Chapter Four
Joel
We take a taxi to the center of Paihia and make our way to the pier, where a boat is waiting for us and a few others.
“Oh, we’re actually going to the ship?” Zoe asks.
“Yeah, the awards dinner is on board, in their main restaurant.”
Her eyes flare—she’s excited about that. I suppose there aren’t many people of our age who have been on a cruise ship.
The tender taking us there is small with a comfortable bench running around the inside of the cabin. We and the other eight passengers, who are also dressed to the nines, take our seats, and then the small crew casts off, and the boat heads out toward the ship.
It’s a beautiful evening, the low sun turning the sky and the sea a lighter version of the color of Zoe’s dress. My gaze slides to where she’s sitting, looking out of the window at the fishing boats heading for shore. She’s in profile, lost in thought, so I’m able to take a moment to study her.
She looks amazing this evening. She’s obviously showered, and her hair looks freshly washed, with a beautiful shine. The dress with its spaghetti straps leaves her shoulders and arms bare, and her skin is light brown and looks silky smooth. She has a mole on her collarbone, a few inches down from her throat, and a few more on her arms that make me want to kiss them. I’ve always thought her hands are attractive, with long fingers, their neat nails painted in a neutral but shimmering shade. A single ring sits on her right hand, on the middle finger; a gold ring in the shape of a bow set with tiny diamonds. I hope Charles didn’t buy that for her.
Her makeup, as always, is immaculate, and she’s reapplied her black eyeliner, drawing it up into wings as usual, but she’s topped it with a glittering eyeshadow that’s a lighter shade than her dress, blended perfectly. Although her lips are usually free of lipstick, tonight she’s wearing a darker shade of cinnamon that gives her a sultry glow.
The dress crosses over her breasts and again below the waist, so where she’s sitting, the two sides have parted to reveal her legs. Her thighs are long, slim, and toned, and the sandals are super sexy. Her toenails are the same color as her dress. Fuck, that’s hot.
She’s determined to keep her distance from me. The fact that she’s turned me down fifteen times is evidence of this, but it’s more than that; I can feel her hesitation and her desperate attempts to keep me at arm’s length. Why? She dated Charlemagne, so she’s obviously not averse to relationships. Why would she date him and not me? I think she’s attracted to me. She reacts as if she is, and her eyes hold desire when I tease her and flirt with her. But for some reason, she’s not going to make it easy for me.
Well, that’s okay. I’m an archaeologist. I know it takes time to peel away the layers of the past and reveal the precious artifact that lies beneath. I have a lot of patience.
“Oh look!” Zoe’s face lights up, and I follow her pointing finger to see a pod of dolphins joining us on our trip to the ship, swimming beside us. One leaps out of the water in a spectacular jump, and everyone cheers.
“Show off,” I say, and Zoe nudges me.
“This is amazing,” she says. “Thanks so much for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome.” As soon as Fraser told me about the Valentine’s Day exhibition, and I realized I could use it to get Zoe to join me in the bay, I’ve been working toward that goal. I’ve pushed the team hard to excavate the Relentless to get to the hold, where the chest is supposed to reside. I have no idea whether we’ll be able to find it, but I’ll do my best for her.
The tender pulls up alongside the ship, a series of temporary steps leading up to the doorway in the side. I hold Zoe’s hand as she climbs from the boat onto the steps, then follow her up and onto the ship.
We find ourselves in a brightly lit lobby, with a waiting guide. We squeeze into an elevator that takes us up a few decks, and then emerge into another foyer filled with people making their way to the restaurant.
“Joel!” A short guy approaches us, beaming, and I shake his hand. Ugh, he’s a little sweaty. “Look at you,” he says. “Don’t you brush up well?”
I grin. “Hey, Alan. Good to see you.”
His gaze skims down Zoe. He’s about six inches shorter than her, and his beard and bald head make him look as if his head is upside down. He’s in his early forties and divorced, and I can’t imagine that Zoe would be interested in him in a million years, but I still bristle at his obvious fascination.
I want to introduce her as my girlfriend just to see the look on his face, but I figure Zoe might clock me with her handbag, so I fight the temptation.
I gesture to Zoe. “Zoe, this is Alan Plant from MOANA’s Christchurch office. Alan, this is my friend, Zoe.”
