by Ash Harlow
There were so many things he still wanted to tell her. He closed his eyes and pictured her that evening at the lake, floating, naked, filled with so much joy from her victory. He would happily allow her to drive him mad.
Although it had seemed unlikely, Adam managed to sleep. Two hours out of Auckland, one of the cabin crew woke him for breakfast, and he was relieved to discover the flight was almost over.
Once cleared through Customs and Immigration, Adam exited to the arrival hall in Auckland. He looked into the sea of expectant faces that looked back with that flash of hope, then disappointment, before their focus jumped to the next person coming through the door. Clive, his brother, was supposed to be meeting him.
“Hey, Tiny, over here.”
Yep, Clive was here. Although Adam was a couple of inches over six feet, Clive topped him by a couple more and, being younger, loved to remind him of it. He had his mother’s green eyes and curled hair that bleached-out blonde in the summer. But the jawline? That had his father’s genes stamped all over.
Clive chattered throughout the two-hour drive back to the farm and brought Adam up-to-date with all the farm news and district gossip. Adam watched the countryside that changed so rapidly once they dipped over the Bombay Hills and headed south into dairy country. In New Zealand spring had arrived, and everywhere was lush and green. Lambs and calves dotted roadside paddocks, and the trees were bursting with buds.
“You’re pretty quiet, mate.”
Adam rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, sorry, I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well on the plane.”
“So did you find yourself a nice Yankee lass up there?”
“Nah, too busy working.” He looked back out the window to hide the lie. He didn’t want to bring Marlo into this. Didn’t want to have to explain her and endure the ribbing, no matter how good-humored. He didn’t want her memory tarnished. She wasn’t some quick affair to keep at bay the loneliness of being away alone.
“Bullshit.”
“What?” Adam looked over to see if Clive was still joking.
“I said bullshit. You’re lying.”
Adam stared back out the window.
“I’ve scarcely had a word out of you since the airport.”
“It’s the jet lag.”
“You can’t have jet lag yet. You’ve only just arrived.”
“Now you’re being a smartass.”
Adam braced himself as they turned into the familiar oak-lined drive. At the end was the rambling villa of his childhood, the place he had once believed he and Emma would raise their own family. His mother would be baking, his father probably in the garden, and the image of that homely scene twisted his gut. Despite his love for them, he didn’t want to be here.
His mother celebrated his homecoming with a traditional Sunday roast lamb, delivered to the table with a beaming smile that said as much about her pride in cooking as it did about having her family gathered at the table.
His father, as well as Clive and his wife, Karen, were there, and Adam tried to fake a buoyant mood. But when his mother commented for the second time on how subdued he seemed, he blamed his silence on the effect of time zone differences.
He would stay the night with his parents and get down to open his house at Whalers Creek the following day. After promising Clive he would see him for milking, he made his apologies and went to bed.
At 4 a.m. the following morning, he quickly realized milking went on fine without him, although he hung around the shed and generally got in the way. When they were finished, he grabbed Nico, a semi-retired farm dog, and commandeered a quad bike to head over the back of the farm to his house. His family meant well, but all that concern was doing his head in. He needed space.
He cut the bike’s engine when he came over the top of the last ridge that threw the full view of the ocean at him. Nico jumped from the back and set off, nose to the ground, marking bushes and fence posts.
Below him, the hills diminished in size until they became rough slopes. Manuka and flax grew near the shore, and there was a release of tension from his chest when he spied the rustic red tin roof of his cottage through the stand of ancient puriri trees and nikau palms that had first attracted him to this piece of land. If he inhaled deeply, he could smell the sea. Suddenly the urge to get to the beach was overwhelming. He whistled Nico to follow, kicked the quad bike back to life, and headed cautiously down the unkempt track.
The door unlocked easily, but the hinges were noisy as he pushed it open.
Home.
Behind him, he could hear the surf crashing as he stepped inside. The cottage smelled dry, despite being unused all winter. With fresh eyes, he could see a few things that needed fixing as he opened the place up.
He walked through to the bedroom and pulled back the curtains. Emma watched him from a photo on the bedside table, and he sat on the bed and fingered the frame.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on the place for me, Em.” He rubbed his thumb across the picture and set it back down. That awful stab of emotion he usually experienced when he held her photo wasn’t there. The terrible yearning had eased.
Jet lag…Marlo? He needed to be outside.
He left the room, left the cottage, and walked down a short track onto the beach. There he was greeted by a couple of noisy oystercatchers who were alarmed by the unexpected human intrusion and squawked all kinds of unnecessary warnings to each other.
Piles of driftwood lay where they had washed up along the shore. Huge logs rolled smooth in the sea and bleached by the sun, strewn with seaweed from a recent storm, sitting now like a mermaid’s installation art.
A mermaid.
He checked his watch. It would be around 4 p.m. in Halo Peak. He wondered how Marlo and Lulah were getting on with their mountain biking. Had they seen Justice? He ached to phone and find out. To hear Marlo’s voice.
