Kiwi Strong (New Zealand Ever After Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  Fruitful and Obedience weren’t looking down anymore. They were looking at us. Not actually looking as shocked as I’d have expected, but maybe everything about Outside was so odd to them that this was nothing special.

  I wished they would look down.

  I managed to say, “That’s even prettier.” It was. Her toenails were painted a soft pink, and there was a thin gold line running across each of them, about two thirds of the way up. She was wearing a braided gold ring on her second toe, too. Her hair was loose and shiny, her body was trim and lithe, and she looked expensive and sleek and sexy as hell.

  “It was a special-occasion thing,” she said. “A bit pricey. But I thought … maybe special is good.”

  “We got waxing, too,” Fruitful said.

  “Daisy was right,” Obedience said. “It hurts, but it’s so pretty.”

  “Is it?” I asked Daisy.

  She said, “Well, I always think so.”

  I couldn’t put my hand on her foot. Not appropriate. I did anyway. I circled her ankle with my hand, and my fingers met and overlapped. Which gave me one hell of a charge.

  She said, “Not sanitary.” Her voice was a little breathy. She wasn’t nearly as casual as she was pretending to be.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m guessing your ankles are pretty clean. Also, it’s my left hand. Not my eating hand. You could even call it my dirty hand. If you liked.”

  “Ankles used to be a thing,” she said. “Back in Victorian times, when women wore long skirts. You could see their necks and their shoulders and arms, and even cleavage, because they wore low-cut dresses, but their legs were off-limits for some reason, like legs are wildly erotic.”

  “Like Mount Zion,” Fruitful said. “Except you can’t see necks and shoulders, either. And you definitely can’t see cleavage.”

  “And they didn’t wear ugly white trainers in Victorian times,” Daisy said. “They didn’t wear white socks. Pretty feet mattered to them.”

  She still hadn’t moved her foot, and I still hadn’t let go of her ankle. She was giving some sort of history lesson, except that she really wasn’t.

  “What did they wear, then?” Obedience asked.

  “Silk stockings,” Daisy said. “Held up by lace tops, or maybe garters. The stockings only came to just over their knees, and then they’d have these pretty garters, maybe with some ribbon threaded through them, to hold them up. So you see … if a man saw a woman’s ankle, he imagined all of that, and maybe the top of the stocking, too, and that made it exciting.”

  “Even though her legs wouldn’t be smooth like ours,” Obedience said.

  I definitely needed to push my chair in farther and obscure the view. Daisy was sitting on my left, and I was just fine with her getting that view, but Obedience was on my right, and I was in serious trouble here. On the other hand, if I pushed my chair in, Daisy would take her foot away. It was a dilemma.

  I stayed where I was.

  “And that’s why,” Daisy said, “it’s a wee bit sexier, a bit more fun, not to show everything. Leave a little to the imagination, eh. At first, I loved being able to look pretty, I loved feeling pretty so much, I wore my skirts too short and my tops too small. I wanted all the pretty things, too. Black stockings that laced up the back. Corset tops. Little fingerless gloves. High heels. Leather trousers.” She laughed. “That was the worst. Too hot and too uncomfortable. And, of course, I had no money, because all Dorian and I had were our grants and housing support, and I was working nights as a cleaner at the hospital and going to high school during the day, trying to catch up on everything I’d missed, trying not to fall asleep in class. And still, when I had a day off, I’d go to the op shops. The Shop on Carroll …” She sighed. “It was brilliant. I’ll take you there tomorrow, if we have time.” She told me, “They chose their names. We searched on your phone while we were waiting. And—oh.” She took her foot off my thigh, which was sad, then got up and went for her bag. “Here,” she said, handing my phone back to me. “We can change back. Thanks for trading last night.”

  Finally, I could scoot my chair in. I did, and wondered whether the room was really spinning or if it was just my sexual deprivation. I said, “No worries,” and went back to my meatballs like a man who hadn’t just practically performed a sex act on a woman’s foot at his dinner table. In front of her sisters. Fortunately, Obedience probably retained enough Mount Zion modesty not to look at my crotch. Fruitful would have been another story. Good thing she couldn’t see.

