Chapter Twenty-One
Elora
Eventually, we lever ourselves out of bed and take a shower together.
It’s a whole new experience for me, squeezing into the shower cabinet with a man. Before long the windows are steamed up and he’s all wet and slippery, his muscular arms and torso gleaming. He lets me wash him, laughing when I smooth the shower puff across him with agonizing slowness as I admire every dip and bulge and every line of ink. Then he does the same to me, using his hands, exploring my curves and swells.
It’s impossible not to get turned on by it, and when I’m washing his back I start kissing his neck and pressing my breasts against him, but he tells me off and informs me I’m going to have to wait until later, or neither of us will be able to walk for a few hours.
I sulk, and he laughs and says I’m insatiable, and gives me a hug before turning off the shower and collecting a towel to start drying me.
He’s partially right, but it’s mainly because I know that tomorrow he’s off to Christchurch for his corporate cruise, and that’ll be the last time I see him, so I want to make the most of every second we have together.
I’m hopeful that we’ll stay in touch now when he’s back in the UK. By Snapchat or Insta or WhatsApp, maybe. But obviously it’s not the same as being with him. Eventually he’ll get a new girlfriend, and then I’ll have to watch him post photos of the two of them together, going on dates, eventually getting married, having children, knowing that could have been me in another lifetime. It’s going to be so hard. And I’ve made it doubly difficult for myself now I’ve slept with him.
It was foolish, but I still can’t bring myself to regret it. I’m not going to think about tomorrow. I have him for the rest of the day and tonight, and I’m damn well going to make the most of him.
I put on my makeup standing next to him at the sink while he shaves. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a man do that—I’ve watched my father and seen both Fraser and Joel at various times walking around the apartment with their faces half-covered in foam or bleeding nicks on their necks. But there’s something different about watching Linc do it. My gaze is repeatedly drawn by the smooth movement of the razor up his neck, the way he lifts his chin, exposing his throat and Adam’s apple, and the faces he pulls while he’s shaving his cheeks and jaw. He’s so… manly, standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist, all gleaming muscles and tats, smelling of spicy cologne, filling the air with the scrape of the blade on stubble, his deep voice humming along to a song I’m playing on my phone.
He glances at me in the mirror, catching my eye, and lifts an eyebrow. “Lora…”
“What?”
“You’ve got that look in your eye again.”
“It’s your fault,” I grumble, finishing off my mascara. “It’s impossible not to get distracted.”
“There’s no time,” he scolds. “The guy asked me to be there at ten. He’s off to work at midday.”
“I’ve heard quickies are a thing.”
He laughs and splashes his face with cold water. “I’m going to save myself for a mega session later.” He gives me a hot glance in the mirror, then walks out.
Ooh, a mega session. I wonder what that entails?
I think about it while I finish getting ready, and then again as we get in the car and Linc heads out on the state highway toward Arrowtown. It’s our last night together; tomorrow he flies to Christchurch to join the cruise, and after that he’s heading back to the UK. One more night to try all the things I’ve dreamed about.
No, I mustn’t think like that. Linc isn’t going to be the only man I ever sleep with. He’s opened the gate in the wall around me, and that means I’m now able to consider dating someone else. I just need to find a man like him, who’s kind and patient, as well as sexy and gorgeous.
I look up at the mountains that tower over me like a well-meaning father, protective but somehow intimidating too, and sigh.
“Penny for them,” Linc says.
I just give him a wistful smile.
He frowns and picks up my hand in his. “What’s the matter?”
“Probably best not to ask.”
“Aw, come on. We’re friends first, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I was thinking about how you’ve helped me, and once you’ve gone I should start dating other people.”
His eyes meet mine, then return to the road. “Right,” he says.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”
“Not at all. That was why we did this, wasn’t it? To help you get over that hurdle?” His words are kind, and he’s still holding my hand, but his expression has hardened.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, feeling guilty. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He doesn’t reply for a moment. I can see the wheels and cogs whirring in his brain. Eventually, he says, “So you think you will be able to date someone else?”