They shake hands. When she lowers hers, I notice her surreptitiously rub her hands together as if she’s trying to rid herself of his moisture, and I try not to laugh.
“Hope you have a great evening,” he says. “Maybe I can talk you into having a dance later?”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “I’m pretty good at the twist.”
She coughs, hiding a laugh. He frowns. “I was of course referring to the lovely lady.”
“Aw,” she says, “I turned my ankle over yesterday, so I don’t think I’ll be doing much dancing, but thank you for thinking of me.”
I can’t look at her now or I’ll start laughing. “Best of luck with the awards,” I say to him.
“Yeah, you too,” he says. “Catch you later?”
“Yeah, have a great evening.”
He walks off, heading over to a table in the restaurant near the stage.
“That was smooth,” I say, as we wait in the queue by the entrance to be seated. “You need to hobble now, though.”
She giggles. “I should have bought a crutch.”
“We could just say you’re my girlfriend. That might dissuade a few people.”
She gives me a wry look, but to my surprise then says, “Actually, you’re probably right. Mind you, what if there’s a hot girl here you fancy?”
“There is,” I remind her. “I’m trying to talk her into going on a date with me.”
She laughs and nudges me, then takes my arm as we reach the front of the queue.
I tell the waiter our names, and he checks his clipboard, then leads us across the restaurant to a round table near the windows. An archaeologist from my office is already sitting there, along with another couple from the Bay of Islands branch. They’re all joining us on the dive this week.
“Guys, this is my friend, Zoe. She’s an archaeologist too and works at the National Museum of New Zealand. Zoe, this is Clive and his wife Emma from the Bay of Islands branch.” Zoe shakes hands with them. Clive is in his forties, balding, and genial. Emma is practical and no-nonsense, and I like her a lot. “This is Hōri, who’s also based in the Bay of Islands office,” I continue, indicating the guy next to Emma, who’s in his late twenties, Māori, and an extremely hard worker, so I’m always happy to have him on my team.
Then I turn to the other Māori guy in the seat next to the one Zoe’s about to take. “And this is Manu, from Wellington.”
I’ve worked with Manu Waititi for a couple of years now. We’re both ambitious and hardworking, and partly because of this we soon became good friends. He’s the only one I’ve told about my feelings for Zoe, so he gives me a mischievous look as he says, “Lovely to meet you, Zoe. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Really?” She widens her eyes and grins at me.
He’s going to make my life a misery; I can sense it. “Excuse me,” I mumble, and extricate myself to say hello to some other friends.
*
Zoe
It’s a lot posher than I thought it was going to be.
The men are all in black tie, and the women are wearing long dresses. They’ve decorated the restaurant with pictures of artifacts and black-and-white photos of excavations, which is a nice touch. A banner declaring it’s the ANZAS Awards Dinner hangs over the temporary stage at the front.
Pristine white cloths cover the round tables, and the silver cutlery gleams in the light from the overhead chandeliers. Red serviettes folded into fans perch on our plates. Waiters are currently circulating, pouring champagne into gleaming flutes.
I accept one and sip it, watching Joel, who’s excused himself to go and greet the guests at another table. They all smile as he walks up, apparently recognizing him. The men are eager to shake his hand; the women all want to kiss his cheek.
“They’re from the Auckland branch of MOANA,” Manu says, and I look around to see him watching me observing Joel. He’s a good-looking guy with short black hair, light-brown skin, attractive brown eyes, and a natural charm I’m sure wins girls over easily.
“Oh,” I say, “I see. That explains why they recognize him.”
His lips curve up. “Everyone in the room knows Joel Bell.”
My eyebrows rise. “Really? Why?”
Now he looks most amused. “What’s he told you about his job?”
“Um, not much, actually. Do you work together?”
He nods. “Yeah, we’re good mates, and we split the office between us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wellington is the head office of MOANA. It’s got about twenty branches nationwide. I’m the manager of the South Island branches, and Joel’s manager of the North Island.”
I stare at him. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”
“We’re both maritime archaeologists too,” he says, “and still enjoy doing fieldwork. But we’re both going for the same position at work: Director of Operations. The successful applicant will oversee the daily operations, the logistics, and the resource allocation for all projects in the company.”