  “Tell me about the names,” I said. There was a safe subject. Names.

  What had that been, though, with the foot? With the sexy chat about silk stockings and ladies’ ankles and a man sliding his hand up her thigh?

  Wait. She hadn’t said the thing about sliding his hand up her thigh. That had been me.

  Obedience said, “We chose our names. Iris—Iris is amazing. She knows everything about organic gardening, and she said to think about using your same first initial, so I did. Fruitful was easier. She—”

  Fruitful said, “Let me say. It’s my name.”

  “Oh,” Obedience said. “OK.” And restrained herself. Barely.

  Fruitful said, “Frankie. Frankie Kittredge. That’s my new name. And we made an appointment for tomorrow with the lawyer, so I can get a dissolution. We can’t change our names legally until we’re eighteen, so I can’t sign the papers with the new name, which is disappointing, but I can use it now, and I’m going to. From now on, I’m Frankie.”

  “Frankie,” I said, and smiled. “I like it. That’s a woman with an attitude, one who knows her own mind. Congratulations. How about you, Obedience?”

  “Not Obedience,” she said. “My name’s Oriana. There aren’t many ‘O’ names, but that’s one. It means ‘Sunrise.’”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Suits you, too.”

  “We’re starting the process to get identity documents tomorrow,” Daisy said. “That’s going to take some time. Identity card, RealMe login, passport—in the old name for now, alas—and bank account. And then we can do all the rest of it. Applying for support, and then school.”

  “My mum may be able to help you with that when she comes,” I said, “and anything else you need. Not much my mum can’t cope with.”

  Daisy opened her mouth, then closed it, and I said, “Cheers for not telling me you don’t need any help.”

  “It’s the time, that’s all,” she said. “Not enough hours to do everything, if you need to sleep as well. I should’ve asked for the four to midnight shift, maybe. Oh, well, day shift coming up in a few weeks.” She finally took another bite of her own meatballs, which she’d been a bit slow to get stuck into. Nerves, I thought. She’d done that thing with her foot, it had scared her to put herself out there, and now she was retreating. She asked, “So nothing from Gilead last night?” Breezily, as if it didn’t matter.

  Oh, bugger. I didn’t want to go there.

  Could I have the sexy foot chat back, please?

  34

  Not Quite a She-Devil

  Daisy

  Why had I done that? It was so much too forward. It was so far ahead of where I was ready to go.

  It wasn’t really because he’d kissed me, or it wasn’t just that. That had been the sort of “hello, you” kiss that a friend might give you. If a friend kissed on the mouth. And had arms that could hold you that well. It wasn’t like he’d been lifting me off my feet or anything, though.

  It had been my absolutely decadent pedicure, that was what. The luxury that was a woman who worked on her feet getting those feet soaked and scrubbed and massaged into submission, and then the rose gold nails with their tiny golden stripe that made me feel like the kind of woman I most definitely wasn’t. The waxing, too, though all I’d had done today was my eyebrows and calves. Thinking about the waxing I’d get done next time, maybe. And then the spa, with its calming gray-blue walls and white-draped bed, and the soothing waves-and-whale-calls music. Normally, tha
t music put me to sleep. Today, it had been more like a daydream. One involving a muscular, tattooed Samoan wearing a pair of faded jeans, his big feet bare, his hands on my hips, standing in a dark room with a shadowy white bed in the corner while the wind sighed in the trees and disturbed the filmy curtains.

  I hadn’t gone much further than that. My daydreams were still of the kind beloved of fifteen-year-olds everywhere, full of hot gazes from sleepy brown eyes, the quirk of a male mouth, the touch of his hand on my face, his thumb brushing back my hair as his lips came down over mine. I hadn’t managed to get rid of my clothes, or to do more than get my hands under his T-shirt, even in my fantasies.

