to my forehead warning everyone what an idiot I am.
Jess! I can almost hear Maria’s voice. You are a goddess! You are a wonderful human being. Do your best, and be proud of who you are.
My lips curve up in a wry smile. I’m not an idiot. The guy wants to be on his own, and I can appreciate that.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him lift the top slice of bread and investigate what’s in the sandwich, and then he takes a bite. Within minutes, he’s eaten the lot, and then he sits back with the mug in his hands, looking out to sea.
Determined not to look at him again, I sip my coffee and lose myself in my book.
Over the next few hours, I’m vaguely aware that he gets up a couple of times and goes inside. Once he re-emerges with a bottle of water, and then with a bar of chocolate. Each time, he lays back on the lounger, and I suspect that he’s dozing behind his sunglasses.
I ignore
him, as best as I can. When I finish my sandwich, I spend some time sitting on the edge of the deck, legs crossed, meditating in the warm sunshine. It’s a battle to force myself not to think of Alastair, so in the end I let memories and images swim through my mind, and eventually the tension leaves my shoulders and spine. I’m a long way from being over him, but I try to let the beautiful weather wash at least some of my anger and resentment away, because I know that if I keep it, it will only eat away inside me, as if I’ve swallowed acid.
Around midday, I head down to the sea and go for a swim. The Pacific is cool and the waves are gentle, and I spend a pleasant hour swimming up and down, floating on my back, then lying in the warm shallows, letting the blue waves wash over me.
Even somewhere as isolated as Matauri Bay, it’s not easy to find peace. The kids in the family a few baches along are over-excited after opening their presents, but it’s not long before their parents take them out further down the beach, and they spend the day going in and out of the water, their screams and laughter becoming part of the background noise with the waves. A Christmas tree with half a dozen red baubles shoved into the sand appears to be their only concession toward celebrating the time of year. The day is yellow and orange and red, hot colors, summer colors.
The two Maori couples sharing the bach to my right headed out to sea on a small boat early this morning. As I return to my bach to dry off, I see that they’ve returned with some snapper. The guys are cleaning them before lying them on the grill part of the barbecue. They also have a large bowl of green-lipped mussels, and one of the women is scraping the beards off before throwing them in a big saucepan on the hob part of the barbecue. The other woman wraps several large kumara—sweet potatoes—in foil, and places these next to the fish.
I go inside and take a quick shower to rinse the salt out of my hair. This bach belongs to a Maori friend of mine. She and her husband are visiting their whanau—their family—in Tauranga this year, so she offered the bach to me, and I was happy to snap it up and escape. It’s a small, clean place, decorated mainly in whites and creams, with pale blue cushions, and mobiles made from shells and pieces of driftwood. I brought a few things with me from home—my yoga mat, a couple of thin wraps that I sometimes wear over a bikini but otherwise drape over the furniture to give it a bit of color, my Tarot cards, a few books—but other than that, I’m happy to leave everything else behind. It never fails to amaze me how much I need to exist, and how much crap I can accumulate in a short space of time.
I dress in shorts and my favorite tie-dyed T-shirt, and then come back out to let the sun dry my hair. I discover that the guys have been digging up a load of pipis or small mollusks from the sand, and I watch as they chop them up, mix them in batter, and then fry the fritters on the hot plate of the barbecue. It’s smells fantastic, and I think of the leftover chicken pasta I have to look forward to and sigh.
To my surprise, one of the men calls, “Rihari! Come on, bro. Lunch!”
I know that Rihari is the Maori version of Richard, and this—as well as the fact that they obviously know him—confirms to me that Rich is at least part Maori.
I can’t imagine he’ll want to join in, though, and sure enough he yells back, “I’m okay, thanks.”
The man puts his hands on his hips. “Your mum told me I mustn’t take no for an answer. It’s just fish, bro. Come on. Soak up some of that whisky, eh?”
They obviously saw him drinking last night. I get the feeling that his family knew he was coming to the bach, and these guys have been told to keep an eye on him.
I wait for Rich to refuse again, but he gets up and ambles across the sand toward my bach.
The delicious smell of the fritters wafts past me, and I cast a longing glance at their barbecue.
“Miss?” The man calls to me. “You want to join us too?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” I say, embarrassed that he caught me staring at their food.
“Plenty to go around,” one of the women says, and smiles.
Rich stops in front of my bach. “It’s pointless to argue.” He pushes his sunglasses up onto his black curls. His dark gaze slips down my body and over my bare legs, soft and light as a silk scarf, before returning to my face. It’s so quick I almost miss it, but it’s there.
“It’s Christmas Day,” I protest. “I can’t gatecrash a family dinner.”
He snorts. “This is New Zealand. No one’s going to keep food to themselves when there are mouths to feed.”