I look out of the window again. “I don’t know. The thought of letting another man touch me the way you did this morning makes my heart rate skyrocket, and not in a good way.”
“That’s because you’re picturing a stranger,” he says. “But you’d only go to bed with someone once you know and trust them, like you know and trust me, right?”
“I guess. In essence, though, my situation hasn’t changed. The guy, whoever he ends up being, is still going to have to wait for me, and what man wants that?”
“Lora, if he meets you, and he likes you, he’ll be patient with you. If he won’t wait, he’s not worth your time, believe me. And besides, most men like the chase. They enjoy seducing the girl.”
“Talking her into it, you mean?”
“No, no, I mean flirting, encouraging, and teasing her out of her shell.”
“Is that what you did to me?”
He glances at me, lips curving up. “Maybe a little.”
“Or maybe I seduced you.”
His eyebrows rise as he considers it. “Hmm.” He lifts my hand and kisses my fingers. “You were very good at it.”
“Thank you. It was my first time.”
He laughs and releases my hand so he can signal and turn at the roundabout.
Maybe I did seduce him. It was certainly me who asked him if he’d like to have sex. If I did it once, I can do it again, right?
Except I can’t imagine doing it with anyone other than Linc.
“So,” he says, “I wonder whether we’ll get the Bell Ring today?”
I push thoughts of the future away. Carpe diem, Elora. “It’ll be amazing if it is there, after all this time.”
“Do you have a photo of it? How will you know if it’s the right one?”
“Not a photo, but a description—greenstone in a gold setting. And apparently inside it has their initials inside—A and H for Atticus and Hinerangi.”
“Well that should do it.” He takes the turnoff for Arrowtown as the GPS directs him.
The road snakes alongside the glistening waters of Lake Hayes, then heads off through a countryside of green and brown fields, dotted with vineyards.
Arrowtown itself sits on the banks of the Arrow River. When we arrive, Linc drives slowly along Buckingham Street, so we get to see the center of the gold-mining town in all its glory. It’s lined with well-preserved buildings, used by the European and Chinese immigrants who started arriving here from the 1860s, when the miners first discovered gold.
“There’s gold in them thar hills,” Linc says, looking up at the mountains behind the shops, galleries, and bars in their unique settings.
“Who said that?”
“Apart from me? Mark Twain, I think.” He turns right at the end of the road and follows the GPS instructions. “It’s just up here.”
He turns off into a wide road with smart bungalows on either side. Halfway along, he parks outside a neat brick-built cottage and turns off the engine. An old sign swings in the light breeze—it reads Arrow Antiques.
We get out and walk up the garden path. I’ve seen photos of Arrowtown in autumn, of the trees in their stunning red and gold coats. Today though the lawns and trees are lush and green.
As we approach the house, the door opens, and a guy in his forties wearing shorts and an All Blacks top comes out.
“Linc?” he asks, and Linc nods. “Jack Albright,” he states, holding out his hand, and the two of them shake. “Come in,” he says, and he leads the way into the place, which is like half a cottage, half a shop.
Linc and I follow him into a decent-sized room. It’s devoid of furniture, and consists of about thirty cardboard boxes, some taped up, some half full of items like plates and dishes, ornaments and books.
“Sorry,” he says, “there’s nowhere to sit. We’ve sold all the furniture. As you can see, we’re in the process of clearing the house. Dad had a lot of knick-knacks, and they all need to be packaged up and taken to the charity shop.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” I say. Linc squeezes my hand, as if saying thanks for remembering to say that.
“Thank you.” Jack looks around and sighs. “Dad spent the last few years trying to get rid of his stock, but as you can see, there’s still a lot left. So, anyway… you were looking for the Bell Ring, right?”
“Yes,” I say, my heart starting to race, “Atticus Bell was my ancestor. I work at the National Museum, and I was hoping to find the ring for an exhibition we’re holding next month.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have it,” Jack says, and my heart plummets. “I searched through all the boxes,” he continues. “But I had an idea, and I’ve literally just found this.” He takes out a notebook and hands it to us.
