It was a long time before she sat back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tugging a tissue from a pocket in her pajama top to wipe her eyes.
“It’s okay.” He kept his arm around her. “I’m glad you told me. Jeez, you girls have had a tough time.”
“Yeah, I suppose we have. Ginger and Sandi took it hard, but of course they weren’t there when it happened. I couldn’t help but blame myself. If I hadn’t shouted at her... if I’d reacted better when I found out what she’d done... she’d still be here.”
“You don’t know that,” he said. “The guilt would probably still have been too much for her. She was ill, honey, she had a disease that meant she was always going to overreact, and there was nothing you could do about that. You did an amazing job looking after her for all those years. You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself.”
She let out a shaky sigh. “We sold the house. Because she took her own life and had a mental illness that she didn’t disclose when she took out the policy, the insurance wouldn’t pay out, so the proceeds of the house sale went to paying off the mortgage and the credit card bills she left behind. But at least we’re shot of it. I don’t want to live there and neither do Ginger or Sandi.”
“Now I can see why you wanted a fresh start.”
“Mmm.” She pulled up her knees, wrapped her arms around them, and laid her cheek on them. “I wish I could have known my father. I can’t remember him well, so it’s hard to know what his reaction would have been to what’s happened. It hurts to think of him dying here alone. He trusted your father, and it’s horrible to think of James turning on him like that. I can only imagine how that would have hurt him, if he’d been aware of it.”
As always, Mac felt a deep, dark burn of resentment at the remembrance of what his father had done. “Yeah.”
“Our lives could have been so different,” she whispered. “I’ll never forgive James.”
She met his gaze, and his spirits sank. She hated his father, and he couldn’t blame her, because he did too. He wished he could wave a wand and make James MacDonald not be his father. But he couldn’t. He was stuck with him, with his blood, his genes, and he would never be able to change it.
And Fred knew that. He would always be James’s son in her eyes. She would never be able to look at him without remembering what his father had done to hers, and how their lives had been ruined. She would never be able to put that aside and love him the way a real wife would her husband. His dreams were futile, written on rice paper to be torn into tiny pieces that would float away on the wind like confetti.
Chapter Twenty-One
FRED TRIED TO PUT WHAT happened that night to the back of her mind.
It wasn’t easy. She and Mac were spending a lot of time together working on the vineyard, and it seemed as if every time she turned around, he was working with his shirt off, looking all muscly and shiny and manly, distracting her from whatever she was doing.
Half of her wondered if he was doing it on purpose—he must know he had this effect on her, after what happened in the house that night. But the other half knew it wasn’t intentional. Mac was kind, polite, and nice to her, but he was a tad distant, born, she knew, from the fact that she’d said she could never forgive his father for what he’d done.
She wished she could take that back now. She’d meant it at the time—she still meant it—but she wished she hadn’t said it to Mac. What his father had done had angered him, but James was still his father, and she knew more than anyone how you could hate someone for what they’d done but want to defend them at the same time.
She shouldn’t have slept with him. It had been a monumental mistake, a moment of weakness on her part. He wasn’t her enemy, not at all—she wasn’t foolish enough to tell herself that. He’d done everything he could to offset his father’s cruel actions. But he was still a MacDonald. And far from banishing her bad dreams, it only made them worse. She got them every night now, and they were always the same. She’d wake, or dreaming she was waking, and there would be a sinister figure standing in the corner of her room. Sometimes it was her mother, sometimes her father, but they were always menacing, filled with disapproval and anger. She’d wake for real then, her heart pounding, covered with sweat, and more often than not she’d end up in tears. She had no idea how to banish these phantoms. She’d moved across the world, done her best to get the vineyard back on its feet. What did she have to do to move on?
The harvest continued. The Merlot grapes were all brought in, and they started on the Cabernet. It was hard work, but Fred was learning so much. She could now tell just by looking which grapes were ready and which weren’t, and her palate was becoming more discerning. A few times a week, she, Ginger, and Sandi would treat themselves to a bottle of wine or two from the supermarket, and they’d compare these to their own, gradually developing a nose for the different notes until they could not only tell a Merlot from a Cabernet, and a Pinot Gris from a Chardonnay, but they could pick out the individual notes, and they finally began to understand when different casks had been used, or how strong the tannins were.
These evenings together became precious, because all three of them were working hard throughout the day. Ginger had spent a lot of time in Russell talking to suppliers and fishermen, sourcing local produce, and was starting to serve her new platters, which were already gaining praise on Northland tourist websites. Sandi had finished decorating two of the four bedrooms in the B&B, and had transformed a good part of the garden, which now looked like a tropical paradise rather than an Amazonian jungle. They all loved their work, but it was with some relief that they met up in the evenings, to discuss what they’d done that day, and also to relax.
“Mac doesn’t join us anymore,” Ginger said one evening when they were halfway through a bottle of Sauvignon. “I miss him.”
“He’s around all day every day,” Fred pointed out. But her sister was right. He no longer came in with them in the evenings. He’d withdrawn from them, and that was her fault.
“He was loading his car up with boxes,” Sandi said, flipping through a magazine. “Is he moving out of the house, Fred?”
