by Thomas Ryan
‘How about you take me next door and buy me breakfast?’
‘Not today. I’m off to see my lawyer.’
‘Ah. Explains the workout. Is that bitch you were married to trying to steal more of your money?’
A furrow formed on Jeff’s brow.
‘Have a little respect, Manny.’
‘Sure, man. No offence.’
Manny took a position on the bench-press seat, elbows on knees, catching his breath.
Jeff understood the reason for Manny’s hostility towards women. Three divorces had cost him dearly. What he didn’t understand was why Manny, approaching sixty, balding and paunchy, still went clubbing most nights trawling for wife number four.
The trainer reached for the hand towel draped across a stack of bar bells and tossed it. Jeff used it like a dish cloth to wipe sweat from his face and arms. The sight of his profile in a floor-to-ceiling mirror caught his attention. He straightened and patted his abs. Manny chuckled.
‘Admiring yourself again?’
‘Just checking for fat.’
‘There isn’t an ounce of fat on that physique of yours. But don’t worry. With hard work and training, one day you too could have a gut just like mine.’
‘When that day comes I’ll shoot myself.’ Jeff tossed the hand towel back. ‘I’m going to take a shower. See you, Manny.’
‘Okay. Good luck with the lawyer.’
Jeff couldn’t help shaking his head when he saw Quentin Douglas and Associates in shiny gold leaf lettering on Quentin’s new oak door. Associates? What mischief was his friend up to now? In all the years Jeff had known him, Quentin had never had a partner. He hated the idea. His unceremonious dumping from one of Auckland’s premier law firms had turned him off the idea of ever again working for or with someone else.
Jeff pushed through the door just as Quentin’s receptionist, her back to him, was leaning forward to water one of two leafy rubber plants. Jeff smiled. He had long admired Mary’s well-formed derrière and shapely legs and here they were on display like jewellery in a glass case. Fortune had decreed that this international tri-athlete would escape the athlete’s curse: tree stumps for legs.
Quentin was quite unbegrudging in allowing Mary time off for training. In return he had gained an Olympic medallist to staff his front desk. It was good for his practice, and it was a bonus that Mary held a law degree. Jeff fancied her. But Quentin had made him promise to keep his distance.
‘Mary is the best secretary I’ve ever had, so hands off,’ Quentin had ordered. But to Jeff it had sounded more like begging than a warning. So he continued with mild flirtation, more to wind up his friend than out of any serious intention of seduction.
A blond ponytail flicked across Mary’s shoulder as she looked up.
‘Were you looking at my arse?’
A smile robbed the question of any edge.
‘Of course I was. If you put it out there I’m going to look.’
Mary leaned over the second plant and emptied her copper watering can.
‘Pervert. Did you go to the pool this morning?’
‘Fifty lengths. Then the gym.’
‘Why don’t you come when I’m there? We could train together.’
‘I couldn’t cope with being shown up by a woman, especially one with such a cute butt.’
Mary snorted.
‘How can you find little old me intimidating? I thought you were a Green Beret or something.’
‘Firstly, the Green Berets are American. I was in the SAS. Special Air Service. And secondly,’ he leaned closer, ‘you are one very scary woman.’
This earned him a kiss on the cheek and a hug.
‘Thank you for the gift, I love it.’
‘You’re welcome.’
The watering can came in for a fond pat before disappearing under Mary’s desk. Jeff had found her the polished hammered antique at the Ponsonby Market. ‘For your treasured “babies”, he had written on the card.
‘The boss didn’t even remember my birthday.’
As she spoke, Jeff noted Quentin Douglas’s dark-suited form appearing in the doorway.
‘That’s because he’s mean-spirited.’
With a good-natured harrumph, Quentin gave Jeff the once-over.
‘Shit, Jeff. Jeans and a T-shirt? I told you to dress up.’
‘They’re my best faded jeans and these running shoes cost three hundred dollars.’
‘Add ten percent to his bill for refusing to take advice, will you?’ Quentin said to Mary.
‘What’s with the sign on the door, Quentin? Since when have you ever had an associate?’