It’s an old receipt book, the kind where you write on a top sheet, and it makes a carbon copy on the sheet below it. The top sheets have all been removed, leaving the carbon copies beneath.
“It’s one of Dad’s receipt books for his antique business,” Jack says. “I’ve marked the page you need to look at.”
Linc opens the book at where a Post-it Note is stuck to the top of a page.
The receipt is made out to a Maureen Lyttle, for the price of two thousand, four hundred and forty-nine dollars. The date was the sixteenth of June 2015. In the notes section, the tiny, neat handwriting reads ‘Antique Ring: gold band, large oval greenstone, engraved with the initials A & H, style suggests a date of the 1860s. Original seller referred to it as the Bell Ring.’
“Oh!” I gasp. “That’s it! Oh my God.” I take the book from Linc. “It’s got an address!”
“Dad sometimes noted it down,” Jack says. “He was very meticulous with his record keeping.”
“Milford Sound,” Linc says. “Does anyone actually live there?”
“There’s a small village,” I reply. “Only about a hundred people. Maybe she or someone in her family works in tourism. Is it okay if I take a photo of this?” I ask Jack.
“Of course.”
I photograph the page and give the book back to him. “Thank you so much.”
“I hope you find it,” he says. “It was a nice piece. It sat on Mum and Dad’s mantelpiece for a few years when I was a kid.”
We say goodbye and return to our car. Once we’re in, we turn to each other and laugh.
“I can’t believe it,” I say. “After all this time.”
Linc pulls out his phone. “Let’s see if we can find Maureen Lyttle.”
He searches the White Pages, but it doesn’t come up with anything. I do a general Google, and we spend ten minutes trying different things, but to no avail.
“That’s frustrating,” I say eventually.
“There could be hundreds of reasons for it,” Linc says. “She could have gotten divorced and be using her maiden name now.”
“Or maybe she moved to another town.”
“Or died.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, yes, let’s look on the bright side.”
“I’m just saying. Maureen isn’t a young person’s name.”
“Don’t be ageist.”
“I’m not. It’s a lovely name. But I bet you don’t find many women under seventy called it.”
I try not to laugh. Then I give a big sigh. “So that’s it? The trail’s gone cold?”
Linc purses his lips. He studies me for a moment. Then he says, “Come on. Let’s go and get some breakfast.”
He drives back into the town and parks by the river, and we wander up Buckingham Street, then turn into a small mall with a cobbled square and find a café. We’re both hungry, so we order two big breakfasts with coffee.
It’s a small café, a little dark and claustrophobic inside. Linc spots me looking around a tad nervously, takes my hand, and leads me to a table outside.
I sit opposite him, in the dappled shade cast by a tree that seems to be growing right out of the cobbles and give him a relieved smile. “Thank you for that.”
“No worries.” He leans forward, forearms on the table, and tips his head at me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Did you sleep well, apart from the nightmare?”
“I did, actually.”
“I didn’t notice you checking the locks in the hotel room.”
I shrug, playing with one of the sugar packets. “I felt safe with you there.”
He doesn’t reply. Eventually I look up. He’s studying me, head resting on his hand. He’s wearing his sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes.
“I’ve got an idea,” he says. “About Maureen.”
“Oh?”
“It takes about four hours to get to Milford Sound from here. That’s a long drive. But my cruise calls in there before it heads off back to Oz.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, of course! Do you think you’d have time to ask around, see if you can track her down?”
He lifts his sunglasses up onto his hair. His expression is guarded, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. But he says, “Why don’t you come with me?”
I stare at him. “Do you mean meet you at Milford Sound?”
“No. I mean come on the cruise with me.”
My jaw drops. “Oh. You mean from Christchurch?”
“Yeah. It’s only two days. We’d get there on Friday. We could try and find Maureen. Then maybe stay the night there and get a flight back on Saturday.”
My brain’s turned to mush. “But… the cruise must be fully booked, surely. They’re unlikely to have any spare cabins.”
He rolls his eyes. “Or you could share with me.”
My face immediately heats like a furnace.
He laughs. “Why are you blushing?”
“I don’t know. Don’t tease me.”
