by Ash Harlow
“I haven’t told her.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Leave it with me.”
“Grandma, let’s make afternoon tea.”
Jean’s not her grandmother, but Rachel doesn’t need to know that. Poor kid. So sweet, so innocent, so surrounded by secrets.
We have tea and cake, and all I can think of is Rachel’s little world that’s about to be turned upside down. I need time alone with Jean to sort out details but Rachel’s busy showing me every aspect of her life that’s happened since I last visited. Her drawings, which I think are fantastic even though I view them through a biased lens. Shells she’s picked up from the beach. A bunch of crap she’s been collecting from a supermarket promotion, which look like miniatures of every product in the shop. Every one a choking hazard, I think, before realizing Rachel’s probably grown past the choking phase. She is about to turn five, after all.
I’m just thinking I’m going to have to phone Jean tonight to go through the details when there’s a knock at the door. “Are you ready, Rachel?” a young woman’s voice calls.
“I can’t come. My Luther, is here.”
She must be sensing something because she only refers to me as ‘My Luther’ when she’s feeling vulnerable, or it’s time for me to go.
“Rachel was going with the neighbors to walk their dog on the beach,” Jean says, giving me an encouraging nod.
I pull Rachel onto my knee. “You know what? I think you should go and walk the dog.”
“It’s a labrador called Mikey.”
“Right. Well, you should join Mikey for his walk, because he’ll be expecting you. When you get back, we’ll buy fish and chips, then drive to the top of Mt Victoria and eat them while we watch the sun go down and the sparkly lights come on in the city. How about that?”
“Do you promise you’ll still be here if I go for a walk?” She’s cupping my face again, keeping my attention precisely aimed in her direction.
“I promise with all my heart.”
“Double promise?”
“Sure, double promise. Now, go and get a jacket, hat and boots. I think I can hear Mikey barking.”
She cocks her head and listens. “No, Luther, you’re being silly.”
Bless the dog, because right on cue, he barks.
Rachel’s eyes go wide. “I’m coming, Mikey,” she shouts, slipping to the floor.
Once she’s gone, Jean and I return to the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry about this, Luther, but Sally needs me.”
Sally is her daughter who lives on Australia’s Gold Coast, complete with husband and two children. She’s been in remission from cancer, but it’s returned. “It’s fine, Jean, I’ll work something out.”
“I’d take Rachel with me, but…”
“You can’t. It’s the wrong situation for her, and you need to concentrate on helping your family now. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for Rachel. I’ll work something out.”
“Will you find someone else to care for her?” Jean’s eyes glisten and she picks up a dishcloth and starts rubbing a non-existent stain on the counter.
“I’ll care for her.”
“How?” The cloth stills.
Fucked if I know, but I’m a fixer, so I’m sure I’ll work something out. “You leave those details up to me.”
“Are you moving to Auckland? You could live here, it’s your house after all,” Jean suggests.
“I’ll take Rachel to Waitapu.”
Jean frowns at me. “Luther, you can’t. That woman… you made a promise.”
Like I needed to be reminded of that. “That woman will never know about Rachel. I’ll make up some story—”
“Another secret. The poor child.”
“I’m protecting her, Jean.”
“Your work, Luther. You can’t look after a child, too.”
“I’ll hire a nanny. The house is ready and it’s big enough to have someone live in to care for Rachel.” My grandparents built it. It even has staff quarters which I turned into a guest wing.
“Rachel needs love and stability, Luther. Not a string of nannies. I think you should consider putting her—”
My hand shoots up to silence her. “Never. Rachel will live with me. I’ll love her, I already love her, and I’ll employ the best nanny in the world, not some young thing here for six months on a working holiday. I’ll get one of those proper English nannies, someone magical who’ll stay forever.”
“And what will you do in the meantime, while you’re searching for this Mary Poppins?”
“Don’t worry, Jean, I’ll sort it out.” Oliver’s old nanny still lives in town. Maybe she can help out.