Quentin chuckled.
‘Image. You’ve heard of marketing, haven’t you? My new clients gain great comfort believing that somewhere behind these closed doors lurk dozens of lawyers poring over piles of books, beavering away and doing their bidding. Anyway, come on through. They’re waiting for us.’
‘Rebecca’s here already?’
Jeff heaved a sigh. The thought of confronting his ex-wife raised his hackles. Quentin grinned.
‘And not alone. She’s brought company. The sharks are circling. They can smell blood, my friend. Your blood.’
‘Yeah, and I have a feeling her lawyers probably have real associates.’
‘Fret not. You’re in good hands.’
The first thing Jeff noted about his ex-wife when he and Quentin entered the conference room was her uncharacteristic stiff-backed stance. He sensed the polite smile she bestowed on him was somehow detached.
‘Morning, Rebecca.’
Jeff’s tone sounded more formal than he’d intended. His ex-wife’s smile quickly faded. She’d cut her hair short so it showed off her long neck. He had always liked her neck. He noticed it was also nicely tanned, no doubt from lying in the sun, plotting ways to milk him of more money.
Two men Jeff didn’t recognise sat either side of Rebecca. He picked her lawyer as the one wearing a carbon copy of Quentin’s suit. But the other had him guessing: a study in unshaven chic and dressed in casual slacks, T-shirt and a chocolate corduroy jacket.
‘Right, let’s get down to it,’ Quentin said. ‘Jeff, Rebecca and I talked a little before you arrived. Everything is pretty much agreed, except for the vineyard.’
‘You don’t agree to be paid out?’
Jeff addressed Rebecca, but it was the lawyer who replied. ‘My client has some concerns. There are discrepancies between the valuations offered by real-estate agencies and what appears to be an achievable price if the property went to auction. Mrs Bradley feels she might lose out on many thousands of dollars.’
It irritated Jeff that his wife was still using his name. ‘That vineyard was left to me by my grandparents.’
‘Just a minute, Jeff.’ Quentin’s voice cautioned calm. ‘Does Mrs Bradley have a figure in mind?’
‘Not as such. What she wants is for the property to go to auction.’
‘Rebecca, we had an agreement.’ Although he fought to keep an unflustered demeanour, Jeff was aware that the muscle on his right forearm would be flexing with the clenching of his fist.
Rebecca looked away. The man alongside touched her arm. By the familiarity of the gesture, Jeff realised that he must be the new boyfriend. He’d heard tell of some computer geek from Christchurch. But why had she brought him to the meeting? The man raised his eyes and looked at Jeff. Was that smugness he saw? It took a lot of willpower for Jeff not to reach across and smack it off his face.
‘Be that as it may,’ Rebecca’s lawyer continued, ‘Mrs Bradley is convinced this is the best course of action.’
‘That property will not be sold.’ The words flew from Jeff’s lips. A scrape as his chair pushed back and he rose to stand. Quentin caught Jeff’s arm and pulled him back down.
The geek leaned closer to
whisper something in Rebecca’s ear. It was followed by a smirk at Jeff. There could be no doubt in Jeff’s mind: the geek was behind this.
The geek leaned forward. ‘Rebecca wants what’s hers.’
Jeff’s finger stabbed in his direction like a knife.
‘You keep out of this. It’s none of your business.’
The man recoiled. Under the table Jeff felt Quentin’s fingers tap on his thigh. Rebecca’s lawyer raised a hand.
‘I think that Mrs Bradley has made clear her intentions. If an auction is not agreed to, we shall seek a court order.’
Jeff remained in the meeting room while Quentin saw the trio off the premises. When he returned, Mary followed with coffees. She laid out cups on the table and a plate of biscuits. Quentin looked at them.
‘Rice crackers? Where are my chocolate fingers?’
‘Orders from your wife. No more choccie biccies.’
With the waggle of a finger and a smile she departed. Quentin pulled a chocolate bar from his suit pocket.
‘Can they do that?’ Jeff asked. ‘Force me to put the vineyard up for sale?’