“I’m totally going to tease you about it. After what we did last night? And again this morning? And probably later on today?”
“Linc!”
He smiles. “Come with me. Spend another couple of nights with me. Let’s see if we can find the ring. And maybe by then we’ll be sick of each other, and we’ll be ready to say goodbye.”
His eyes are bright green in the dappled sunlight. He doesn’t say it, but suddenly I’m sure he’s thinking, as I am, That’s not going to happen .
I feel a little frisson of something run down my back. A little sparkle, as if I’m on an excavation, brushing away the earth, and I spot a glimmer of gold beneath the surface.
I push it away, though. I can’t afford to be romantic about this. Even if we’re fond of each other, he’s definitely leaving the country on the fifth, and I have to prepare for that.
But I can still enjoy him while I have him.
“Okay,” I say.
His eyebrows rise. “Oh. I was expecting more resistance.”
“Sorry. Am I being over eager?”
He grins. “No.”
“The only fly in the ointment is that I’ll have to ask Fraser for the time off.”
“Ah.”
“He’s been begging me to take a vacation for months, but I can’t imagine he’s going to be overjoyed if it turns out to be with you.”
Linc’s eyes gleam. “Want me to talk to him?”
“No… I can handle him. But if I run into trouble, you can go and beat him up.”
He snorts. “That’d be like watching Pooh Bear wrestle Tigger.”
I giggle, leaning back as the waitress comes out with our breakfasts. “That’d be a sight to see.” I smile at her as she places my plate before me. It contains a sausage, a fried egg, a pile of crispy bacon, a hash brown, mushrooms, baked beans, a tomato, and toast. “Wow.”
“Eat up,” Linc says as the waitress retreats. “You need to keep your strength up.”
I give him a wry look. “Behave.”
He laughs and tucks into the breakfast. “Not much chance of that.”
I smile, cutting into the sausage and dipping it into the egg yolk. I love that although he’s obviously grown up and changed a lot from the boy I knew, inside he’s still the naughty fourteen-year-old I met outside my father’s study.
We eat our breakfasts while we chat and sip our coffee under the warm January sun. It’s nearly February now, and the days are long and hot, even this far south. Queenstown and its environs lie nestled in the mountains and because of that they have a kind of microclimate that lends itself perfectly to wine production. The area is littered with vineyards, as well as a gin and whisky distillery.
He’s lowered his sunglasses and is sitting with his head tipped back, catching the sun. “I love this warm weather,” he says, reminding me that it’s winter in the UK. “It’s one of the things I miss. It can get hot in England in summer, but the weather is a lot more changeable.”
“What else do you miss?”
He thinks about it. “The All Blacks. I mean they play rugby there, of course, but football is much bigger.”
“Have you been to any matches?”
“Yeah, a friend of mine supports Crystal Palace. They’re in the Premiership—that’s the top league. I’ve been to quite a few home games, and also to some away games with him. It’s good fun.”
I surprise myself by feeling a surge of pleasure that his friend is a ‘him’, not a ‘her.’ I’ve never considered myself to be a jealous person, but then I guess I’ve not had anything to be jealous about.
I don’t particularly like the feeling. I can’t afford to get all possessive about Linc. He’s not mine. I have no rights to him, to his affection or his time.
“Would you like to go?” he asks.
“To a football match?” I ask, surprised. “Yes, of course. I mean, rugby will always be my first love, but I watch the Wellington Phoenix when they play on TV, and I’ve been to a couple of live matches.”
“I hope you don’t call it soccer, though.”
I chuckle, knowing that the English hate the term. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He finishes off his coffee. “How are you doing?”
“Yes, I’m done.”
“How do you fancy a drive up to Lake Wānaka?”
I warm through at the thought that he wants to continue spending time with me. He doesn’t have to. He could say he’s going to drop me off for shopping or something and then go and do his own thing. But he seems keen to stay with me. And for that I’m glad.
“Sounds great,” I say.
So we walk slowly back to the car, hand in hand, warmed by the summer sun, and I’m so happy I think if he let go of my hand I’d fly up into the clouds.