Text copyright 2019 Rosalind James
All Rights Reserved
Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/
Formatting by Polgarus Studio, http://www.polgarusstudio.com/
Rhys Fletcher is not in love with his sister-in-law.
That would be a very, very bad idea, and he doesn’t entertain bad ideas. He also doesn’t lie to himself.
Both of those things can’t be true, so he’ll do what he’s done since the long-ago night when his brother, Dylan, turned up in an Auckland bar after a brutal rugby match between their two teams, and introduced his new girlfriend—a dark-eyed, impossibly short, much-too-young girl named Zora.
He’ll lie.
Now, his brother’s gone, and Rhys is back in New Zealand and settling into his new job as the head coach of the Auckland Blues. Surely, being there for Dylan’s widow and their son is the right thing to do. He can control himself. He’s had forty years of practice. Until he gets a call from his lawyer, and flies to the States to find that handsome, charming, endlessly irresponsible Dylan has left yet another loose end for his big brother to sort out.
This one is six years old. And her birth certificate says she belongs to Rhys.
The heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care.
- Emily Dickinson
Author’s Note
The Escape to New Zealand Series: Past Characters
1 – Like a Thunderbolt
2 – Sparks
3 – Adventures in Curry
4 – Not a Choice
5 – Casey Moana
6 – Cinderella’s Sparkles
7 – Neck-Septions
8 – Around the Corner
9 - Princess Flowers
10 – A Disaster as a Liar
11 – Not Your Life
12 – The Sense It Makes
13 – Hard Line
14 – Character is Destiny
15 – Spark. Or Not.
16 – Promises Kept
17 – Past Tense
18 – Bathsheba
19 – Absolutely Not
20 – Or the Shower Head
21 – Outside Forces
22 – How to Be Casual
23 – In Your Heart
24 – The Perfect Man
25 – Nobody Listens
26 – Water Damage
27 – Take It to the Bank
28 – Can’t Buy Me Love
29 – A Rubbish Liar
30 – The Secret Places
31 – Evaluation
32 - Revelation
33 – Opportunity Cost
34 – Always
35 – Belly Deep
36 – Heart and Hand
37 – Kicking Into Space
38 – Unfinished Business
39 – Carry That Weight
40 – Ka Kite Ano
41 – Family Ties
42 – Strength Class 100
43 – Trick Play
44 – Giving the Signals
45 - Believe
46 – One Hundred Percent
A Kiwi Glossary
Links
Acknowledgments
The Blues, All Blacks, and other teams mentioned in this story are actual rugby teams. However, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Sir Andrew (Drew) Callahan, Hannah Montgomery Callahan. JUST THIS ONCE. Drew, a former blindside flanker (No. 6) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks, and the two-time Rugby World Cup-winning captain of the All Blacks, is coaching rugby in the Bay of Plenty; Hannah is a marketing executive for 2nd Hemisphere knitwear. 3 children.
Hemi Ranapia, Reka Hawera Ranapia. JUST FOR YOU. Hemi, a former No. 10 for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks, coaches with Drew in the Bay of Plenty. 4 children.
Koti James, Kate Lamonica James. JUST GOOD FRIENDS. Koti is a centre (No. 13) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Kate is an accountant for the Blues. 2 children.
Finn Douglas, Jenna McKnight Douglas. JUST FOR NOW. Finn, a former No. 8 for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks, is strength & conditioning coach for the Blues; Jenna is a teacher. 4 children.
Nic (Nico) Wilkinson, Emma Martens Wilkinson. JUST FOR FUN. Nic is a fullback (No. 15) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Emma is a knitwear designer for 2nd Hemisphere. 2 children.
Liam (Mako) Mahaka, Kristen Montgomery Mahaka. JUST MY LUCK. Liam is a hooker (No. 2) for the Wellington Hurricanes and the All Blacks; Kristen (Hannah’s sister) is a fashion buyer. 1 child.
Nate (Toro) Torrance, Allison (Ally) Villiers Torrance. JUST MY LUCK. Nate is a halfback (No. 9) for the Wellington Hurricanes and the All Blacks, and captain of the All Blacks; Ally is a climbing instructor.