‘A court can order it, yes.’ Quentin removed the wrapper and chewed off a piece of the confection. ‘But don’t worry. It won’t happen today.’
‘And that’s supposed to comfort me? You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously.’
‘Of course I am. But Jesus, Jeff, for the moment there’s not a hell of a lot I can do. The next move is theirs to make. I think they’re bluffing. I’ll get back in touch with Rebecca’s lawyer in a few days.’
‘I don’t think he’s the problem. It’s that scruffy germ she’s hooked herself up with.’
The chocolate bar finished, Quentin licked his fingers. ‘Look. How about we do lunch?’
‘Sorry. Not today. I need to get out to the vineyard. Arben Shala left a strange message on my answering machine two days ago and I need to speak with Kimie. If she’s heard from him then I’ll stop fretting but if she hasn’t . . . then I’m worried.’
‘Phone her,’ Quentin said, pushing his mobile across the table.
Jeff pushed it back. ‘These types of conversations need to be face-to-face.’ A thought struck him. ‘And that’s another thing. Where would the Shalas go if the property was sold?’
‘Not your responsibility.’
This brought a grimace out of Jeff. ‘That’s easy for you to say, Quentin. I was the one who sent Benny to Kosovo. If something were to happen to him, the Shalas would become very much my responsibility.’
3.
The usual twenty-five minute trip to the end of the Western Motorway had only taken fifteen. Traffic had been light. At the Kentucky Fried Chicken roundabout, Jeff made a left turn, then hung a right. Within metres the urban sprawl gave way to rural green.
The drive to the village of Kumeu and the Boundary Fence Vineyard gave Jeff the feeling of coming home. He’d been raised on a farm, and even though he had left rural life behind years before, whenever he drove in the country, memories of log fires and freshly baked bread made him smile. But the boundaries of a city’s development never rested. Jeff harboured quiet regret that Greater Auckland was slowly eating into the landscape: farmland was losing out to subdivisions and lifestyle blocks.
He slowed, passing the green manicured lawns on the front boundary of Soljan’s Winery. A glance took in the sprawling cream building that housed a restaurant and wine shop. Palm trees lined the entranceway and led to a white gravelled car park beyond. This historic family vineyard had long been an inspiration to him. Jeff sighed. It would be a wonderful day if Boundary Fence could ever become a serious competitor to Soljan’s. But matching their kind of success would require a lifetime of commitment. And as much as he loved the country and his grandparents’ vineyard, in his heart he doubted he was up to the challenge. He lacked the Soljan clan’s dedication to winegrowing.
Loose gravel scrunched beneath the BMW’s tyres. Small pebbles and dust sprayed out in a scything arc as Jeff slewed into his vineyard’s driveway. Of course, he should have slowed down. But he was still irritated after his meeting with Rebecca.
He pulled up next to the company’s silver Toyota Land Cruiser and eyed the splatters of dried mud along the side. Marko had been off-roading in it again, and as usual he hadn’t bothered to clean it. Jeff knew Arben would have had his son’s hide for that. And Jeff would have given Marko a bollocking himself had he not been the bearer of disquieting news about the kid’s father.
Easing his six-foot frame out of the car, Jeff stretched his back then stood with hands on hips and kicked at the ground. It was a stall and he knew it. Jeff had replayed Arben’s phone message several times, listening for any possible hints in the phrasing, the tone, the background noise, that might lead him to believe there was no need to worry. Now, with no further contact after two days, he had to assume the worst. And Kimie was bound to demand why he hadn’t told her earlier. What could he say?
His eyes swept across the vineyard. The vines looked lush and green with a new season’s canopy of growth. It was as if the hailstorm that ruined the last season’s crop had never happened. He walked across to the first row. No evidence now of the ruined grapes that had hung in shreds on the vines or of the residue of those scattered across the ground.
Kneeling, Jeff scooped up a handful of soil and rubbed it into his palm. Before his inner eye the face of his manager, friend and mentor appeared.