He looked up as a large set of waves rolled in. A swim would pull his mood a mark higher. Clive would be over in the afternoon to drop off his luggage, probably armed with another queue of questions. He’d take a swim, and after he could spend the usual few hours coaxing the temperamental diesel generator to life, so he could have some fresh water.
Sunday night, Marlo sat with the DVDivas, who kept throwing sympathetic looks her way while Sleepless in Seattle was ignored on the television.
“I can’t believe you guys brought over probably the only movie I’ve seen in the past ten years.”
Lulah licked some chocolate from her fingers. “Yeah, well, we figured we wouldn’t be doing a lot of movie-watching tonight, so we grabbed whatever was lying about.”
Marlo raised an eyebrow. “And what did you think you’d be doing instead?”
“Commiserating,” Sally suggested.
“What?”
“…over Adam.”
Marlo stood and headed out of the room. “Taboo subject, not going there,” she called over her shoulder. “You guys want tea?”
“No. Stop hiding and get your sexy little butt back in here. Divas still have stuff to discuss.”
Marlo returned. “I need tea.”
“No, you don’t. It’s a crutch.” Lulah pointed to Marlo’s seat. “Sit.”
She sighed and sat.
“Good girl,” Lulah said and threw a small piece of brownie at her as if she was tossing a treat to a dog.
Marlo caught it in her mouth, and they all laughed. Lulah and Marlo used the routine to break the ice when they demonstrated clicker training to nervous new students.
“Did you show Adam how clever you are with your mouth?”
“Sally!”
Lulah chimed in. “Look, you’re blushing.”
At the thought of blushing, Marlo’s face reddened even more.
“She showed him,” Sally said, and Lulah agreed. Sally grabbed the wine bottle and topped up their glasses. “That confirms it. We need a plan to get Adam back here.”
“Hey, stop right there. That’s a no-go zone.”
“Did you guys fight?”
Marlo looked directly at Sally. “No, we didn’t. You know we didn’t. His job was finished, so he had to go. He had a short-term contract. I had a fling…” She waited in silence that seemed even quieter, given that there were two of the noisiest people she knew contributing to it. “What?”
“You? Had a fling?”
“Yeah, so what? I can do that.”
“Of course you can do that. It’s just that you don’t.”
Marlo raised her tea to her mouth and spoke over the top of the mug. “Well, I guess I did.”
Lulah and Sally looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. “I guess she did,” they said in unison.
“Thank you, Divas. Now, if we’re not going to watch the movie, perhaps we can come up with some ideas on how to track down Justice, because I’ve reached a dead end. Either that boy has already been picked up and we haven’t been told, or he actually doesn’t want to be found.”
“Have you tried any pet psychics?” Sally asked.
Marlo pressed the smile out of her lips. “Ah, no, I don’t believe I have.”
Lulah closed her eyes and pressed the tips of her index fingers to each temple. She started off in her best attempt at a mystical voice. “I see him near running water and trees. He’s hungry, and he needs a bath and some dental work.” She opened her eyes and held out one hand. “That will be eighty-five bucks, thank you. I take all major credit cards. Tell your friends.”
Marlo was laughing when Sally said, “You asked for suggestions. I’ll have you know we have people at the clinic who have lost their pets, and they swear by the help they get from psychics.”
“Sounds like they need help,” Marlo muttered.
Lulah continued, “Those psychics always say the same thing, and it’s so generic that when the animal is found the psychic can furnish a little piece that proves they were on target with their reading. Running water is a perennial favorite. Works for an animal being locked in the bathroom, down a drain, at the beach, or by the river, and virtually every place in between.”
“Well, I’m going to give one a go, and if I’m successful, you two can buy me a day at a spa.” Sally looked around hopefully, but Marlo and Lulah shook their heads. “Have my nails done?”
Their heads were still shaking.
“Coffee and cake at the Well Bun?”
They shrugged a ‘maybe’.
Marlo stood to get more tea. “And in the meantime, I’ll continue to harass every shelter and breed rescue in Washington State.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nico had stayed with Adam since he’d arrived home. He was a large and gentle old dog, undemanding, content to keep Adam in constant view in much the same way Fala had followed him in the days he stayed at the Dog Sanctuary.
Adam had worked through the cottage, ticking off maintenance tasks as he completed them. The biggest job after the diesel generator had been the water pump, and he’d been without running water for two days as he stripped the pump, ordered new parts from town, and put it back together again.
Never before had he been so busy going nowhere.
He bathed in the surf and rinsed off under the waterfall. At the start of spring, the sea and the waterfall were cold, really cold. His body ached at the memory of the chilly shock that hammered his chest when he plunged into the sea. As if to reinforce the pain, he stayed under the waterfall where the water was colder still.
He started bush running and long ocean swims again, but this time his hurt was different. He needed to build up the strength and fortitude to leave Marlo be. He wanted to be back with her with an intensity that made him weak.
During the times when he was unoccupied, he closed his eyes and willed with all his might for her to phone, to need him too. Whenever he returned to the cottage, he fought the urge to pick up his phone and check for missed calls in the hope that she’d tried to make contact when he’d been out.
Evenings were spent on the small porch looking down the narrow winding track that drew his gaze to the sea.