Hugh Latimer, Jocelyn (Josie) Pae Ata. JUST NOT MINE. Hugh is an openside flanker (No. 7) for the Auckland Blues; Josie is a TV star and model. Raising Hugh’s two half-siblings, plus twin boys.
Will Tawera, Faith Goodwin. JUST IN TIME. Will is a first-five (No. 10) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Faith is a novelist.
Iain McCormick, Sabrina (Nina) Jones. JUST STOP ME. Iain is a lock (No. 5) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Nina is an international model.
Kevin (Kevvie) McNicholl, Chloe Donaldson. JUST SAY YES. Kevin is a wing (No. 11) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Chloe is a ballet dancer and teacher. 1 child.
Marko Sendoa, Nyree Morgan. JUST SAY (HELL) NO. Marko is a blindside flanker (No. 6) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Nyree is a painter.
“I told you it was going to be ninety dollars,” Zora Fletcher’s son, Isaiah, informed her. “It’s ninety-two, actually, so I missed two dollars. We were only supposed to spend eighty. If we put back the pineapple and got the other kind of oil, it would be eighty-three. That’s closer. Or else we have to only spend sixty-eight next time.”
The cashier, a comfortable lady of middle age, fortunately didn’t sigh. She may have had to put back the olive oil herself a time or two in her life, Zora suspected. She told her son, “We’ll do ninety-two for now. And next time, I’ll believe you when you add up.”
He grinned, showing off a couple missing teeth. “Even though I’m eight.”
“But very good at maths.” As she swiped her EFTPOS card, she thought yet again that, whatever her dad had said, she’d been right to sell the house. She didn’t need that stress.
The cashier handed her the receipt and said, “Careful out there. We could get a tornado, they say. A cyclone’s enough to be going on with. There’ll be trees down, that’s sure.”
“Lucky I made my deliveries earlier today,” Zora said. “It was blowing hard enough then. A good night to stay home.” They headed to the door, and she told Isaiah, “Zip up,” as a shopper ran in with a shopping bag held over his head.
There wasn’t an anorak in the world that would protect you from this, but they pulled up their hoods all the same. The wind came at them like a shrieking animal, and the rain slapped against their bodies in waves. She was gasping, and Isaiah was laughing. “It’s like being on a tall ship,” he shouted. “One that’s about to wreck!”
She had to laugh, too. He was right. It was an adventure, a spot of excitement, and they were barely five kilometers from home. February, the height of summer, and only six o’clock in the evening, but the Auckland sky was dark with storm, the carpark of the Mount Albert Pak ‘n’ Save swirling with sheets of water. “Run!” she shouted, and they headed down the path between the aisles of parked cars. Why were you never parked close when you needed
it? She was gasping by the time they turned into their aisle, and their spot was all the way at the end. Isaiah had the trolley now and was out ahead of her. She was shouting, “Slow down!” and reaching for him when a gust of wind swirled into them from behind and sent him and the trolley flying forward, straight at a silver SUV that had just turned the corner.
Everything happened at once. She was leaping after Isaiah, shouting his name, slipping and skidding to one knee on the wet asphalt, feeling the pain of it only dimly. Isaiah was hauling back on the loaded trolley, pulled by its momentum and the wind, and the SUV was stopping with a rocking jolt, faster than she’d have imagined it could. Which was followed by a second jolt, as the front of the trolley smashed into the car’s bonnet and Isaiah bounced off the trolley’s handle, staggered, and looked back at her.
White face. Open mouth. Round eyes. “Sorry,” he said. She saw it more than she heard it, the shape of the word on his lips, his hand clutching at his skinny chest, and she got to her feet and went to him, and tried not to shake. He was all right. He was all right.
The rain and wind drowned out everything else, except the man who erupted from the driver’s side like a thunderbolt. His anorak was unzipped, his ink-black hair, on the long side, was plastered to his head with rain, and he looked, at that moment, the size of two men, with the strength of three.
Very much, in fact, like Rhys Fletcher.
Exactly like Rhys Fletcher.
