But it wasn’t just the clothes and the jobs that were different, she discovered as she began speaking to the locals. She already knew that a third of the population of the Northland was Maori, but hadn’t realized how their culture was much more visible there. Most towns had a marae or meeting house, and although she didn’t hear the language spoken fluently in the towns much, it was common to hear the odd word thrown around, with many people—including non-Maori—greeting each other with the standard Kia ora, as well as dropping words into the conversation like whanau—family, kai—food, and taonga—treasured possession, which could mean anything from a building to a greenstone pendant worn around the neck.
She already knew the Maori verse of the national anthem, so she knew how to pronounce Aotearoa—the Maori name for New Zealand, which meant ‘the land of the long white cloud.’
“Ah-oh-te-ah-roh-ah,” she told Aaron when he asked if she knew how to say it.
“Excellent.” He grinned. “Gold star.”
“You say Maori different from how I’ve heard it before,” she said. “I know it’s not pronounced as in ‘cow’ the way foreigners say it, but we tend to say ‘mah-ri’.”
“Yeah, up here it’s more ‘ma-aw-ree’,” he said, but he rolled the ‘r’ at the front of his tongue so it sounded close to a ‘d’—almost as if he was saying ‘moldy’. He did the same each time he greeted her with Kia ora, so it sounded like ‘kee-aw-dah.’ That was something she’d be able to take back with her.
She wished she could take their attitude back with her, too. The urgency of the city was somehow missing here. There was very much an “it’ll be ready when it’s ready” mentality, and it wasn’t uncommon to see signs hung on a closed shop door saying “Gone Fishing. Probably tomorrow too.”
It was the perfect place to bring up young children, a couple of mothers of her own age told her when standing in a queue at the coffee bar, but little for teenagers to do, and the lack of industry for employment—as well as the feeling of being at the end of the world—led to a large number of school leavers migrating to the cities or universities further south, or travelling around the world on their big ‘OE’—overseas experience. But it was common for them to come home again when it was time for them to have their own families, because all Kiwis believed that New Zealand was the best place to bring up children, and Bridget had to agree.
“Does Mateo like it in the city?” she asked Aaron on Friday evening. They’d finished dinner and were sitting out on his deck having a drink, the dogs at their feet. They’d discovered a shared love of old jazz music, and Ella Fitzgerald was singing in the background, accompanied by the occasional chorus from a couple of fantails. The sun was setting, and over the top of his garden fence she could see the Pacific turning a beautiful rose-gold.
“No.” Aaron swigged his beer. “He hates it. He loved his little primary school up here. There was only one class for each year level with about fifteen kids in each class. In Wellington there are four classes for each year level with nearly thirty in each. And, unfortunately, he’s being bullied.”
Bridget’s jaw dropped. “Oh no.” She couldn’t bear to think of the lovely, friendly Mateo getting pushed around. “By whom?”
“A couple of boys a few years older. He’s shy, quiet, likes reading, doesn’t have a computer or a console or anything like that because Nita won’t let him, and he’s from the middle of nowhere. He doesn’t know how to connect with these know-it-all city lads. He doesn’t speak their language.”
“Tell me who they are,” she said hotly. “I’ll sort them out.”
He gave her a fond smile. “I bet you would as well.”
“Damn straight I would. No kid should be bullied at school.”
“No, they shouldn’t, you’re right.”
“Have you done anything to try to stop it?” she asked. Aaron swirled the beer around in his can, looking down at it, and Bridget cursed herself. He was Mateo’s father, and he was Aaron for Christ’s sake. Of course he would have tried to stop it. What a stupid thing to say.
“Unfortunately there’s not much we can do. Nita and I went in together to see his class teacher and the deputy head teacher.” He swigged the last of his beer, tipping his head back to catch the last drops. “We got the spiel about their zero-tolerance policy on bullying. Heard all their promises about it never happening again in school. But of course that doesn’t stop the kids picking on him on the bus, or walking to and from the bus stop. Or in the changing rooms, or at the tuck shop. Kids are mean, and they always find a way to pick on those weaker than them.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That must be hard for you.”
He clenched his hand around the can, screwing it up tightly. For some reason it made her heart race. He was so kind and gentle that—unless they were making love, in which case it was very clear—she sometimes forgot how much of a man he was. Mal was exactly the opposite—all blather and bravado—but when it came to the crunch, he backed away from confrontation, and she was sure that if they’d ever been mugged he’d have pushed her in front of him as a shield.
“I want to walk into the school, drag the kids out into the playground, and shove their teeth down their throats.” He pushed away the can and sighed. “But I can’t do that. I don’t want to teach him that violence is the answer. I’m angry, though. I try not to direct it at Nita, but…” He stopped and shrugged.
Bridget pulled her feet onto the edge of the chair and wrapped her arms around her legs. “You said before you’d decided not to go for custody. And yet you also said the main reason you were challenging Nita’s intention to take Mat to Spain was because he doesn’t want to go. If he doesn’t want to be in the city, wouldn’t it be in his best interests for him to go to school up here and live with you?”
