“Behave, Marama. You’ll scare her off.” Ford mock scolded, softening his words with a smile.
Auntie beamed at him. “Get away with ya. Me and Holly here had quite the kōrero in the kitchen preparing kai earlier.” She tapped her nose. “She won’t scare easy, this one. And she’s strong enough to rub off the sharp edges from that chip on your shoulder, boy.”
“Yes, Auntie.” Ford kept his mouth in a relaxed line so the sharp-eyed kuia wouldn’t notice his back teeth grinding together.
She nodded, seemingly mollified. “You come sit with me later, irāmutu. We’ll kōrero with Pania, tell some stories, sing some waiata. Remember good times.”
Though Holly stood a short distance away from him, tension peeled off her like a zap of static electricity. He’d done his best to protect Holly from the ugliness of his past, but she wasn’t stupid. Good times with Pania was something he’d never had.
“Yes, Auntie.” This time, he couldn’t prevent a jaw clench, but the elderly woman had already shuffled along to stand beside the casket.
With one last, levelling stare, Holly, too, moved away, planting a soft kiss on his dad’s cheek, murmuring something to him in a voice too low to overhear. Then his burly uncle David grasped him by the shoulder and leaned in to hongi. By the time his uncle moved past, Holly had once again vanished into the crowd.
* * *
Writteninthestars.com Daily Horoscope.
Pisces.
Be respectful of other people’s point of view. Sometimes the best way to show a friend you care is to listen with your heart, not your ears…
Holly woke—disoriented and on an air mattress. Her eyes blinked in hazy twilight, the kind of light experienced only in a large space with a few low-level lamps. The marae.
A platoon of men, both Maori and Pākehā, filled the air with a chainsaw cacophony of snores. It’d been a long time since she’d slept marae style—everyone bunked down on air mattresses or foam squabs in what was pretty much a big hall—and she’d forgotten how loud a bunch of men were after a full day of talking, laughing and digging the hangi pits for tomorrow’s feast.
Once Auntie Marama made it known Holly was Ford’s woman, she hadn’t been allowed to escape. Her original plan had been to spend the day here in quiet support of the Komekes, working behind the scenes where needed and then slipping away to return for Pania’s burial service the next day. Except there was no getting away from the Komeke whānau once they had you in their embrace.
West and Piper were sleeping here somewhere, as were Shaye and Del, Ben and Kezia and the girls—who were having a fantastic time playing with the many cousins and second cousins who’d arrived the day before. The Komekes’ community were whānau as far as everyone was concerned. And when they grieved, family grieved with them. You just did.
Holly checked her watch. Just after 4:00 am. She sat up, the air mattress squeaking—which, like everything, made her think of Ford. Squinting into the corner near the front of the marae, she counted blanket-covered lumps on the mattresses there. A Harley lump, Rob lump and Denise lump—no Ford-sized lump.
Holly eased off the bed, wrapping a woollen blanket around herself, and picked her way up the narrow aisle. She tip-toed past men snoring, their wives or sisters or mothers on mattresses next to them, kids curled around them like exhausted puppies.
A couple of strategically placed lamps had been left on during the night, so people could get to the bathrooms safely, and to come and go from the scattering of chairs and mattresses surrounding the casket. At a tangi, the departed loved one was never left alone. Whānau kept them company during their last days in this world until their final spiritual journey to Te Rerenga Wairua at the top of New Zealand’s North Island where their soul would fly free.
There—across from the casket—sitting on a mattress with his face hidden in shadows, was Ford. Her chest ached as she moved closer. His features might as well be chiselled from solid wood, like one of the carved figures representing his ancestors that lined the marae’s walls.
He glanced up at her approach, the stoic mask cracking into a lopsided smile.
“Why aren’t you still asleep?” he asked softly as she sat beside him on the mattress.
Holly laid a hand on his thigh, the firm muscles beneath her fingertips sending warm little sparks fluttering through her.