“She starts school in three weeks, right after the holidays. If you’re serious about taking her to Waitapu, she should start school down there. Rather than… upheaval…” Jean makes a choking sound and covers her mouth with her fingers.
“Fine, we can do that. I’ll get back down there and make arrangements, then I’ll come up and collect her. She can have a week with me to settle in before she starts school.”
“I’m going to miss that dear girl. She’s been a daughter to me.”
Fuck, she’s crying. Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than tears and I see a few in my line of work. And not just the women. I’m going to have to get used to it, I guess. Kids seem to have a lot of tears to unleash. Jean holds her hand up when I step up to comfort her.
“I’m okay,” she says, pulling a handkerchief from her cardigan pocket. “I’m a bit overwhelmed with Sally’s health, and losing Rachel.”
“You’re not losing Rachel. You’ll always be her grandma. We’ll see how things go with Sally, and maybe Rachel can fly over and visit you in the holidays. Or, you can come and stay with us. It’s going to be fine.” I hope if I keep saying everything will be fine it’ll come true.
***
We’re parked on the summit of Mt. Victoria in Devonport, eating fish and chips and steaming up the car. Rachel has her window down a few inches and is feeding a gathering of seagulls who seem to be getting more chips than anyone else. She’s named most of them, although there doesn’t seem to be much variance in names. Every second one is called Squawky, and there seem to be two Luthers and two Rachels.
With dinner finished we take our customary walk around the summit. I help her balance on the low wooden railing as she looks across to Auckland city.
“I can see your apartment, Luther, it’s right there. Nobody is home, and the lights are switched off to save electricity.”
She’s pointing in the wrong direction, but I let it go.
“Let’s find Waitapu, now,” she says, leading me over to the bronze relief map that’s set in concrete. I wait while she finds the Coromandel Peninsula and correctly identifies Waitapu. We do this nearly every time she visits. Then she stands, and points across the summit. “Waitapu’s over there,” she announces.
“That’s right, clever girl. Are you warm enough?” There’s a stiff breeze and the sun’s setting.
She tugs her hat down and smiles. “Toasty,” she says.
“Good. Come and sit over here with me because I have something very important to talk to you about.” I take her hand and lead her over to one of the old bunkers dug into the hillside. We can sit on the roof and dangle our legs over the edge. I get her settled, unzip my jacket and wrap it around her. She’s tiny, skinny and warm.
“Am I in trouble?” she asks softly.
“Why, have you done something naughty?” I tease.
“No, I promise I’ve been good.”
“I’m sure you have. Listen, how would you like to come and live with me in Waitapu?” Might as well just throw it out there.
“Is Grandma coming?”
“No, honey. Grandma has to go to Australia and help Aunty Sally because she’s sick.”
“I can go to Australia and help, too. Grandma says I’m a big help when I empty the dishwasher.”
“I’m sure you are a big help, but Grandma’s going to be ext
ra-super busy, so we thought it would be fun if you came and lived with me in Waitapu for a while.”
“Is Aunty Sally going to die, like Mommy?”
Great. I’ve got no idea whether I’m supposed to lie, or tell the truth. “Ah, well—”
“Because if she does, she can play with Mommy in heaven.”
Right. Saved by child logic. “Yeah, she could. Now, tell me what you think about coming to live with me?”
She’s swinging one leg and mostly kicking my shin, but she stops. “I can’t live with you,” she says. “I’m starting school soon. I’ve met my teacher already.”
“We have a lovely school in Waitapu, and guess what? They have a desk and chair ready for you, and a really kind teacher who would love to have you in her classroom. The kids are fun.”
“That’s okay. I don’t think I can, but thank you for asking.”
Ah, damn. Shit. Is it wrong to swear in your head around kids? “Rachel, honey, you’re going to have to come and stay. Why don’t I pick you up next weekend and you can come to see my house and see if you like it.”
“Who will look after me when you’re at work? I’m not allowed to be alone. It’s against the law, you know.”