She looked at Sandi, startled. “When was this?”
“When I came in.” Sandi flicked her gaze up and raised an eyebrow. “I thought he’d said he’d move to Russell with his mother for a while so you could have the house.”
“So we could have it,” Fred corrected absently. “Yes, he did, but I didn’t think he’d be going yet...”
“Well I’m happy to stay in the B&B flat,” Sandi said. “It’s self-contained, and it makes sense for me to be here on call in case any of the visitors were to want anything after hours. What about you, are you moving up there?” She looked at Ginger.
Ginger shrugged. “Don’t know. I was thinking about getting a place in Russell. I have my eye on a cottage that’s been advertised for rent. It’s tiny, but it’s all I’d need, and every morning I’d be able to get up and have a walk along the beach and meet the fishermen. I’d have first pick of all the catches. So I’m quite happy for you to have the house, Fred.”
“It’s too big just for me,” Fred pointed out.
“Maybe you should ask Mac to stay, then,” Sandi said mischievously.
Fred stared at her, feeling the blood drain from her face.
“Hey, what did I say?” Sandi leaned forward in alarm.
“Nothing...” Fred swallowed hard.
“Told you,” Ginger said to Sandi.
Sandi frowned and gave Fred a curious look. “Have you two... you know? Slept together?”
All the blood returned to Fred’s face in a rush, and her cheeks burned. “No, of course not. Well, maybe. All right, yes. But it was only the once.” She leaned her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. “Please, don’t chide me.”
“Chide you?” Sandi laughed, and Ginger snorted.
“You’re married,” Ginger pointed out. “It’s perfectly legal.”
“Oh, don’t.” Fred dip
ped her head and sank her hands into her hair. “I shouldn’t have. I feel terrible.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s James MacDonald’s son,” Fred snapped.
“Yes,” Sandi said, “his son. He’s not James himself. I might have something to say about you sleeping with James.”
“Especially because he’s dead,” Ginger added.
Fred dropped her hands and glared at them both. Anger seared through her. Why didn’t they understand? “This isn’t a laughing matter. All I can think about is how angry Dad would be with me. Not only have I gone against his wishes and married to get his money, I married the son of the man who pretended to be his friend and then betrayed him. Don’t you think we all carry some responsibility for our family’s deeds?”
“You’ve got your own Greek play going on right there, haven’t you?” Ginger said.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not, Fred, but you have to lighten up a little. There’s this gorgeous guy who’s really into you—do you think you should pass up the chance of a little happiness because of what his dad did to our dad?”
“I can’t forget it,” Fred said simply.
“Do you blame Mac for what his father did?” Sandi asked.
“I know it wasn’t his fault. But I don’t know if I can put it aside.” She closed her eyes, and immediately she could see the figure standing in the corner of the room, disapproving, angry. She opened her eyes again, suddenly tired. “It’s my guilt playing on my mind. I can’t get rid of it, and until I do, I don’t think I could ever be with Mac, not in that way.”
“But it’s pointless guilt,” Ginger said, obviously frustrated. “I understand why you blame yourself for what happened to Mum—even though I don’t agree that any of it was your fault—but Mum burning Dad’s letters, and Dad dying thinking we didn’t want anything to do with him—that was out of your control and you’re not to blame for that.” Her cheeks had flushed—they were all getting emotional now.
“I know.” Fred attempted to speak calmly. “But guilt’s not rational, is it? The ‘what ifs’ and ‘I should haves’ keep playing on a loop in my head. I should have guessed that Mum would try to stop our communication, but I always try to think the best of people, and I refused to believe she would be that nasty. But what if I’d made more of an effort to contact Dad, emailed or phoned? If we’d been in touch, I’d have known about the will, and James wouldn’t have been able to fake another one. I probably wouldn’t have flown off the handle at Mum, and she’d... she’d still be here.”
“But she’s not,” Ginger said, “and you know what? I’m relieved.”
“Ginger!” Sandi looked horrified.
“What?” Ginger lifted her chin. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking, except that you two won’t admit it. I loved Mum, of course I did, with all my heart, and I wish she hadn’t died, but she did, and I’m sad, but I’m also relieved. And I wasn’t even the one who looked after her all the time. It must be a relief for you, too, Fred? Not to have that responsibility?”
“I can’t... Don’t make me say that,” Fred whispered.
“Stop it,” Sandi scolded Ginger. “How can you be so bloody cruel?”
“I’m not being cruel.” Ginger looked suddenly tearful. “Fred’s blaming herself for everything, and it’s not right. Mum died because she had an illness, a horrible, fucking awful disease that had sunk its claws into her brain and eaten away at it until it possessed her, like a demon. People argue—they shout at each other and blame each other for things when they’re angry, it happens all the time. But normal people don’t then go and kill themselves after an argument. I don’t know whether it was the sickness that did it, or whether it was just her nature, but not telling us about Dad’s letters was a nasty thing to do. She killed herself because the guilt was too much for her, not because you shouted at her.”