  When I’d put my foot on Gray’s thigh to show him my pedicure, though, he’d put his hand around my ankle like he knew exactly what I was doing. I’d got the hot gaze and the quirk of the mouth and the touch of the hand. I hadn’t taken off a thing and neither had he, but I was tingling. I shifted in my chair, and he watched me do it. And I got the hot gaze again.

  Oh, bloody hell. I was so out of my league.

  All of this was a good thing, though. I needed to get past my issues, and I was pretty sure he’d be willing to help me do it. Here we were, living next door to each other. All I needed was courage. And patience from him. Heaps of patience. Oceans of patience.

  Was there that much patience in the world?

  I took another bite of pasta, then asked again, in as casual a tone as I could manage, “I won’t find any threatening text messages on my phone, then?” I wasn’t going to worry about scaring the girls. The girls were already scared. They needed to know the truth. Knowing gave you power, and they’d had enough of being powerless. I’d change my number tonight, and they could watch me do it and know that Gilead and Mount Zion were behind us yet again.

  Gray said, “No.” He hesitated, and I put down my fork and said, “What?”

  “He rang,” he said. Reluctantly, I could tell. “At eight this morning.”

  The girls’ heads went up, and nobody was eating. I said, “The tracking chip, and then a call? He’s got to have a secret phone.”

  “There are really no phones there?” Gray asked.

  “No. Well, landlines. The Prophet has a mobile. Uncle Aaron does, too. But that’s all.”

  I was stalling. Gray knew I was stalling, because he didn’t say anything, just waited. I asked, “What did he say?”

  Gray said, “You have to realize that I didn’t say anything when I picked up. I just hit the button and waited. I wanted to hear what he’d say if he thought he was talking to you. First thing he said was, ‘Chastity.’”

  I tried not to shiver.

  Gray said, “Are you sure you want to know?”

  I looked at Fruitful—Frankie. She nodded, and I said, “Yes. We all need to know.”

  “Right, then.” Gray pulled a little notebook with a stubby pencil stuck through the spiral from his back pocket and flipped the pages over. “I took notes. Thought it might be important, because we should get a restraining order for both of you. The lawyer can see to that, but it’d be good to have notes. So I waited some more, still not answering, and he said, ‘Where have you put her?’ I still didn’t say anything, and he said, ‘Still a coward, then. Still running. You can’t run. I know where you live. But I don’t care about you anyway. If I had, don’t you think I’d have come to get you? I want my wife back. I know you talked her into this. I know you put that device in her to keep her from being blessed. The other women couldn’t wait to confess what you’d done, how you’d tried to damn them, too. You’ll burn in hell, but you’re not going to take Fruitful down with you. She’s my wife. She’ll stay my wife, and I won’t stand by and watch her be damned with you. Or Obedience, who’s ready to be joined. You’re keeping both of them from salvation, and the Prophet won’t let you. The Prophet will fight you, She-Devil.’”

  He paused. “There was some more along those lines as well. He’s two sammies short of a picnic, if you ask me. I told him a few things as well. He was surprised it was me at the other end of the line. Put it like that.”

  Fruitful—Frankie—was looking at her plate, all her joy in her new name and new clothes and new life ripped away. Gray said, “Sorry. Could’ve been better not to tell you.”

  “No,” she said, looking up again with an effort. “I’m glad you did. It tells me … I’m not mad for leaving. Or … wrong. Am I?”

  Gray’s face gentled, and he said, “No. You’re not mad, and you’re not wrong. That’s not how a man’s meant to treat his wife. You did the right thing, and so did Daisy. So did Obedience—Oriana.”

  Oriana said, “I wasn’t going to marry somebody like that, though. I was going to marry Loyal Standfast. At least I think so. I hope so.”

  “And wear the pink dress,” Gray said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You can buy yourself a pink dress,” he said. “You can find something you want to do, and do it. Find somebody to love who’ll love you back, and not have to hope you get the right one. Have the wedding and the flowers and the babies. All of that happens out here too, you know.”

  “How will I know, though,” Oriana asked, “if he’s the right one? If nobody chooses him for me?”