Who didn’t like her in the first place, wasn’t meant to be in Auckland in the second place, and whose obviously-latest-and-greatest model of . . . oh, brilliant, it was a BMW—now had a sizable dent in the front, in the third place.
And who was, in the fourth place, her brother-in-law. Or he had been. Once.
Rhys wasn’t shaking. He was shouting. Call it his happy place. That had been a bad moment, when he’d slammed his foot practically through the brake pedal and known he wouldn’t stop in time.
“Are you all right?” he yelled at the kid, who had scrambled backward to his . . . mother? It was hard to tell under the anorak hood. She wasn’t very big. The way she had her arms around him, though, she had to be his mother.
She asked, “Rhys?” He heard that voice, saw the way her hand went up to her hood, like she was about to touch her hair, her habitual gesture, and thought, What? No, even before he registered the face. The one he’d seen in too many dreams.
“I’m OK,” the kid—his nephew, Isaiah—said. “I’m sorry about your car. I didn’t mean to hit it.” Behind him, a sedan pulled up with an impatient splash of water and a screech of brakes and hooted.
Oh. They were all standing in the middle of the carpark, and his SUV was blocking the road.
He told both of them, “Go get in your car, out of the wet. I’ll come unload you,” then ran around and pulled the SUV into an open space to the tune of some more angry hooting from the bloke behind him. If Rhys didn’t respond the way he may have wanted to, that was because he’d had forty years of practice in controlling his temper, whatever it looked like.
He should get points for that. He never actually did. Apparently, looking fierce was enough to earn you that reputation. And, possibly, raising your voice a bit, when necessary. And tackling like you were pushing a fella’s ribs through his spine, but that was just rugby.
Was Zora in the car when he got there? Of course not. That would have been too easy. Also, she would have had to do what he’d suggested. Instead, she and Isaiah were standing in the blowing rain, unloading carrier bags into the back of a pink van. Who had a pink van? Zora, naturally. If Isaiah had been more than bruised, though, surely he wouldn’t be unloading bags. That was a relief. Rhys told them, “Get in. I’ll do this.”
Zora grabbed two more bags, slung them into the back, and said, “Already done. Climb in, though, and we’ll talk about your car.”
Her voice sounded like she was trying to keep it from trembling. Her hands actually were trembling. That had scared her too much. He wanted to give her a cuddle, and he absolutely couldn’t. He also had absolutely no desire to talk about his car. Isaiah had hold of the trolley, and Rhys took it from him and said, “I’ll put it back. Get in the car and wait.”
“OK,” Isaiah said, just as Zora said, “You don’t—”
Rhys didn’t wait to hear what he didn’t have to do. He headed across to the trolley collection area and dumped the thing, then ran back to the van. It was raining, yeh, and blowing, too, but he was used to rain. He’d been out with the boys in it half the afternoon, in fact. When you played rugby, you didn’t get to choose the conditions on match day. If you didn’t know how to hang onto the ball in the wet, your opponent probably did.
Not that anybody had complained, of course. He could think they’d been trying to impress their new coach when they’d jogged on out there, but it was probably more that they’d been coached well by their last one.
Never mind. For right now, he climbed into the van’s passenger seat, shut the door, twisted around to look at Isaiah, in the back seat, his hood pushed back, his anorak unzipped, and his dark eyes too big for his face, and said, “You hit the trolley handle pretty hard, mate. How much does it hurt?” In fact, the boy had his hand on his ribs, where he’d slammed into that metal handle.
“I’m OK,” Isaiah said. His teeth were chattering, though, and it wasn’t cold out here, just wet. Shock, probably, and some pain. He’d got tall, surely, for . . . seven? Eight? How old was he now? Tall like his father, Dylan. Built slim like Dylan, too, instead of solid like Rhys. A back, not a forward. If he played.
He should play. His uncle should know whether he played. Rhys hadn’t been doing his job, and he always did his job.
No excuse, not for this. He could say he’d been overseas. He could say he’d been busy. He could say heaps of things. He knew the real reason.