Sandi had gone pale, but she turned thoughtful eyes to her sister. “She’s right, Fred. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know. I know.” Fred covered her face with her hands again. “Of course I know that. But I can’t shake this feeling that both of them are watching me. I keep dreaming about them, and they’re always angry and disapproving.”
“They’re not.” Sandi took her hand. “If they were here, they’d be thrilled with what you’ve done, not angry.”
“Would they? You don’t know that.” Fred withdrew her hand and stood. “I know you both mean well, and I’m sorry to be such trouble. I wish I could just put everything aside and start again. I thought I could—that’s why I came here, but I’m beginning to realize I can’t do that. You bring your emotional baggage with you, unfortunately, stowed in the hold of the plane with all your bags. It’s not going to go away. I guess I’m just going to have to live with it.”
She tucked her chair under the table, turned, and left the room.
Outside, the early evening air was dry and cool, although clouds bunched on the horizon, promising rain. In the nearby orchards, the feijoas and kiwifruit were ready for harvest, while the mandarins were ripening into tiny round suns.
Her hands in the pockets of her jeans, she walked through the garden, out of the gate, and across the path toward the house. Sure enough, Mac’s ute stood outside, filled with boxes, and he was in the process of stuffing a sports bag in a gap.
She stopped beside him. “Going somewhere?”
He paused, not looking at her, and pushed harder to get the sports bag in. “Thought it was about time I moved out.”
Scully ran up to her, and Fred dropped to her haunches to bury her hands and nose into the dog’s fur. “You don’t have to,” she mumbled, feeling the dog’s rough tongue wash over her face.
“I do.” He placed another bag on the passenger seat and shut the door. “This is your house, yours and Sandi’s and Ginger’s. It’s time to put things in their rightful place and move on.” He turned on his heel and walked off, back into the house.
Fred pushed to her feet and followed him slowly. She felt miserable, so miserable she could barely drag herself up the path.
In the living room, she stood and watched him packing a final box with DVDs, magazines, and other bits and pieces he’d gathered up. The house looked bare, and it was only now that she realized how much she liked him being there.
She stood by the sofa, her shoulders hunched. He thrust a couple of old paperbacks in the box; one of them caught on the edge and tore, but he just jammed it in. He was angry.
“Mac...”
He shook his head, but didn’t say anything, just continued to pack. Scully lay by the front door, her snout on her paws, picking up on their mood.
Mac was wearing tight jeans and an All Blacks shirt that clung to his torso. He was a fine figure of a man, beautifully sculpted—she could remember how those muscles had felt beneath her fingers, how thick his hair was. It had felt so good when he was inside her, holding her so tightly, kissing her with just the right amount of force to make her quiver. She longed to experience that again, yearned with all her heart.
He glanced up then, looked at her face, and his brows drew together. “Don’t,” he said hoarsely, tearing his gaze away. “Don’t look at me like that.”
A tear ran down her face. “Don’t go.”
His hands tightened on the edges of the box. “How can I stay, Fred? It’s killing me being so near you all day every day and not being able to touch you.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you leaving the vineyard? Leaving the job as well?”
He glared at the contents of the box. “I don’t know. I just know I have to get out of here, because otherwise I’m going to spend every evening staring at the door, hoping you’ll come in for a bath... I keep dreaming about those fucking pajamas. You were so soft in them, so beautiful...” His gaze came back to her face, and he looked helpless, lost.
She moistened her lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize!” His eyes blazed. “Not everything is your faul
t! I shouldn’t have made love to you that night. It was such a stupid thing to do. How could I ever expect that you’d be interested in me after what my father did?” He looked around, picked up another DVD, and threw it in the box.
God, what had she done? In a moment of weakness, she’d cursed both Mac and herself to be haunted by their actions. Why did she always do the wrong thing? Why couldn’t she think before she acted?
“I am,” she whispered. “Interested. And that night was my fault, don’t blame yourself.”
He pushed the box away and strode over to stand before her. She swallowed hard, but refused to be intimidated and step back.
“You did nothing wrong,” he snapped. “Except wear those pajamas. The rest of it was all me.”
“No,” she said gently. “It wasn’t. You don’t think I’d been dreaming about you since I’d met you? You don’t think I was standing there, silently begging you to kiss me?”
He stepped forward, and this time she had to retreat, except the wall was behind her, and there was nowhere to go. He leaned one hand on the wall beside her, looking down at her, and she couldn’t tell whether he wanted to kiss her or yell at her. Possibly both.
His hot gaze rested on her lips, and his chest heaved. “You don’t want this,” he said through gritted teeth. “If we have sex again, you’ll be furious with yourself, and then you’ll hate me for it. And I don’t want you to hate me, Fred.”
“I won’t hate you,” she whispered. Was this what she wanted? They mustn’t... they shouldn’t... She thought about her father, and how angry he’d be right now that she was standing here, talking to the son of the man who’d betrayed him.
But it didn’t matter. At that moment, what she felt for Mac overpowered everything else, as if he were the sun, blazing light that banished even the darkest shadows.
He looked into her eyes, and she knew he could see the truth.
“Fuck it,” he said, his voice little more than a growl, and then he crushed his lips to hers.
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