A snarky comment about the snoring chorus sprang to mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She’d done her time smiling with the visitors, laughing at the jokes—some at Pania’s expense, which was just the Maori way—and now, in the wee hours with Ford seated next to her like a warm but inflexible statue, she couldn’t find one snarky thing left to say.
So she stuck with the truth.
“I missed you.” She rested her head against his arm. “But I don’t want to interrupt if you’re, um…”
His arm twitched beneath her temple. “If I’m having a moment with my mother?” Tired bitterness threaded through his words.
All day, Ford’s family referred to Pania as the twins’ mother and Denise as the men’s mum. Both Harley and Ford had quickly given up referring to Pania by her first name, but with every line in Ford’s body wired tight-to-breaking, it was obvious he wasn’t ready to accept the relationship.
“You’re not interrupting,” he said, but he made no move to slip his arm around her shoulder or draw her closer. “There’s nothing to interrupt. I sent Harley and two of my uncles back to bed twenty minutes ago. Harley’s jet lag is still kicking his ass.”
“So you’re keeping watch?”
“Yeah. Tradition and duty calls.”
Holly scratched her nails lightly up and down Ford’s thigh. “Your family has a lot of stories about Pania when she was young.”
Muscles tensed beneath her fingertips.
“How she loved to sing. Would give Dame Kiri Te Kanawa a run for her money, your uncle David told me. Did she sing for you, Ford?”
He inhaled sharply, the biceps beneath her cheek bunching rock hard.
“Baby, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not talking about this now, okay? Why don’t you go back to bed and try to sleep? People will start to stir in another hour.”
An icy pebble dropped into Holly’s gut, burning as if it’d been dipped in liquid nitrogen. Ford pushing her away again. And then there was not talking about this now or not talking about this ever. The not now? She could deal—his grief was still too raw, too fierce. But not ever? Holly sealed her lips.
A worry for another day.
Right now, whether the stubborn fool would admit it or not, he needed her. And if her physical presence was the only part he’d let close, then she’d stick like gum.
She crawled behind Ford and slid her legs alongside his. Then, wrapping the blanket around both of them, she pressed her chest against his broad back, snaking her arms around his waist to hold on tight.
“Nope. I’m no fair-weather friend, Ford Komeke. I’m staying.”
Ford huffed out a sound halfway between an exasperated sigh and a laugh. “Fine. No talking, then.”
“No kōrero. Gotcha.”
As each minute eased past in silence, the tension of his big body melted away. Occasionally, she lifted a hand to pet the hard ridges of his stomach, or she pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade.
“When I was seventeen, Mum and Dad gave our house a makeover.” Holly pitched her voice low so as not to wake anyone.
“I remember that. Harley painted it for them when he was home from art college.”
“He painted over my black and purple bedroom. I would’ve hated him if I hadn’t still had a soft spot for my crush and, therefore, forgave him for painting my walls beige.”
Ford grunted. “This story of you having the hots for my twin is meant to make me feel better, how?”
“Because although I doodled Harley’s name all over my pathetically self-absorbed journal, I never wanted him like I want you. And I sure as hell never gave him an open invitation to visit my Ladytown.” She poked hi
s flat stomach. “Feel better, sweet?”
“Yeah.” A smile warmed the single word.
“Can I continue with my story, which is not about your brother?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Good. As I said, Mum and Dad decided to renovate so they could get a better price on the place when they moved to Christchurch—not that I knew that then. Anyway, they ripped up the fugly carpet, which had probably been there since the seventies. Under that carpet was even uglier lino.”
“Shocking.”
“Dad nearly tacked the carpet back in place. Only Mum made him peel up a corner of that eye-burning orange lino.” She propped her chin on his backbone. “Guess what was under it?”
“Snot green lino?” he replied.
“Nope. The most stunning but neglected matai timber flooring. Mum and Dad spent days removing the lino and then polishing up that wood. That beautiful matai was the selling point of the whole bloody house.”
Ford remained silent, his slow inhales and exhales moving against her breasts. Apparently, he didn’t like her story. Or being compared to wood.