He told Zora, “You could put the heat on,” and she looked at him out of those sloe eyes that should have belonged to a Slavic princess, then turned the car on and did it.
Check, check, and check. The eyes. The broad cheekbones and wide forehead, and the unexpectedly pointed chin. The perfectly soft, wonderfully pink mouth with its lush bow that made you think about kissing her, no matter how hard you tried to stop yourself. Just now, that mouth was saying something, but he’d lost it in the distraction.
“Pardon?” he asked.
“I’ll pay you for the car,” she said. “Just tell me how much.”
He blinked. “The car?”
Isaiah piped up from the back. “Because I bashed it with the trolley, Mum means.”
“Let me know how much,” Zora said again. “Let’s hope they don’t have to replace the entire fender. Why do I think that BMW will require complete replacement?”
“If it’s heaps,” Isaiah said, “we could do a payment plan like we’re going to do for the van, Mum. We have two hundred and forty-five dollars a week extra,” he told Rhys, “because we have a better house now, but you can’t spend all your extra, because things happen, and Mum needs a new van, too. And then a heat pump and a new roof, but the van matters more, because that’s her live . . . live . . .”
“Livelihood,” Zora said. She had some pink in her cheeks. “Nah, love. We’re all good.”
“Maybe we could spend a hundred dollars a week to fix the car,” Isaiah said. Clearly, a boy who knew how to keep to the topic. “Then we’d still have a hundred forty-five to save for the van, and for emergencies.”
“You don’t need to worry about that, mate,” Rhys said. “It’s just a prang. Adds character. Sometime or other, when somebody bashes me from behind at a stoplight, I’ll get it fixed.”
The color deepened on Zora’s cheeks. Temper, embarrassment, or something else. Outside, the storm had picked up even more. She’d turned on the windscreen wipers, but they could barely keep up with the driving sheets of rain. The sky was an eerie deep purple until it was lit by a sudden flash, the ground nearly shaking with the crash of thunder. The carpark’s ligh
ts, which had come on hours before schedule, flickered, then revived.
The air in the van, though, smelled sweet. Scented. And Zora’s hair was as mink-brown and wavy as ever, and looked as soft and touchable. A little disheveled from having her hood up, like she’d just got out of bed. It was cut shorter now, to above her shoulders, and fell in a fringe across her broad forehead. She said, “You’re thinking something. Something unflattering.”
“I am?” He tried to think how to answer that, and couldn’t.
“Isaiah is interested in money,” she said. “And brilliant at maths. He likes to budget. I don’t . . .” Her mouth closed on the words.
He filled in the rest of the sentence. “You don’t put your worries onto him.”
Another crash of thunder. The van nearly shook with it. “It’s empowering,” she said, still sounding stiff. “To understand your circumstances and help to cope with them. Even for a child.”
“Especially for a child,” he said, and she gave him another startled look.
Silence for a moment, and he was reaching for the door handle when she said, “I should ask you why you’re in Auckland at all, let alone in the Pak ‘n’ Save carpark. I should ask you to dinner.”
“Well, not if you’re going to ask like that, you shouldn’t.” He couldn’t help smiling, and after a second, she did, too.
In fact, she laughed. “You’re right. I should graciously ask you to dinner. Considering that it’s raining buckets out here, and you’ll be in some hotel and not wanting to go out again. So. Just—come over.”
“Actually,” he said, “I’ve shifted up here. Coaching the Blues now, with Aleke Fiso gone off to Wales. Didn’t anybody tell you?”
“Ah . . . no. They didn’t. You have?” She hesitated, then asked, “Are you . . . on your own, still? Or not?”
“Yeh. I am.” His marriage had done its final spectacular bit of falling apart around the same time Dylan had died. The two things could have been connected. When he felt pressure, he tended to throw himself more deeply into his work, or to go out on the water. Alone. Neither of those had been marital benefits for Victoria, he could see now. He’d had time enough to admit his part of the disaster, or maybe it was even simpler than that, and they’d both just married wrong. Whatever the reason, he was still waiting out the separation period to make it final. Two years could feel like a long time, when all you wanted was to move on.
Just Come Over Page 1