I look across at the bach, and the other woman beckons me. It would be so easy to say no. But life is about taking chances, isn’t it? What’s the worst thing that could happen?
“All right,” I say, because the fish smells so good. “Give me a sec.”
I go inside, take out the two garlic breads I’d put in the fridge and one of the lemons I picked from my garden, collect a bottle of wine, and then head back out and over to the other bach.
“Here.” I hand the larger of the two women the bread.
“Sweet as, thanks.” She peels off the paper wrapping and puts it on the barbecue.
Rich unfolds two more chairs and places them on the deck, and there are quick introductions—Hemi, who called him over, is married to Marama, and Tama is married to Ra. I’m not certain, but I think both the guys are Rich’s uncles, his mother’s brothers by the sound of it. Rich tells them I’m Jess, and to my relief nobody asks for any other details.
Before too long, we’re all eating off paper plates, the fish so hot it burns my fingers, the fritters tasting perfect with a squeeze of fresh lemon. The kumara’s crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. The mussels are huge, and taste of the sea.
Feeling shy, I listen for a long while as they talk about their family, Uncle this and Aunty that, updating Rich with what’s been happening since he’s been away. I get the impression that he’s been coming here for the last few Christmases, but they don’t see him during the year.
He doesn’t say much. He nods a lot, and he asks questions, but doesn’t volunteer any information about himself and, even more interesting, they don’t ask. There’s a story here. But then there’s a story behind everyone, isn’t there?
“So are you from around here, Jess?”
It’s Marama who asks. They all turn to look at me, and I wipe my lips with a bit of kitchen towel to make sure I don’t have any fritter at the corner of my mouth. “Originally, I’m from Hamilton. I live in Waipapa now, in the middle of nowhere.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t want to talk about my past, about Auckland, about the fact that I now live in my brother’s sleepout.
“House prices have shot up in Kerikeri, eh?” Hemi says to cover my silence. He pronounces it “Keddi-keddi,” the Maori way.
I nod. I’ve never bought a house, and don’t know the first thing about prices.
“What do you do?” Ra asks.
“I’m self-employed,” I say, because I don’t want to explain that I’ve recently been sacked from my job.
“Doing what?” Ra presses.
“I paint.” It’s partly true. I play with paint and clay in my spare time—which is practically all the time, at the moment—but I’m lying when I imply I make a living from it or any of the other dozens of crafts I enjoy doing. I’ve only ever sold two pieces of my work, and they were pity-purchases by my brother.
“Cool,” Ra says.
They all nod, but I’m relieved when they change the subject and start talking about the job market and how difficult it is for their teenage kids to find work.
Rich is studying me, though, his head tipped a little to one side, and when I look at him his lips curve up a little. I’m not sure why. Can he tell that I’m lying, or is he amused because I’m a self-styled ‘artist’? I feel a swell of impatience and brush off my concern. I don’t need anyone’s approval for the way I live my life.
Time passes, and I feel strangely relaxed and at ease with these people. There are no airs and graces, no need to put on an act. The conver
sation flows easily, and neither of us makes an effort to move, even though the sun’s beginning to head toward the horizon, and every scrap of food has been eaten.
Hemi makes sure we all have a drink, and then holds up his glass and says, “Meri Kirihimete,” which I know means Merry Christmas in Maori.
I drink, more out of politeness than anything, and I suspect Rich does the same, because he doesn’t echo the toast.
Tama raises his glass. “To Will,” he says.
The other three glance at Rich, then slowly follow his lead. “To Will,” they all say, and sip their drinks.
I lift my glass, again, more out of politeness because I don’t understand the toast. Rich lowers his gaze and stares at a stray pebble sitting on the deck. Then he lifts his wine glass, knocks back the remaining inch of wine, and gets to his feet.
“Thanks for the lunch, guys,” he says.
“Aw, don’t go.” Marama sighs.
“You shouldn’t have said anything,” Hemi scolds Tama.
“It’s all right.” Rich smiles and bends to kiss his aunts. “I’m tired, though, and I think I’ll have a lay in the sun for a bit.” He shakes hands with the guys, nods to me, then walks off, back across the sand in his bare feet to his bach.
I watch him go, puzzled. Who’s Will? Maybe he’s gay, and Will is a lover who left him. I think of the way his gaze slid down me like a silk scarf—I’m sure he’s not gay. Maybe he’s bi.
“I told you not to mention him,” Hemi says to Tama.
“It’s been four years,” Tama tells him. “Aroha says he needs to talk about it, but he just refuses.”
I’m burning with curiosity now, and before I can think better of it, I say, “Who’s Will?”
My New Year Fling: A Sexy Christmas Billionaire Romance (Love Comes Later Book 2) Page 2