He watched a fantail hop along the edge of the fence, its tail feathers twisting this way and that as it turned. “I tell myself that’s the reason I’m challenging her, but I don’t know to what extent I’m being selfish. Of course he’s going to say he doesn’t want to go to a strange country where they don’t speak English, but everyone says that kids adjust quickly to situations like that. It might take him a while to settle, but he would, eventually. I don’t want her to take him away from me. That’s what it comes down to. It’s bad enough that I only get to see him every other weekend, but if he was in Spain? I’d see him once or twice a year, if I could afford it. It’s selfish of me, but I can’t get past it. I worked fucking hard to make that marriage work, and she destroyed it because I wouldn’t give her what she wanted. So I’m fighting to keep our son here. I’ve squared that with myself and accepted that I’m prepared to be that selfish. But to fight her for custody? I couldn’t do it. She’s his mother, and it would destroy her to take him away.”
“Like it’s destroying you?”
“It’s not the same.”
“It is the same, Aaron. Everyone seems to think it best that children stay with their mothers, and maybe that was the case in the old days when women stayed at home, but nowadays most women work, the same as men do. Do you think you love your son any less than she does?”
“No.” He reached for another beer, cracked the top, and propped his feet up on the chair opposite as he took a swig. “I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate that you have such a balanced view of things. It is difficult sometimes, being a guy in today’s world. Women have been oppressed for so long that they’re rebelling now and that’s good, that’s right, and there’s absolutely no reason why they shouldn’t be able to do anything that men can do.”
He sighed and took another swig. “But men are stuck in a strange netherworld now. Most of the guys I know feel the same way I do. We all believe in equality. We all have great respect for the women in their lives. But most of us were subtly brought up by our fathers to be gentlemen, to believe that it’s our role to protect women and treat them gently. To put them first. Women might not want that, but it’s a difficult attitude to cast asid
e. If I were fighting another guy for Mateo, I’d have no qualms in taking him to court and arguing my case, but with Nita… I promised to honor and cherish her.” He ran a hand through his hair.
“She promised to do the same for you, too,” Bridget said gently.
He gave a small smile. “I suppose.”
She dropped her legs and stretched them out, resting her feet on the same chair as him. “It’s a strange thing, isn’t it, marriage? I’m not sure why I thought it would be such a good idea. I’m beginning to understand why men joke about the old ball and chain. I think I did see it as a way to chain him to me so he couldn’t get away. As if once I had his ring on my finger, it would make him love me more. Now… I’m not so sure of its point. If you’re not religious, why bother? It just seems to create a lot of unnecessary hassle when things go wrong.”
“If things go wrong,” he corrected with a smile. “I know we’ve both had a tough time, but I still believe it’s possible to find happiness with someone.”
“Are you religious?” she asked.
“No, not really. I was christened, but I don’t practice.”
“Same. My father used to go to church and my mother went with him, but after he died she stopped going. I envy those who have faith sometimes. It must be nice to see marriage as a way to cement a relationship before God, as if it has a purpose.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice, and waited for him to wince, but he didn’t.
He just said, somewhat mildly, “It does have a purpose.”
“I guess it makes it easier legally. Same name and all that.”
“Well, there is that. But it’s a way to show the other person that you’re willing to commit yourself to them. You’re promising you’re not going to sleep around, that you’re going to be loyal and monogamous. It’s also a way of telling the world that your partner is yours. There’s a satisfaction that comes with that. When a guy sees a pretty girl, his eyes will drop to see if she’s wearing a ring, and if she is, that will make most men back off.”
“Is that how you felt with Nita?”
“At the time, yes.”
She sipped her wine, conscious of his steady gaze on her. “I don’t know if I’d ever be brave enough to get married,” she admitted. “I’d be terrified the same thing would happen again.”
He shrugged. “If the guy really loved you, you’d have no worries. Love’s not just about saying it. It’s about showing it.”
She laughed. “Yeah.” He was such a Kiwi guy, so down-to-earth and practical. Why on earth had Nita let him go?
Not for the first time, she wondered what his ex looked like. Attractive, she imagined, in a dark, exotic kind of way. It was funny to think he’d been married to someone else. Had a child with her. It gave Bridget a strange feeling in her stomach, and with some surprise she realized it was jealousy.
Aaron was still watching her, his lips slightly curved, as if he could read her thoughts and knew she was wondering about his ex. Could he read her jealousy? And if he could, did it please him, the way it pleased her when he didn’t try to hide his dislike of Mal?
As if she’d conjured him up by thinking about him, her phone rang where it lay on the table, his name springing up on the screen. She glanced at it and reached out to turn it off, but Aaron held up a hand and she stopped.
“Talk to him,” he said.
Her lips parted, and she stared at the phone for a long moment. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“You’re ready. And you have to do it sometime. Talk to him and tell him the truth.”
Bridget picked up the phone, conscious of her hand shaking. She realized that part of her was scared how she’d react to him. He’d always talked her into going back with him in the past. She’d never been able to say no to him.
