“I’m going to have another coffee,” Ginger said, getting up. “Anyone else want one?”
He nodded when she looked at him, and sat, watching Fred return to her seat. Sandi scribbled on a notepad, and Fred busied herself with pulling the manila folders to her and starting to look through them. They were letting him compose himself, obviously aware of his heightened emotion.
Scully rested her chin on his knee, and he stroked her ear. This was not how he had envisaged this afternoon going. He’d thought they would be yelling at him, prodding fingers at his paperwork, demanding to know why he’d made certain decisions, and refusing to give him the benefit of the doubt. That might still come, of course, but for now he was pleased and touched that they’d spotted his sincerity.
“What’s the best way to approach this?” Fred asked when Ginger came back with the mugs of coffee. “Where should we start?”
Sandi put down her pen. “Well, obviously, I’m interested in the B&B and Ginger is going to want to talk about the restaurant. But we’re both aware that if the vineyard isn’t producing and making a profit, there’s little point in having a restaurant or a B&B up here. So I think we should start there.”
Mac nodded, glad they realized how it worked.
“So,” Fred said, “can you run through the figures with us?”
He opened the first manila folder, and pushed the copies of the calculations he’d made toward them. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s start.”
For the next fifteen minutes, he talked about the vineyard. He told them about its past, how big it had once been, and how he’d felt the need to consolidate when he realized the quality of the grapes was dropping because they were trying to do too much with equipment that was out-of-date and failing frequently. He showed them maps, explained about the various grapes, and discussed grafting of the vines and other technical information. To their credit, even though most of it was new to them, they took it all in, asking pertinent questions and discussing the answers among themselves.
“The thing is,” he concluded, after much scribbling and frowning by the girls, “we’re under-producing, and we’re hugely out of date.”
“If you had unlimited money and time,” Fred asked, “what would you want to do with the place?”
He blew out a breath and sat back, letting his gaze drift to the window. “I’d buy a whole new set of machinery, and update everything that needed it in the barrel hall. I’d like to go fully organic, maybe try using sulphur as a preservative and clarify naturally, really haul ourselves into the twenty-first century. I’d double the Chambourcin plantings, because that grows really well here, and plant some Pinotage.” He was speaking more quickly now, immersing himself in the fantasy. “I’d spend time opening up the canopy by removing more leaves to let the sun and breeze in, which would prevent mildew and help the grapes to ripen. I’d hire new staff, a full team, people who have studied and know their trade, and who would work with me to make this one of the top vineyards in the Northland.”
He sat forward and returned his gaze to the girls. “I’d completely redecorate the B&B, make the rooms more self-contained with a mini kitchen and make sure they all have large en-suite bathrooms. Improve the dining room, maybe add on a lounge or a rumpus room with a ping-pong table and dartboard for kids. I’d get the pool repainted or even re-laid with a fiberglass lining, get a glass panel fence because the present one is ugly and restricts the view when you’re in the pool. The kitchen’s not in bad condition, but I’d probably extend it, make sure it had all the mod cons. I’d redecorate the restaurant—it’s lovely, but it’s tired, and needs a coat of paint and some new furniture. I’d extend the deck, and replace the awning. There are so many things you could do, if you had the money.” He gave them a hopeful look. “Do you have the money?”
Fred doodled on the notepad. “How much do you think we would need to do everything you’ve just mentioned?”
“Everything? I don’t know. A few hundred thousand.”
He could see by the way their eyes widened that they weren’t expecting that.
“But you wouldn’t have to do all that,” he added hastily. “Not all at once.”
“How much would we need to get started?” Sandi asked. “To get the vineyard making a decent profit? To get the place spruced up?”
“The equipment isn’t cheap,” he said cautiously.
“How much?” Fred prompted.
“It’s difficult to say. Forty, fifty thousand? Anything less would be papering over the cracks.”
The girls exchanged a glance. Ginger laughed. Fred sighed.
“I’m guessing you don’t have that kind of money,” Mac said.
“Harry left us five thousand dollars each,” Fred said. “Plus another fifty thousand...”
Mac’s eyebrows rose, his hopes rising. “Really?”
“That we can only access when we marry,” Fred finished.
He stared at her. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“It appears our father had a sense of humor.” Ginger’s voice held more than a touch of irony. “He must have, because his own experience of marriage couldn’t have driven him to do that.”
“I don’t know,” Sandi said. “Maybe it was his experience that made him do it. Maybe he wanted to encourage his daughters to settle down and find the right guy.”
“Whatever,” Fred said briskly, “the fact is that none of us is even close to accessing it, so it might as well not exist.”
“Fifteen thousand is better than nothing,” Mac said.
“Maybe it would be if we still had it all,” Ginger said. “But we spent part of it on the flights out here.”
For a while, they didn’t speak, caught up in their own thoughts. Mac’s gaze passed from one girl to the other. He hated to see the disappointment on their faces. He stopped on Fred, studying the way her long hair fell like a waterfall down her body to pool on her thigh. She looked sad, and a tad angry as well. He hoped it wasn’t at him.
“Could we mortgage it?” Ginger asked.