I’m impressed. Manu must be in his mid-thirties, but Joel is only twenty-eight. “It sounds like a great role.”
“I’d be so excited to get it,” he says. “I love what I do, but all the traveling gets tiring, and this job would be based in Wellington. My wife’s about to have our first baby.”
“Oh, congratulations. That’s great news.”
“Yeah. It would be great to be more settled, you know? It’s an office-based job, which is fine by me, but I don’t know how Joel would cope having to give up his diving and his excavations. I mean don’t get me wrong—I enjoy that part of it, but I’d be happy to be behind a desk, whereas the sea is Joel’s whole life.”
I watch Joel greet a friend, enjoying this glimpse into his professional life. “Who stands the best chance of getting the job?”
Manu shrugs. “Fifty-fifty I guess, although if one of us wins an award tonight, it might help our case.”
“Oh! I didn’t realize Joel was up for an award.”
“Several, actually. We’re both up for the Archaeological Fieldwork Award and the Cultural Resource Management Award. I know more about heritage laws, and I have good connections with local iwi.” He’s referring to Māori tribes. “So that might help me with the Cultural Resource one. But Joel has all the diving stuff obviously, and that’ll stand him in good stead.”
“Diving stuff?” I query.
“The records.”
“I apologize for sounding like an idiotic parrot, but what records?”
He tips his head to the side. “I can’t believe you don’t know.” When I continue to look puzzled, he says, “Joel holds a ton of diving records, including the national record for static apnea freediving. That basically means holding your breath underwater without moving.”
My jaw drops half an inch. “Oh my God, I had no idea.”
“He held his breath for nine minutes seven seconds.”
My jaw descends another inch. “ Nine minutes ? Jesus, that’s not possible, surely?”
“Sure it is. The world record is over twenty-four minutes, although that was done by breathing a hundred percent pure oxygen beforehand.”
My face must be a picture, because he chuckles. “The world record for a non-oxygen-assisted breath hold is something like eleven and a half minutes.”
“How on earth can someone hold their breath for that long?”
“No idea, I can’t get anywhere near his level. It takes experience and practice. Everyone at MOANA calls him Aquaman.”
I watch him wave goodbye to the Auckland crew and walk back to our table. God, he looks handsome in his suit.
“Hello,” I say as he pulls out his chair. “Aquaman.”
He glances at Manu and rolls his eyes as he sits.
“Nine minutes seven seconds?” I add. “I don’t believe that. I bet you were breathing through a pipe like when Pooh Bear jumps in the pond.”
“You just have to be careful bees don’t fly down it,” he says, picking up his glass of champagne.
Manu snorts, and I laugh. “Seriously, though, Joel, that’s incredibly impressive. How do you do it?”
“The short answer is practice.”
“And the long answer?”
His eyes scan me as if assessing whether I mean it. When I stay serious, I see a flicker of pleasure in his eyes—he likes that I’m asking.
He leans back in his chair. “Specialized cells called chemoreceptors in your brain and neck respond to the level of carbon dioxide and oxygen in your blood. They send signals to your brain, and eventually your diaphragm contracts involuntarily, forcing you to breathe. But you can train yourself to control that. It’s called the mammalian dive reflex. When you put your face in the water, the body sends blood to your vital organs, your heart rate slows by a quarter, and your spleen sends new red blood cells that increase the oxygen in your blood.”
“I didn’t know any of that,” I admit, impressed.
“It’s all important,” he says, “but mostly it’s about mindfulness and staying relaxed.”
“Joel meditates,” Manu tells me. “Every lunchtime. In a corner of the break room.”
“Do you?” I ask. “Or do you just sit there and doze off?” Elora has told me about his knack for being able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
He touches his forefingers to his thumbs, palms up, and says, “Om…” and I smile, because I’m supposed to. But I’m intrigued by the thought of him meditating every day. Of him staying calm and in control in the water. I’ve done a little scuba diving and have my certificate, but I’m far from being an expert.
“Tell her about the other records you hold,” Manu says.
“No,” Joel replies.
“Why?” I ask, amused.
“Because it’s not polite to boast.”
“You have to blow your own trumpet,” I point out, “because nobody else is going to.”
“Don’t talk about blowing my trumpet at the dinner table.” He’s teasing me, but the suggestive connotation—gives me goosebumps.