“I’m going to get a really nice lady to look after you when I’m at work. But most of the time when I’m working, you’ll be at school.”
“Oh. What if I don’t like the lady. She won’t be like Grandma. She won’t know how to tuck me in bed and put my toys right on my pillow, and she won’t know how to—”
“Hey, big girl, come here.” Her voice is wobbly and her bottom lip is starting to fold into her mouth. Tears are imminent, so I pull her up onto my lap, and zip my jacket up around both of us. That makes her giggle.
“You know what I want you to do this week? I want you to make a list of all the things Grandma helps you with. Your favorite food, stories, the things you like to do. Everything you can think about. Then, when you come to stay, we can make sure we do it right. And if we forget something, we can phone Grandma and ask her to remind us. How’s that?”
“Can I bring my bike?”
“You bet. We can go riding together.”
“Have you got a bike? What color is it? I can ride really fast.”
We continue in this manner as I carry her back to the car. An hour later, as I’m leaving Auckland to drive home, the enormity of what I’m taking on hits me.
A child. 24/7. Oliver might die laughing. Then I think about Ginger and see that life is about to become very difficult. Rachel will be impossible to hide.
14 ~ GINGER
A week goes by in a rush. Merkin is a great time-waster. She’s either asleep or manic, and when she’s manic, it’s impossible not to stop whatever I’m doing and watch her antics. We never had pets because Mom said she’s allergic, but when I get my own house, I’m adding a cat and a dog.
Darcy video calls. They’re on a private island in the South Pacific. Just Darcy, Oliver and the staff. She’s tanned and obscenely happy. Those are her words.
She asks about work and I tell her nothing has happened. “No calls. Absolute silence.”
“I knew this business wasn’t going to take off,” she says.
I wink and tell her I’m kidding, that there has been nothing I couldn’t handle or wouldn’t wait until she got home.
“Oliver chatted to Luther yesterday. Has he called you yet?” Darcy asks.
All the muscles in my face go tight. Shit. I pray our video connection is ropey and that she won’t notice my tortured expression.
“Ginger, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” My voice is strangely pitched. What the hell did Oliver and Luther talk about, and why would he say he was going to call me?
“So, did Luther call?” Darcy repeats.
“No,” I say. “Why would he call me?”
Merkin strolls in and I pick her up and hold her to the screen. “Say hi to Mommy, Merkin.” The cat swats the phone then swings around and grabs each side of my head with her front paws. It would be cute if her claws weren’t out. I disentangle her from my hair and put her on the floor.
“Is Merkin behaving?”
“I think Merkin is becoming an adolescent. One moment she loves me, the next moment she’s using me as practice prey. I have a lot of scratches.”
“What a beast. I apologize on behalf of the kitty. So you still haven’t told me about Luther.”
“There’s nothing to tell about Luther,” I say, hoping she doesn’t hear the edge in my voice, and wondering what the hell I have to do to get her off that subject. Thankfully, Oliver appears close by. I can hear him speak.
“Darcy, I think Luther would prefer to speak to Ginger himself.”
“I was just asking if he’d contacted her.”
“And what if he doesn’t? It was only my suggestion…”
His voice fades out and I’m left with a burning curiosity. What the hell has Oliver suggested to Luther? We chat on a little more—not about Luther although he’s all I can think about—then their lunch arrives. Darcy waves her phone over it and I see tropical fruit and fresh fish and amazing salsas. It’s my dinnertime, and the weather is cold, so I’m having soup. “But, it’s gourmet soup,” I tell Darcy, “made from scratch.”
“You can eat at the Lodge, or any of the guys’ bars and restaurants in town. It won’t cost you anything.”
She and Oliver have made this offer before, but two things—I’m not a charity case, and eating alone is a bit sad.
“I’m playing netball with Maraea tomorrow night, then we’re hitting the bars.” My social life is reasonably active.
Darcy high-fives me through the phone and we both laugh.
“Go and have your honeymoon,” I say.