  “You’ll get to know him,” Gray said. “You’ll talk to him and meet his family and spend time with him. See how he treats people. And by then, you’ll have met heaps of boys. Heaps of men. You’ll be able to judge for yourself.”

  “See if he laughs at your jokes,” I said. “That’s the best test. And like Gray says—if he’s kind to people he doesn’t have to be kind to.”

  “Do you have to …” she said, and trailed off.

  I wanted to hear some more about the phone call—what Gilead had said after that, what else Gray had told him—but this was important. Whatever one of my sisters asked, both of them were here to listen to the answer. “Do you have to what?” I asked.

  “Do you have to have … sex?” she asked. “Before you’re married? The Prophet says people Outside all have adulterous sex. And that they’re … you know. Drinkers and fornicators. So is all that … required?” Her cheeks were dark with embarrassment, but she’d asked it.

  “No,” Gray said. “It’s not required. You don’t have to drink unless you want to, and you shouldn’t have sex at all until you’re ready to have it. If that means you wait until you’re married, that’s a choice. If you want to do it sooner, and the fella wants to as well, and you use, uh, birth control …”

  He glanced at me, the words, “I am not going to explain condoms” right there to read on his face. He cleared his throat and went on. “Right. If you want to, and you’re, uh, protected, that’s another choice. Most girls aren’t having it when they’re sixteen, though. Boys either, for that matter. Takes a bit longer, normally. To be … ready, I guess. Heaps of other things to do in the meantime, though. School and job and sport and all that. Important things.”

  I so wanted to say, “I’m guessing you were ready by about fourteen. I’m guessing those were some long, long years.” I didn’t. I was restraining myself.

  “So did you think fornication was all right, then?” Oriana asked. “Is that what your church taught you? And your mum?”

  Another wild glance at me, and Gray said, “Well … not exactly. It was more focused on—well, on making sure the girl was making her own choice. That I wasn’t pressuring her. Going, uh, forward too fast. My mum, I mean. That would be the gist of her message. That, and the, ah, birth control aspect.”

  “When did you first do it?” Oriana asked.

  Now, Gray looked hunted. He said, “Uh …”

  I said, “That’s not really a question you ask, Obe— I mean, Oriana. It’s too personal.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I thought, as we were talking about it …”

  “No,” Gray said. “You’re right. I was, well …” He grinned. Sheepishly. “Sixteen. But the girl was seventeen. Making her own choice. And we did use, ah, protection.�
�

  He was sweating. I was sure he was sweating.

  “Oh,” Oriana said. “But I thought you said …”

  “Tell her, Daisy,” Gray said. “I’m not too useful here.”

  “Oh,” I said sweetly, “I thought you were doing very well. Very informative. And what do I know about growing up Outside?”

  “You know about choosing,” he said. “So explain it to her. About letting the fella know what you want. You told me you didn’t swipe right, for example. I understood that well enough. Meant you weren’t one for casual sex.”

  “You said that?” Frankie asked.

  “In context,” I said. “Gray made a joke, and I … answered. In context.”

  “Signals,” Gray said. “You send signals. Or you just come out and say what you’re thinking, or hint it, even. Usually it’s more of a hint. Daisy can explain. She knows.”

  “So do you, Daisy?” Fruitful—Frankie—asked. These were the first questions she’d asked since Gray had described the phone call, and it was good she was asking. If nothing else, this conversation would be distracting her from worrying about Gilead.

  “Do I what?” I asked.

  “Do you say what you want to do,” she said. “Or don’t want to do.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes what?” she asked. “I mean, how do you say? How do you explain? Especially if it’s somebody like Gilead?”

  “First,” I said, “you don’t go out with somebody like Gilead, full stop. And then you … I …” I didn’t exactly want to say, Then you’re on the couch and he puts his hand on your leg, and you freeze up, and he gets the message and buggers off pretty smartly.

  “How long did it take you?” she asked.

  “To what?”

  “To, you know,” she said. “To want to have sex. Because I can’t imagine ever wanting to do it again.”