‘Nature can be a good friend and an equally cruel mistress,’ Arben had once said. ‘But never forget that we must always be thankful for what she provides. When she curses us, and from time to time she will, you must caress her gently in the palm of your hand to show you still love her.’
At the time Jeff had laughed off what he considered to be a melodramatic veneration of Mother Nature. But after the first year of digging ditches and pruning vines, he too began ritually rubbing soil in his hands whenever he came to Boundary Fence.
‘Hey, Jeff. Where’ve you been hiding?’
The head of Marko Shala popped around the corner of a storage shed. He ambled across. Jeff tried to raise a smile.
‘So. You missed me?’
‘Yeah, man. Like I miss my appendix.’
Despite the twenty-year-old’s Auckland bro-vocabulary, his accent still bore a trace of his native Albanian.
Jeff opened the boot of his car and pulled out a damp towel to wipe his hands clean. ‘Marko. Why have you been chucking mud over the Land Cruiser?’
Marko hesitated, then delivered one of his disarming aw-shucks teenager grins. ‘I’ll wash it later. Promise.’
‘Later might be sooner than you think. You do know where the hose and cleaning rags are kept?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Jeff flicked the towel at him. Marko recoiled with a laugh. ‘Hey, man. I could lose an eye, you know?’
Jeff finished wiping the dirt from his hands and threw the towel back in the boot. ‘Just clean the vehicle. You know your dad wouldn’t be happy if he saw it like that.’
Marko’s eyes brightened. ‘Have you heard from him? From Dad? Mum’s been worried.’
‘He left a message a couple of days ago.’
‘Really? What did he say? Did we get the wine?’
Jeff looked towards the old house shaded from the morning sun by a giant jacaranda tree. ‘Is your mother in?’
‘Yeah, she’s there. What did my father say? When’s he coming home? Come on, Jeff. Tell me what Dad said, I have a right to know.’
Marko bounced from one foot to the other, impatience growing.
‘Yes, you do,’ Jeff said. ‘Let’s go up to the house and see your mother.’
Even in baggy black pants, a shapeless deep-purple T-shirt and a sunhat that resembled a Mexican sombrero, Kimie Shala looked elegant. Her flawless complexion belied her forty-plus years. And her figure he
ld no hint she had borne two children. Kimie approached life with such passion and energy that she often left the super-fit Jeff feeling breathless. It was easy to understand why Arben worshipped his wife.
He had once boasted that Kimie was a violinist of some note.
‘She studied at the Belgrade School of Music,’ he had informed Jeff in tones of respect tinged with pride.
One day sitting in the shade of the jacaranda, Jeff had casually asked Kimie if she still played. She excused herself and disappeared into the house. Perplexed, Jeff looked to Arben for an explanation.
‘The violin reminds her of home. Of her family. Of all she has lost. These memories are still too painful. Maybe one day she will play again, but for now it is a part of the life she has left behind her.’
Now here he was, bringing even more bad news from the country Kimie needed to forget.
Decking ran the length of the eighty-year-old kauri villa. Leaning on the railing, Kimie waited. That she hadn’t waved a welcome filled him with apprehension. She must have suspected something was up.
Bending forward Jeff allowed Kimie to hug him and kiss his cheeks three times in the custom of many Eastern Europeans.
‘Morning, Kimie.’
‘Jeff. You’re just in time for lunch.’
‘Not today.’
‘Coffee, then?’
Jeff nodded.
‘Take off your boots, son,’ Kimie growled at Marko. He ducked as she reached a hand to tidy her fingers through his dark mop of hair.
‘Mum. Don’t do that. I’m not a kid.’
Jeff considered her manner a touch mechanical. Normally when she showed affection to her son there was playful banter between the two. Not today. He assumed it was because of the anxiety that must have been eating away at her since Arben had left.
The aroma of hot meat and fresh mint wafted along the hallway. A roast lamb would be in the oven. His stomach rumbled, but he’d decided to make do with the fruit juice he’d had at the gym. No way could he sit and eat with Kimie and Marko after what he was about to tell them.
‘How have you been, Jeff? We’ve not seen you for a week.’