“Go and have your soup,” she replies, and then ducks her face close to the phone and whispers. “If Luther calls you, ring me immediately. I want to know everything.”
Our call ends, and I tip my head back and close my eyes. I’ve been trying to forget about Luther, then Darcy drops hints and that man is right back on pole position in my mind. I don’t want to return to that place where every time my phone bings my heart flutters a little in the hope it is Luther. I got past that on Wednesday. Well, I thought I had but one mention of his name and I’m agitated all over again.
My soup’s heating on the stove. Soup sounds a bit tragic when, in fact, it’s not. It’s broccoli and arugula and anchovies and a lot of garlic. Plus, I made good stock. It’s supremely excellent soup, even if the only person I can explain that to is Merkin who is busy knotting the laces of my trainers so that I’ll probably trip and break my neck when I take my next step.
“When the hell did you turn so evil?” I ask the cat.
“Didn’t turn that way, always have been.”
I scream before I realize who’s just entered the kitchen. “Shit, Luther.” My hand flies to my chest because my heart will be busting through the wall if I don’t hold it in. “What the hell? Are you spying on me? How did you get in here?”
“Spying, no. I have a key. I also know how to break in through the patio door and disable the alarm. I have clothes in one of the spare-room closets. I’m trying to break the habit of a lifetime of entering Oliver’s house at will, but the skill is still useful, for the moment.”
“Or, you could have knocked. Hmm? Instead of giving me a heart attack. Or, there’s a phone. You have one, so do I. I’m sure you even have my number, somehow, even though I’ve never given it to you.”
My body is stupidly excited to see him. He’s wearing a work suit. Something sharp, European, hard-fitting. Narrow tie. It’s dark on dark on dark, and supremely sexy. Does he turn up to court like that? All I can do is spout words because I’ve long had a fantasy about him coming in from work and surprising me in the kitchen, and then it turns lurid and soon it’s me bent over the kitchen island, my skirt hitched up, panties tugged down and being royally fucked. Because, Luther is my king. Dammit. And that fantasy is so ol
d, it’s a classic, so my mind goes straight there.
I’m holding a soup ladle.
Luther points. “You’re dripping on the tiles.”
Luther is here.
I have to move past that point. Should I be angry? I’m not even sure. I know I resolved things in my mind about Luther this week, but for the life of me, I cannot recall a single resolution.
Merkin leaps and whacks the ladle and it skids across the floor. I think I’m still impersonating a possum in headlights as Luther retrieves the ladle and washes it in the sink.
The soup is bubbling. He stirs it and switches off the element. “Smells good, but you’re close to burning it.”
I’m staring at his stirring hand and the tattoo that stretches beyond the cuff of his shirt. As the adrenalin leaves me, I’m left with that annoying feeling of awe and inadequacy that I used to feel around him. For heaven’s sake, the guy’s had his fingers in my pussy. We’re equals here. I straighten my spine and offer him soup, expecting a no.
“Love some,” he says, grabbing bowls and putting them into the oven to warm. Then he’s poking about in the pantry and fridge, pulling out condiments and a block of parmesan, as if this is his house. From the freezer he grabs some artisan bread and switches on another oven to heat it. Yes, it’s that sort of kitchen with one of those massive European ranges that looks like something ancient, but is hooked conveniently to the electricity supply. It’s also bright orange yet doesn’t look ridiculous.
Luther hums as he moves about the kitchen and I pretty much stand in wide-eyed silence. Crouched in front of the wine fridge he’s pulling out bottles, examining labels and returning them. “Is there arugula in the soup?” he asks.
“There is,” I reply, stunned that he’s sniffed out the ingredients.
“This will work then,” he says.
It’s a French white, most likely worth about the same amount of money I earn in a week.
“Should we be raiding their wine cellar?” I say, pointing at the bottle. “It might be something Oliver’s saving for a special occasion.” I’m wondering how the hell I’ll be able to afford to replace it.
“Not this. I brought a case of it over last month.”