“That’s quite an analogy,” he said finally. “But underneath my fugly carpet, underneath my orange lino, I’m not matai. I’m cheap, run-of-the-mill laminate flooring. I’m screwed-up broken, Hol—not beautiful.”
Her eyes burned, and she burrowed her face into Ford’s back. She hurt for him—hurt like a splinter had worked deep into her flesh. She’d no hope of ever digging the splinter of him out.
“Let me see that broken man, Ford. Let me love him, too.”
He still said nothing, but she sensed withdrawal in his preternatural stillness, even as her tears soaked into his shirt.
After a few moments, movement caught her eye. Rob and Denise slipped onto the mattress next to them, Denise running a gentle hand down Holly’s back.
Rob spoke, his deep voice lowered, his words in his native language. A speech Holly didn’t understand but felt privileged to witness. Then he crouched beside the casket and began to sing. Holly recognized it as a song she’d heard Rob sing once or twice that Ford had loosely translated for her.
Te Kaianga Tapu. The place where you grew up.
As Rob’s voice grew stronger, others stirred from their beds and came to his side, their voices lifted in such eerie harmony that goose bumps rose on Holly’s skin, and more tears flooded down her cheeks.
The simple lyrics said no matter your mistakes, they were in the past. Your heart would lead you home, because home was where you belonged.
Holly clung to Ford’s broad back. Would he ever realize that in order to truly belong to another person, he must first face his past? And more importantly, did the stubborn jerk realize he didn’t have to face his past alone?
Chapter 19
“You want another one?” Harley opened the door to Ford’s fridge and helped himself to his third beer.
“I’m good.” Ford cracked open an eye from his armchair, every muscle in his face protesting from the tiny movement.
Harley popped the tab and took a sip. “More for me, then.”
He ambled over to the couch, rolled over the low back and sprawled out, ankles crossed, all without spilling a drop. “Good thing you thought to hide a six pack from the cuzzie-bros.”
Ford winced. One decimated pantry and a fridge that now contained only the beer he’d had the foresight to stash behind the hot water cylinder—the only way to hide them from his uncle and three male cousins, who’d crashed at his place last night after the tangi was finally over.
“You need food, though. I’m starved,” Harley continued. “They cleaned you out today while you were at work.”
“So go to Russells’. They’re open for another thirty minutes.”
“Some host you are.”
“I’m letting you stay, aren’t I? Until you bugger off to New York.”
The little twinge in Ford’s gut at the thought of Harley leaving tomorrow? Hunger pangs. Definitely hunger pangs.
“Yeah.” Harley scratched a fingernail down his neck. “Well, I might have to crash with you again sometime soon.”
A statement that caused both of Ford’s eyes to pop open. He sat up from his slouch. “The hell? You coming back here? When?”
“Don’t want me around cramping your style, little brother?”
Ford ignored the little brother comment and pinned Harley with a level gaze. “What’s going on?”
Harley flicked a dismissing hand then took another sip from his can. “I offered to help Holly with the renovations on her salon, among other things.”
“She doesn’t even know if she’ll get the bank loan yet.”
“She’ll get the money. One way or another.”
Ford bristled. “Oh, so you’ll play rich sugar daddy? Nice. Strings attached to that?”
Harley lowered the can from his mouth, his eyes flint hard. “No strings, dickwad. You got a problem with me helping out my future sister-in-law financially or with muscle?”
Ford’s teeth clicked together, and his mind blanked. “She doesn’t need your muscle or your money. Neither do I.” Ford regretted the words the moment he’d spoken.
The can crumpled under Harley’s fingers. “This is still my home. They are still my whānau, who we sent off on the ferry this evening. Holly and the girls are still the closest thing I have to sisters. And you, jerkwad, are still my brother, and you should understand me well enough to know I wouldn’t ever take advantage of your woman.”
Ford dragged a hand down his face, grimacing as the prickles of two days of stubble scraped against his palm. He’d shaven the morning of the burial but not since. “I’m sorry.”
Harley jerked his head in a curt nod. “You’re punch-drunk tired. So am I. Forget it.”
“How long will you be back for?”