“No bank would lend us money until we were at least residents,” Fred replied. “At the moment, we’re just holidaymakers.”
“What about you?” Ginger’s gaze fell on Mac. “Could you get a mortgage?” Her gaze was challenging—of the three of them, he thought that she held him the most responsible.
“It’s not my land,” he said gently.
“Do you have any money?” she asked.
“Ginger!” Fred looked horrified.
Mac held up a hand. “I have some savings, but nowhere near what’s needed.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Fred said, glaring at her sister. “It’s not Mac’s responsibility. I wouldn’t dream of taking his money.”
He said nothing. He’d been prepared to spend every penny he owned on the place, but now it didn’t belong to him.
“What do you advise us to do?” Fred’s gaze was open.
He decided to opt for humor. “You mean apart from get hitched to the first Kiwi guy you see?” Their lips curved up, and he gave a short laugh. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m not a financial adviser. I suppose it depends how much you want the place. If I hadn’t met you, I’d probably advise that you sell to someone who does have the funds to spend on the place.”
“To you?” Ginger asked.
“To whomever you liked.”
“But you would like to buy the place?”
He leaned back in his chair and played with his pen. “If you were to offer it to me, yes, I’d buy it. But in all honesty, that was never my dream. When Harry died and I thought he’d bequeathed it to my father, I did spend some time imagining what it would be like when I eventually inherited. But this land has always belonged to the Cartwrights. I’d like to work here, to be the estate manager, and to help get the place back on its feet. That’s the extent of my fantasy.”
Well, almost. His gaze lingered on Fred, on her womanly curves. He liked her gentle, elegant mann
er, her long hair, the way she lifted her chin when she obviously decided she was going to be brave about something. She was going to play a part in his dreams for a while.
“You said ‘If I hadn’t met you,’” Fred observed. “What did you mean by that?”
He shrugged. “I can see how much you want the place. It makes me sad to think there might not be Cartwrights on the land from now on. You look very much like Harry.” He smiled.
Her eyebrows rose. “Do I?”
“You didn’t know?”
Her gaze slid to her sisters, then returned to him. “We didn’t have any photos of him in England. Mum got rid of them all.” She studied her hands, her jaw set. There was obviously more to that story, but he sensed she was in no mood to share it—he would have to wait to hear her side of it later.
An idea came to him. “Wait here.”
He rose and walked down to the spare bedroom he was halfway through sorting. On the left-hand side, he’d piled several boxes he’d already sorted through, one of which had contained the letter to Harry’s daughters, along with some other of Harry’s possessions. He doubted that his father had even realized they belonged to Harry—he’d just chucked them in here with the rest of his rubbish.
Mac ferreted around in them, and pulled out a small photo album, maybe twelve inches long and six inches across. He opened the album and flicked through the photos that had been slid into the plastic sheaths. He hadn’t looked at these when he’d first found the album, too angry and upset at the situation to spend time musing over the past, but now he saw all kinds of pictures of Harry—from when he was a boy, to photos of him atop various mountains, because he’d been a mountain guide, to pictures of him at various ages with all sorts of people, whom Mac assumed were friends and colleagues.
But there were also some photos of him with a woman and three small girls, which must be his daughters. The girl with the long dark hair must be Fred, he thought, he recognized the way she was standing, with her chin lifted, staring at the camera as if to say I’m not afraid of you!
He looked at the woman, who must be their mother, and Harry’s wife. She looked sullen—clearly, she wasn’t enjoying the day out, wherever they were.
He pushed up and took the album back to the dining room. “Here,” he said to the girls, and laid it on the table.
They opened it, and the look that appeared on their faces was a delight to behold. They all began talking at once, pointing at people they had obviously known back in England, laughing at the pictures of themselves. He left them to it, returning the mugs to the kitchen and washing them up, smiling at the squeals and laughs behind him. Gradually, though, he was aware of them falling silent, and glanced over his shoulder to see Sandi fighting tears, and Ginger hugging her. Fred’s expression had turned stony, and when he glanced down he saw that she was studying the photo he’d seen of the girls with their mother and father.
He turned his gaze back to the mugs, and dried them with a tea towel.
“Thank you,” Fred said when he eventually returned to the table. She closed the album. “May we keep this?”
“Jeez, of course, everything of Harry’s belongs to you. I’ll go through it all again over the next few days and get the other room sorted and cleaned. Then you can move in here if you want.”
“What will you do?” Fred asked, lifting her gaze to his.
He shrugged. “I might stay with my mum in Russell for a few days until everything’s sorted. Then I’ll have to work out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.” He gave her a twisted smile. He wasn’t trying to guilt her. He’d moved before and he could move again, get a job on another estate—God knew he had the experience and the qualifications. There were many vineyards that would kill to have him.
His gut tightened at the thought of leaving Blue Penguin Bay forever, but he pushed it away. He was here on borrowed time, and there was no point getting emotional about it.
“Okay.” Fred put both her hands on the table and pushed up to her feet. “We need some time to think. How about we call a taxi and go for a look around Russell, grab some dinner, sleep on it, and then meet again tomorrow to start talking about options?”