Aaron was right though—she had to do it sometime. So she picked up the phone, swiped the screen, and held it to her ear.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Birdie?” Mal exhaled with a rush of relief. “Oh thank God. I thought you’d never answer.”
“Hi, Mal.” She sat back in her chair and drew up her legs again. It was getting chilly, and she wasn’t sure how long the citronella candles Aaron had lit would keep away the mosquitoes, but she didn’t want to go in just yet.
She glanced up at Aaron as he gestured as to whether she wanted him to go. She shook her head. She had nothing private to say to Mal, and it felt oddly comforting to have Aaron there.
He raised an eyebrow, but settled back and sipped his beer, waiting.
She cleared her throat. “What do you want?”
“Shit. I don’t know what to say. I had this whole speech prepared but I didn’t think you’d answer.”
She could almost see him running his hand through his hair. His words conjured up a small smile—it was so typical of Mal to infer it was her fault because she’d actually answered the phone.
“There is nothing to say. We’re done, Mal. Why don’t we just end it there?”
“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You know I love you.”
“Do you?” She surprised herself at the hard tone of her voice. “Love’s not just about saying it. It’s about showing it.” She met Aaron’s gaze, and caught her breath as a gorgeous smile spread slowly across his face.
Suddenly, she couldn’t think what she’d ever seen in Mal. Why had she spent so many years trying to persuade him they were right for each other? She’d wasted so much time. And yet, if she hadn’t been going to marry him—if he hadn’t jilted her at the altar—she’d never have met Aaron.
Mal was speaking, but she hardly heard him, her gaze fixed on Aaron’s face. The tension had gone from his shoulders, and he had a sexy little grin on his face, as if he was mentally giving Mal the finger and saying I’ve got her now, dude. Your loss, my gain.
He’d thought she was going to succumb to Mal’s charm. That she might go back to him. The relief in his eyes made her heart leap. She could never love a man like Mal. Not now she knew what a real man was like.
“You know me,” Mal was saying, putting on what he thought was his charming voice. “I panicked, that’s all. I thought I wasn’t ready for forever, but you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, do you? I miss you. I’m perfect for you. Please, Tweety Pie. You’ve always been my gal. I’ll love you until the day I die.”
“Oh, fuck off,” she said, and hung up.
For a long second, she and Aaron just stared at each other, and then together they burst out laughing and rose from their chairs, startling the dogs.
Aaron moved her back until she met the glass sliding doors with a bump, then he caught her face in his hands and kissed her. She sank her hands into his hair and gave herself over to it, loving his passion, his sheer joy at the fact that she hadn’t left him.
He slid his tongue into her mouth and entwined it with hers, hungry for her, half-asking, half-taking, and she moaned her acquiescence and let her hands drop to his chest, scraping her nails down over the cotton. He sighed and lifted his head, kissing her nose, her eyelids, her jaw, and back to her mouth, pressing his lips from one corner to the other before claiming them again.
“You know how I feel about you, don’t you?” He asked the question fiercely, stopping to lift her chin so he could look into her eyes. His burned into her, passionate and yet gentle too as only he could be, and emotion tightened her throat so that she could only nod. It was too soon for love, for declarations and promises, and she could see that he didn’t know how to put what he felt into words either. But he’d told her that love wasn’t just about saying it, it was about showing it, and even if she couldn’t say the words, she could certainly show him how she felt.
The sun had set and the breeze was cool, but the garden wasn’t overlooked and suddenly she wanted him there, in his environment—to share him with the spring evening, with the smell of jasmine growing around the deck and the salty sea off to the west.
Taking the hem of her T-shirt in her han
ds, she lifted it over her head and dropped it to the floor. Then she unbuttoned her jeans and slipped them down her legs.
Getting the idea, he did the same, removing his shirt and jeans. He stared as she undid her bra and tossed that onto the pile, and then slid her panties down her legs.
“Bedroom?” he asked hoarsely, sliding off his boxers. “Living room?”
“Here,” she whispered.
He opened the sliding door and ushered the dogs inside, then closed it and returned to her, naked now, pressing her up against the door again so that she gasped as the cool glass met her skin.
His warm hands slid over her body, caressing, arousing, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples, slipping between her legs and exploring her soft flesh.
In return, she brushed over his shoulders and muscular arms, down his chest, then took his erection in her hand and, while he continued to kiss her, aroused him gently. She watched him with affection as his forehead creased with a frown, his eyes closing so he could concentrate on the sensations she was arousing, his breath whispering across her lips.
“You’re a fine figure of a man, Aaron,” she murmured, conscious of him filling her hand, impressively long and hard.
His eyes opened, filled with wry humor as he reached for his wallet on the table and took out a condom.
“You’re easy to please,” he said, and she loved that self-deprecation, his quiet humility. He would never dream of saying I’m perfect for you—he would have said You’re perfect for me, and that was a difference that Mal would never understand.
Persuading Spring: A Sexy New Zealand Romance (The Four Seasons Book 4) Page 17