“Dunno.” Harley slanted Ford a glance. “You’ve heard of writer’s block, eh? Happens to artists, too. I need a break. Strapping on a tool belt with the guys, picking up a four-inch paintbrush instead of a flat brush, maybe it’ll help.”
From Harley, this was the equivalent of admitting he was in some serious emotional turmoil, possibly requiring therapy.
“Mum’ll want you at their place.”
“In our old room with the All Blacks and motorsport posters on the wall? With Mum fussing and Dad giving me the hairy eyeball? Give it a miss, thanks.”
“Food’s better there.”
Harley barked out a laugh and hurled a couch cushion at Ford’s head. Ford caught it and slam dunked it back. Ducking to the side so the pillow sailed over the couch arm and plopped onto the floor, Harley sat up. Placed his beer on the coffee table and steepled his fingers, a smirk creasing the corner of his mouth.
“My artistic eye noted you wetting yourself when I mentioned the words sister-in-law. What’s with that? You gun shy?”
Ford’s heart punched into his throat. “We’re not that serious.”
“You were about to toss your toys out of the cot at the thought of me making a move on Holly.”
“Make a move on her, and I’ll break your arm. Doesn’t mean I’m hearing wedding bells.”
Harley showed both palms. “Bro, settle. I’d split at the first tinkle of any kind of bell. But you?” Harley cocked his head. “Wife and kids would suit you.”
“We’re not talking about this.”
“Your response to everything. Talk bad, bottling misery like a hoarder, good.”
“I’m not bottling anything.”
“Thought you fooled everyone at the tangi, didn’t you? Not me, man. Not me, and from the looks of it, you didn’t fool Holly, either. You’re bottling, and it’s consuming you from the inside out like one of those flesh-eating bacteria deals. Chowing down on the nasty stuff, but devouring all the good stuff, too. Holly’s part of the good that’ll be destroyed if you don’t deal with your crap.”
“Ever thought of taking up motivational speaking?” Ford faked a yawn. “Think you’ve missed your callin
g.”
“Maybe I have.”
“And this dark stuff I’m bottling?”
Harley levelled him a cool stare. “Mummy issues.”
“You’re a wanker, you know that?” Ford stood and stalked into the kitchen.
He yanked open the pantry door. Not even a measly can of baked beans remained. And the mongrels had found the two bags of BBQ chips he’d hidden in the vegetable bin.
“If the shoe fits…” Harley propped his feet on the coffee table. “Doesn’t make it less true, and, mate, I’m not saying I don’t have mummy issues of my own.”
“What? I should dump this on Holly? Cry-baby all over her shoulder or maybe go all single-man-tearish while staring dramatically at the horizon?”
Harley snorted. “Women love that crap. You’re a fixer-upper, all right.”
“More like condemned for demolition.” Desperate to keep his mind from straying along the sticky path Harley attempted to herd him along, Ford grabbed a carrot, bit off the end and crunched.
“Drama queen.” Harley crossed his ankles and shot him a grin. “Don’t ask me how to make the relationship thingy work”—he pointed a finger at Ford—“and don’t kid yourself that you and Hol aren’t in one because it’s obvious you’re in it up to your preppy new haircut. But from what my shackled New York friends tell me? Sharing is caring. Even when it comes to the stuff that screws you up—especially that stuff.”
“Our screwed-up stuff is pretty grim.”
“Not as bad as some.” Harley’s lips thinned. “We survived.” He uncrossed his ankles and stood, picking up the can. After giving it a little shake, Harley wandered into the kitchen and tossed it into the recycling bin.
“If we’re down to eating bloody rabbit food, I’m outta here. I’ll go to the pub and make puppy eyes at Shaye.”
“I’ll come with you.” Ford flicked the carrot stub into the trash and brushed his hands down his jeans. “She likes me better.”
“Nope.” Harley clapped Ford on the shoulder. “I’m gonna do you a solid and order you to go see Holly. You’re wound way too tight—you need a little TLC.”
Playing For Fun: Stewart Island Book 6 Page 24