She was speaking to her sisters, but Mac interjected. “My car’s here. I can take you down to Russell and show you the best places to eat. If you want, of course. It’s no problem at all if you’d prefer to go on your own.”
He waited for them to reject him, to say that it was best they keep their distance, and that they wanted to take some time to discuss what he’d said, but to his surprise, Fred said, “That would be lovely, thank you,” and Ginger and Sandi both nodded and rose to collect their things.
Acting as if he’d expected them to agree, he grabbed his jacket and wallet, then made sure Scully had food and water, and together they walked out of the house and across to his car.
Before she got in the front passenger seat, Fred paused and turned her gaze across the fields of grapes to the sea.
Mac watched her for a moment, observing how the light autumn breeze played with her hair. “Beautiful,” he murmured, only realizing when she turned to look at him that he’d spoken aloud. He blinked, but she just nodded and glanced back at the view.
“It’s incredibly beautiful,” she said. “Much more than I was expecting.”
He wasn’t sure whether she’d assumed he was talking about the view, or whether she’d known he was talking about her and was just ignoring it. Either way, she smiled and got into the car, and Mac sighed, slid in beside her, and started the engine.
Chapter Six
FRED LOOKED OUT OF the window as Mac drove out of Blue Penguin Bay, along the winding road that led north through a thickly wooded hillside. Part of her wanted to study her surroundings, but most of her was conscious of the man beside her, of his murmured word, beautiful, that she was sure had been directed at her rather than the view.
He liked her. She could feel it. Could he also sense that she liked him? She’d only known him a few hours—there had hardly been time for any in-depth character study. But first impressions counted for a lot, and from what she’d seen of him so far, both in the way he looked and how he acted, she liked him.
It was a pointless attraction, though, and there were far more important things to sort out before she started thinking about her love life again. Besides which, her gut instinct had been wrong before, and she shouldn’t trust Mac, not yet. He seemed genuine, but it was possible he’d vastly overestimated the amount they needed to spend on the estate to get it functioning properly, in order to discourage them from staying and encourage them to sell.
She risked a glance across, finding him lost in thought, an elbow on the window ledge, his fingers resting on his lips. Unless he was a very good actor, she doubted he could have faked the emotion he’d shown in the house. What his father had done had cut him up, and he was ashamed and guilty about how she and her sisters had been treated.
He glanced at her then, catching her watching him. She held his gaze for a moment, looking into those stunning blue eyes, and a shiver ran from the nape of her neck down between her shoulder blades. In the back, Ginger and Sandi were talking in low voices about money and the estate, but Mac’s eyes made her feel as if there was no one else in the car, just the two of them, everything else fading away as heat seared through her.
Tearing her gaze away, she looked back out of the window. She mustn’t encourage him. They were here to sort out the estate, nothing more, and it made no sense at all to get embroiled in something that would almost certainly end in heartache for both of them.
“So why’s it called Blue Penguin Bay?” Ginger asked Mac. “Were there real penguins here?”
“Oh yes. Still are. Russell used to be called Kororareka, which means ‘how sweet is the penguin’.” Mac navigated the roads, heading toward the town center. “Legend is that a dying Maori chief said it when fed a broth made from penguin meat. They’re still seen around the wharf, looking for mackerel.”
> “And dolphins and whales too?” Fred said.
“Yes. You can catch a dolphin watch boat—they go out to the famous Hole in the Rock, and they guarantee that you’ll see dolphins or they’ll give your money back.”
“We’ll have to do that,” Sandi said.
“Mmm.” Fred’s gaze was captivated by the wooden houses, either white or painted in pastel colors, blues and greens and yellows. She’d read that it was unusual in New Zealand to see buildings on more than one or two levels, especially out of the major cities, which would account for why there seemed to be more sky visible. In England, bungalows were rare and usually more expensive than terraced houses, while their gardens often consisted of little more than a square patch of grass. From what she could see, here it seemed unusual for two houses to be adjoined, and they all had a decent-sized ‘section’ of land.
She’d known that her father was a New Zealander, and that he’d returned to his own country when he’d divorced her mother, but she hadn’t known any more about the country than that. Her mother had painted Harry in such a way that the girls hadn’t felt a need to find out more about him. It was only when they’d seen the letter that Fred had started to do some research. She’d discovered that New Zealand consisted of two large islands, that the capital was not the largest city—Auckland—but Wellington, and that the country was roughly the same size as the U.K., but instead of housing over sixty four million people, there were only just under five million.
She’d looked at lots of photos, and she’d watched The Lord of the Rings and had been stunned by the beauty of the mountain ranges and the breathtaking rivers. But, as Mac pulled into a line of parking spaces right before the beach and she got out, it was the first time that she’d felt any connection to the place.
She had vague memories of her father talking about the Bay of Islands. He’d always spoken about it with fondness, with a kind of awe and longing in his voice that she’d struggled to understand. But now she could comprehend why he’d missed it so much. She’d never been here, but it felt strangely familiar. Was it possible that love for a place could filter down in the blood? Reside in the DNA? If not, why did it feel as if she was coming home?
As Deep as the Ocean Page 4