As Deep as the Ocean

by Serenity Woods

  “Fred?”

  She blinked. Mac stood by her side, hands in the pockets of his jeans. The sea breeze played with his hair, and he’d narrowed his eyes against the late afternoon sun.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She turned back to the others. Ginger and Sandi were also standing there silently, looking across the bay, and she knew they were feeling the same way.

  She cleared her throat. “Okay. So where are good places to eat?”

  Mac took them to a hotel on the waterfront with a large deck overlooking the ocean, and recommended the fish burger, which turned out to be less a burger and more a huge piece of hoki in batter with lettuce and tartare sauce in a bun, and a heap of thick-cut fries. While they ate, Mac told them about the history of the area, about the early settlers, the missionaries and the whalers, and about Waitangi, where the Treaty—the founding document of New Zealand—was signed in 1840.

  “I read about some kind of issue with the Treaty,” Fred said, polishing off the last of her burger before turning to her fries.

  Mac took a swig of his beer. “Maori first came to New Zealand in the thirteenth century. That’s the earliest archaeological evidence, anyway. And as I’m sure you know, Captain Cook landed here in 1769. Later there were sealing and whaling ships, and then missionaries came to try to convert Maori to Christianity. But you read about the area being called ‘the hell-hole of the Pacific’—I think they were pretty shocked at what they found here.”

  “We think the original Henry Cartwright was a missionary,” Sandi said.

  “Probably, yeah. They bought lots of land in the Bay of Islands. Anyway, the English sold many muskets to Maori, and this led to tribal battles. In the 1830s, some rangatira or Maori chiefs wrote to King William IV in England asking for help to guard their lands. Eventually, a Royal Navy officer called Captain William Hobson drafted a treaty, and it was translated into Maori by one of the missionaries.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Ginger asked.

  “The argument is that the English and Maori versions aren’t the same, and that, for example, to Maori, it wasn’t clear what ceding sovereignty or governorship of their land meant—their attitudes toward ownership and use of land were different than the Europeans’. The meaning of some of the words is still being argued today.”

  “What do you think about it?” Fred asked.

  Mac shrugged. “Some Maori chiefs were aware that they were never going to get rid of the Europeans once they’d started settling, and most of them appear to have thought the British were the best bet. I think the British meant well. Being a British citizen back then was an honor, and they would have seen it as a gift. Equally, I understand the Maori argument. It’s not an easy issue to solve, and I don’t know if it ever will be.”

  He looked rather surprised, Fred thought, as if he was unused to saying so much in one go.

  “I can’t believe we’re really here,” Sandi said softly.

  Fred followed her gaze, looking at the waves lapping at the shore, at the holidaymakers walking along the pier, at the huge trees casting shade over the golden sand. “I know what you mean.”

  She brought her gaze back to find Mac watching her. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes held gentleness and something else, an intensity, an admiration that brought heat to her face.

  “Tell us more about the estate,” she said to distract everyone from her burning cheeks.

  Mac smiled, but did as she asked. He talked about the birds they’d be able to see in the garden—the tuis, the fantails, and the common myna birds. He explained that there were no foxes or badgers, and that the rabbits and hedgehogs they would see had all been introduced by the Europeans. He explained how there was nothing more beautiful than the sun rising over Blue Penguin Bay, casting its early morning light over the vines.

  If he was trying to scare them away in the hope that they’d offer the estate to him, he was doing a very bad job. Fred could see how much he loved the place, but she also recalled his words, this land has always belonged to the Cartwrights. Even though for some time he must have felt exhilarated at the thought that he would eventually own the land, it didn’t seem as if that was his goal. He loved working there, loved just being near the vineyard and doing his utmost to cultivate the best grapes to make the best wine. He was a viticulturist, and a Blue Penguin Bay boy, born and bred. Of course he was going to love the estate.

  Knowing that he probably just wanted the best for the vineyard didn’t help her out of her present predicament, though. While Ginger and Sandi talked to Mac about the B&B and the restaurant, Fred looked out to sea, wondering what on earth the three of them could do to keep the place up and running. She had just under three thousand pounds in the bank—not quite six thousand dollars—and she doubted that would buy even one piece of the machinery Mac had mentioned.

  It seemed wrong to take over the place out of nostalgia when all they would end up doing was dragging it further down. She had no doubt that all three of them would work their socks off to try to make it work. And maybe that would be enough to keep the place ticking over. But the estate deserved more. Mac had said that the vineyard had the potential to be award-winning again. How she wished she could fulfil that prophecy. But hard work wasn’t always enough to make dreams come true.

  What was Harry Cartwright thinking now, wherever he was, looking down on them all? Presumably, he’d had no idea that James MacDonald was going to turn on him like that. Fury bubbled in her stomach at the thought of how the man her father had trusted, had thought his best friend, had turned on him, not only to take all the money, but then to run the estate into the ground. No wonder James’s son felt such guilt and shame.

  Her gaze fell on Mac again. His dark hair had reddish highlights in the evening sun. He was laughing at something Ginger had said, showing even white teeth, and laughter lines at the corner of his eyes. She had the feeling that in the past he’d laughed a lot, but not so much in the last few years. Why was he single? Had he loved and lost? Was that part of the reason why she felt such sadness radiating from him? Or was it all to do with his father?