“Go on,” Manu says. “You hold the deepest free dive, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Joel says reluctantly. “107 meters in Lake Taupo.”
“And dynamic with fins?” Manu prompts.
“Yeah. 266 meters.”
“Dynamic without fins?”
“Yeah. 232 meters.” He looks uncomfortable at revealing his achievements and changes the subject as the waiter approaches with our plates. “Ah, food, thank God. I’m starving.”
We begin with a lobster bisque with creme fraiche and chives and continue with grilled sea bass with a white wine beurre blanc, accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes and a medley of seasonal vegetables. The food is delicious, but while I’m eating, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Joel holds all those diving records and is up for Director of Operations at his company. I’m seriously impressed. I thought he was a scruffy boy, and instead he’s an experienced and accomplished man.
It gives me goosebumps.
We spend most of the meal talking about archaeology, everything from new developments in the discipline, to excavations we’ve been on, to famous finds. I’m used to it as I spend a lot of time with Hallie, Elora, Joel, and Fraser, who are all archaeologists too, but it means I’m able to hold my own, even though I have less experience than everyone else.
The meal concludes with a flourless dark chocolate torte with raspberry coulis and whipped cream. It’s amazing, and I savor every spoonful, unable to stop a sigh of pleasure escaping my lips as I suck my spoon.
I glance over and see Joel’s spoon halfway to his lips, his gaze fixed on my mouth.
“What?” I murmur, touching my fingers to my lips in case I have chocolate smeared somewhere.
His gaze lifts to mine, holding a touch of exasperation and amusement, and he gives a slight shake of his head before he continues eating his own dessert.
I’m more careful about how I eat after that.
When we’re done and the plates have all been cleared, it’s finally time for the award ceremony. The Communications Director of ANZAS, a woman in her fifties with a silver bob called Alethea Everest, takes the mic and introduces herself and the President, Richard Williams. Richard gives a short talk about the importance of ANZAS and how thrilled he is with the growth of interest in archaeology in the country, and then Alethea begins to go through the awards. She reads out the titles and explains each of them, and the winners go up and accept their trophy from Richard.
The presentations begin with the smaller, less important awards, and gradually move to the bigger ones that are obviously more prestigious. Now that I know both Joel and Manu have been nominated, I wait nervously for their awards to come up. First is the Cultural Resource Management Award. Alethea explains that this acknowledges exceptional work in the field of cultural resource management. Manu has already told me that his Māori heritage has given him a foot in the door with the local iwi, and I’m not surprised when he’s announced as the winner. We clap him as he goes up to receive his trophy, and he gives a short speech thanking the staff at MOANA for their support, first in Māori, then in English.
I glance at Joel, pleased he’s smiling. “He works hard,” he says. “He deserves it.”
“So do you,” I point out. He shrugs. “Everyone does.”
“No, they really don’t,” I say with feeling.
He sends me a smile, but his attention is on Manu as he makes his way back to the table, and he stands and gives Manu a bearhug, which is a nice touch.
Alethea runs through a couple more awards, and then finally it’s time for the Archaeological Fieldwork Award. It’s the last one before the big two—the Public Archaeology Award, and the Lifetime Achievement Award. She reads out the six nominees, which include Manu and Joel. Manu is nominated for his work on an historic wharf in Wellington Harbour. Joel is up because of his excavation of several wrecks at what’s enigmatically called Rangitoto Ships Graveyard.
I glance at Joel; he looks calm and collected, but something in his eyes tells me he’s nervous.
Alethea pulls the card from the envelope, glances at our table, and smiles. “And the winner is… Joel Bell for the excavations at Rangitoto Ships Graveyard. He’s the youngest ever winner of this award since the society began!”
I feel a swell of delight and pride for him and turn to congratulate him as he rises. To my shock, though, he bends and, before I can protest, slides a hand to the back of my head and crushes his lips to mine in a brief but hot kiss.
Immediately, he straightens and releases me, heading for the stage. I sit there, head spinning, face burning, completely shocked. I should be indignant and protest vehemently. I should tell him he must never do that again, and that I’m disgusted with his behavior. But all I can think is how my heart leapt when he did it, and I know I’m going to dream about it for a long time to come.