The old rocker he sat in had been there when he bought the place. Two smoothed grooves tracked the kauri porch floorboards where the chair had been pitched in gentle contemplation for decades. The flooring directly in front was rubbed smooth—in the past by work boots and dress shoes and now by the synthetic soles of his old trainers. Adam wondered how many momentous decisions had been settled in this spot.
He stayed there until it got dark or cold before returning inside the cottage.
Decisions. Every person he met watched him with eyes like an expectant puppy. In them he saw a relentless silent request for a decision, as if his return to this untethered state of limbo held them back. And his indecision had him trapped like an unlaced boot in thick mud.
After a couple of weeks, he wrote his formal resignation letter to the police. Four different versions of varying length. The final draft said that he simply didn’t have the heart to do the job any longer.
He knew he didn’t want to return to the force, but he wasn’t convinced he wanted to stay on at the farm either. He could take over much of the farm’s administrative work, and he was helping out with that, but somehow he wasn’t flipping with joy at the prospect of paperwork and spreadsheets for the rest of his life.
Earlier in the week he’d gone into town to catch up with some mates, have a beer, and a game of pool. There were a few tourists around and the usual locals.
A couple of women he knew had stopped by for a drink but moved on. Nice women who quickly got the message that he wasn’t out hunting for a hookup, let alone a relationship.
His friends invited him to a game of touch rugby and a barbecue the following evening, but he made an excuse. They’d told him he was turning into a hermit, out there alone in his cottage. He had laughed, because inside he knew they were right.
He spent an afternoon at the surf beach, healing his soul in the ocean. You couldn’t beat the indulgence of surfing, just you and the waves. Nothing else mattered.
Except it did.
He had no idea how things were going up in Washington, but so far for him, back in New Zealand, they weren’t that great. He felt like he had returned to a state of mourning. The denial stage, if he was honest. All made worse because Marlo was still alive. He’d walked away from their relationship for reasons he couldn’t even conjure up any more.
He knew he was grieving, and there weren’t any shortcuts just because he’d done it before. Grief wasn’t something he could practice and get better at; it simply sat on his shoulder and refused to laugh with him.
Some days the phone mocked him. If he called Marlo once, how long would it be before he called a second time? Would he wait two days? Would it take a month before he called again and dragged everything back up? Or would it be in the next hour, because he had one more little detail to share…so that he could hear her voice?
Move on.
Adam dropped the phone on the counter. Fuck it. The surge of accomplishment that had ballooned inside him deflated. His report about the necessity of an animal abuse task force that could be assembled in the early stages of cases such as dog fighting had been well-received. Good.
The case of the Richmond Thirty-Two had highlighted precisely why a Flying Squad for animal abuse was needed. Great.
Unfortunately, neither APAW nor any other organization in New Zealand had funding available for such a setup at this stage. Shit.
Two days later, he was preparing a small patch for vegetables when his phone rang. He had drawn a planting guide the previous evening and only noticed that morning that the plan was a replica of the vegetable garden Marlo had. You sad bastard. He picked up his shovel and started digging.
The caller id on the phone showed the call was from CRAR, and he lost his breath for the moment he answered. Marlo? But the caller was CRAR’s head, James Mansell. He was disappointed, too, that the funding wasn’t available in New Zealand for a Flying Squad, but the news wasn’t all bad. CRAR was angling to go internat
ional, and the Asia/Pacific area had been highlighted as a place in need of help.
He wasn’t holding his breath. For now, the proverbial ambulance would sit at the bottom of the cliff alongside a bunch of guys with shotguns who would destroy any dog that landed alive.
It had been a contract job, and he’d only been asked to go in, observe, and report. Why did he now feel such a failure? The failure in the outcome had simply been a lack of funds. But that was irrelevant. Now he had two things he’d started this year that hadn’t reached a satisfactory conclusion.
“Mum sent you some food, seeing as you won’t go up to the house for meals.” Clive handed over a bag packed with containers of home cooking.
“I can cook.”
“Don’t be ungrateful.”
Adam grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge, and they went and sat on the porch.
“So are you going to tell me about the person who put the bug up your ass in America?”
Adam picked at the label on the beer bottle with his thumb. “Nope.”
“You’re depressed, do you know that?”
“I’m not depressed.”
“Well, you’ve been behaving like a total ass since you’ve been home. Depression was a gift—I was giving you the benefit of doubt. You won’t communicate, you’ve locked yourself out here.” He spread his arms. “It’s a beautiful spot, Adam, but hell, you’re living like a hermit.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“What? Are you going to stay here in your shack, grow your hair long, and stop washing?”
He ignored his brother until he caught Clive staring at his feet. “What now?”
“I’m checking for sandals.”
“I’m not becoming a hermit! I’m just getting my shit together, and I’ll stay out of everyone’s way until I do.”
“You took that contract in the States to ‘get your shit together’, and you’ve returned in a shittier shape than when you left.”
Adam shrugged. “Shit happens.”
Clive shifted his size-14 boot onto the back end of the rocker on Adam’s chair and stopped the movement. “What’s her name?”