  Thinking of loving someone and losing them made her think of her mother, and her spirits sank even more. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t dwell on the past, but it was difficult not to. So much betrayal. So many lies. Why did life have to be so hard?

  “You all right, Fred?” Sandi asked, resting a hand on her back.

  “I’m tired,” she confessed. “I don’t think I’m quite over the jet lag.”

  “Let’s get you all back to the B&B,” Mac said, rising. He refused to let them offer any money toward the dinner, and went in and paid before escorting them back to his car.

  They travelled back up the hill in silence. Fred was aware that her low spirits were probably affecting the others, but she was too tired to drag herself up by her bootstraps, which was what she normally did when she felt low. When they got back, she mumbled goodbye to Mac and promised him that tomorrow they’d talk more, then stumbled to her room. She just managed to clean her teeth before falling into bed.

  “Fred?” Sandi came in, closely followed by Ginger, and they both perched on the edge of the bed. “Are you okay?”

  “Just tired,” she said.

  Sandi brushed a hair away from her sister’s forehead. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort something out. All is not lost.”

  “I don’t know,” Fred said, “I think it is. I can’t think how we can make this work.”

  “We’ll talk about it again in the morning,” Sandi said.

  “Mac likes you,” Ginger announced, her lips curving up.

  Fred rolled away from them and buried her face in the pillow. “Goodnight.”

  Ginger sighed, and the two of them rose. “Sleep tight,” Ginger whispered, and they went out.

  Fred was asleep within minutes of them closing the door.

  Chapter Seven

  MAC WAS COOKING BREAKFAST in the B&B’s kitchen when Fred c
ame out the next morning.

  He stopped in the act of scrambling the eggs and stared at her. She’d braided her gorgeous chestnut hair into a long plait that fell over her shoulder and down to her waist, while several long strands curled around her face. Her cheek bore the imprint of a crease from her pillow case, and her eyes had dark shadows underneath. She wore a black T-shirt and denim shorts, exposing a pair of shapely legs. All she needed was to be wearing his shirt and the look would have been complete.

  She bent and scratched Scully’s ear. The dog licked her hand. “Morning,” she said.

  “Morning.” He returned to scrambling the eggs, trying to ignore the sexual interest that rippled through him. “How did you sleep?”

  She shrugged and came to stand next to him, her arm brushing his as she looked into the saucepan. “Are you cooking us breakfast?”

  “It seemed like the polite thing to do. The kitchen crew doesn’t get here until eleven.”

  “Aw. That’s sweet.” She smiled up at him.

  “It’s the least I can do.” He made the mistake of glancing at her, and was instantly snared by her gaze. He looked into her hazel eyes, noting how they were mainly green, but had an amber ring around the iris. Her mouth was free of gloss, her bare lips soft and kissable, and he had to fight not to bend his head and touch his lips to hers.

  He turned to the other pan, where rashers of bacon sizzled merrily, and poked it with the spoon.

  Fred cleared her throat. “I want to tell you that I’d like you to play a part in wherever we go from here. I’m not sure what we’re going to do yet, but whether we go or whether we stay, I hope you’ll stick around to help us out.”

  He poked the bacon again, then glanced at her. “It’s more than I’d hoped for, and I’m not sure I deserve it.”

  “Maybe if I get to know you better I’ll agree with that, but for now I think you’re being a bit harsh on yourself.”

  She was teasing him again. It must be his imagination, but it felt as if the sun shone brighter whenever she smiled.

  “Are you feeling better this morning?” he asked, conscious that the worried crease between her eyebrows had vanished.

  She walked to the large fridge, opened it, and studied the contents. “I was very tired last night, and a bit down. I had a few bad dreams. The news about the estate needing such an injection of money was a shock, and I still don’t know what we’re going to do, but I feel more positive this morning anyway.” She extracted a carton of orange juice and started pouring some into a glass. “Did you have any bright ideas in the night?”

  As it happened, he had come up with an idea, but he’d discarded it as ridiculous, and there was no way he’d give voice to the notion. “Unfortunately not.”

  She sighed and placed the carton back in the fridge. “Me neither.”

  “So what’s your plan of action?”

  “I think it would be silly to make a decision immediately, and maybe we should take a couple of days to let it all sink in and think about it. This morning the three of us should spend a bit more time on the areas we’re interested in, so maybe Ginger could talk with the kitchen crew and find out more about the running of the place, and Sandi could draw up some plans for the B&B and come up with a better idea of what we would need to spend there to make it profitable. I know that the vineyard is technically more important than either of these, but if we were to find a way to fight for it, they would have to feel their part is worth it.”

  “Yeah.” He took the toast out of the toaster and distributed it onto three plates, then began buttering them.

  “This morning you and I could take a walk around the vineyard.” She sipped her orange juice. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading about winemaking, but it would be good to hear more about it from a professional.”

  He liked the way she called him that. “Sure.”

  “I understood what you were saying about wanting an overhaul and replacing everything, but that’s obviously not going to be practical, so it would be good to look at what has to be replaced, versus what you’d like to be replaced, and see what the cost of that is.”

  He started to dish up the eggs. The idea of just patching up the place made his heart sink, but she was right—in the absence of any serious investment, they would have to do the best they could.

  “You’re not joining us?” She gestured at the three plates.

  “I’ve already eaten. I’m going to do a walk around, and then I’ll come back for you when you’re done.”

  “All right,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

  “No worries.” He picked up two of the plates and she took the third, and they carried them through to the dining room, Scully at their heels.

  Ginger came in at that moment, yawning, her strawberry-blonde hair ruffled, her eyes sleepy. She perked up at the sight of the bacon and eggs. “Oh! Breakfast. Thank you.” She smiled at him. Maybe she’d softened toward him, too.

  “Where’s Sandi?” Fred placed her plate on the table and Mac did the same. He went back into the kitchen to fetch the coffee pot and the orange juice, hearing Ginger say, “She’s just coming,” before bringing the drinks back into the dining room.

  “Cups and glasses there,” he gestured at the rack on the cabinet, “sugar there, help yourself to anything else you want from the kitchen. I’ll be in the barrel hall when you’re ready, Fred.”

  “Okay.” She flashed him a smile and sat, and he left her tucking into her eggs.

  Knowing Scully was hoping for a dropped bit of bacon, he took the dog with him and walked around the edge of the vineyard, enjoying the peace in the early morning sun. Occasionally, he stopped to check the vines, taking out some of the top leaves to let the sun’s rays penetrate to the lower branches, but his mind was only half on the job. The rest of it thought about the Cartwright girls, and specifically, about Fred.

  What was going to happen to the estate? Were they likely to stick around? He chewed his lip as he reached the edge of the vineyard, and turned to look across the bay. He liked the girls, and wanted them to stay, but equally if they had no money he couldn’t see the vineyard’s situation improving. They’d begin with enthusiasm, thinking they could do wonders with the small amount of cash they had, providing they backed it up with hard work. Then, as the months and years passed, they’d grow frustrated as sales declined, as the vineyard failed to win awards, as visitors stopped coming, and those who did left reviews on the tourist sites commenting on the mediocre wine and the dated B&B.

  Perhaps it was an overly gloomy outlook, but he’d seen it happen before. And the girls weren’t from here. When the first glow of emigrating wore off, they’d start to miss their home, and they’d blame their misfortune on the country. One by one they’d drift back, leaving the estate in a worse condition than they found it, possibly even irretrievable.

  He should have begun with an offer, told them he’d happily take it off their hands, give them the cash, and send them on their merry way several hundred thousand dollars richer. He wouldn’t have had a problem getting a loan from the bank, and then Blue Penguin Bay vineyard would have been his to do with as he wanted.

  But he just couldn’t do it. His father had ruined the place, and it felt like the ultimate insult for him to use the decayed nature of the estate as leverage to make them sell. They deserved more, and if they wanted to make a go of it, and they wanted him to stay, he’d do so, if only to make himself feel better.

  But it wasn’t just that, of course. He watched the boats heading out toward the horizon, and felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the sun coating him in gold. He loved it here, and he’d do anything to stay and help the girls make the place successful again.

  He checked his watch—it was nearly nine, and he’d told Fred he’d be in the barrel hall when she’d finished her breakfast. So he walked back through the vineyard and into the hall, and spent ten minutes checking out the equipment before Fred appeared.

  She’d changed into a pa
ir of dark brown casual trousers and a cream blouse, and wore a straw hat as protection against the strong New Zealand sun, the long braid falling down her back like Rapunzel’s.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Ginger and Sandi are going to spend some time in the B&B and restaurant, so it’s just us.”

  He wasn’t disappointed with that. “Come on, then.”

  This time, he took much longer to show her around. He went into more detail about the different grapes, explaining what grew well and what didn’t, and showed her some of the machinery that they used—the outdated sprayers, the too-small trimmer and defoliator, the pruner, all of which had been damaged and repaired numerous times.

  He told her more about the terroir, and encouraged her to get into the rows of vines so she could see and feel the leaves and the grapes, which was as important to him as understanding the science behind why the vines grew. He watched her pop the dark-blue Merlot grapes in her mouth, loving the way her face lit up with a smile when he told her the word Merlot meant ‘the little blackbird’ in French.

  In the barrel hall, he let her talk to the staff, who were honest about the quality of the crushers and the quantity of the oak barrels. The filtration equipment was okay, but he showed her how the bottling process could be improved.

  Fred asked lots of questions and made heaps of notes on her iPad. She’d obviously done her research, and he was impressed at her knowledge considering she didn’t have a background in winemaking.

  It was with some surprise that he saw it was nearly midday by the time they’d finished.

  “So we basically need more of everything?” she said when he eventually led her back out into the sunlight. “More machines, more staff?”

  “It’s not just quantity. It’s quality too. Dad employed lots of people from the town, and that’s okay—it’s good to be a source of local employment. But most of them don’t have any experience. We need to spend time and money on getting them trained, so they understand more about the winemaking process. And we pay shit, too. You pay peanuts...”