Chapter 12 #2
Emails done, I spent a couple of hours working on the cooling system proposal until the guilt finally got to me and I put it aside.
Instead, I finished the new software for the glasshouse, tested it for bugs, and by lunchtime, it was installed and working like a dream.
It had far more functionality than his old system, and I was pretty sure Ryder was going to be over the moon.
I grinned as I imagined that full sunshine smile of his when I demonstrated it later in the day.
Considering the proposal I was working on, it felt good to give something back to him instead.
I made my way back to the cottage on light feet and Ziggy on my heels. A cheese and pickle sandwich and a strong cup of coffee later, I was stacking the plates in the dishwasher when I heard a knock at the front door. It was Ryder’s stone delivery that I’d completely forgotten about.
“Did Ry tell you where he wanted this one?” the burly driver asked.
I nodded and accompanied the man back to his truck, which was parked next to the sign to the cottage. I pointed to the machinery shed at the end of the track opposite and said, “Down there.”
“Thanks.” The man climbed back into his truck and began reversing onto the gravel road so he could make the tight turn onto the track.
Watching him got me thinking, and I waved him to a stop.
The man poked his head through the driver’s window and frowned. “Something wrong?”
I held up a hand. “Just give me a minute.”
He rolled his eyes but waited while I looked between the cottage and the machinery shed.
The driveways sat on opposite sides of the paper road that ran between them.
My finger tapped my bottom lip. There’d been no sign of the council yet, but according to Tim, they were coming any day.
I pulled out my phone and tried calling Ryder, but he didn’t answer.
Damn.
I walked into the middle of what was, on paper, Storten Road. Making sure to keep the two driveways clear but not leaving room for anything more than Ryder’s small utility trucks to come and go, I found the perfect spot and opened my arms. “Dump them here.”
The driver looked taken aback. “Are you sure?” He studied me like I had a screw or two loose in my brain. “I wouldn’t want to piss Ry off. He’s a good customer.”
I shrugged. “Well, Ryder’s not here, and I am. I take full responsibility.”
The man shot me a narrow look. “You do realise that it’s gonna take more than a wheelbarrow and a bit of sweat to move them if you change your mind.”
I grinned. “Even better. Go ahead. Dump them.”
The man shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
I sure hoped it wouldn’t be. It was a risk to presume that Ryder would be okay with my plan, but there it was.
I stood back and watched as the driver skilfully manoeuvred his truck into position and summarily dumped several tonnes of large rocks across Storten Road—the paper version that lay beyond Ryder’s driveway.
The truck driver shook his head. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
Me too. I waved him off and studied the mess I’d made with a bright smile. “Fat chance of getting your big trucks turned around now,” I muttered to no one in particular. It might not stop the council work in the long run, but it would sure as hell slow them down.
Feeling just a little bit smug, I dusted off my hands and headed inside. With a fresh coffee in hand, I slipped on my jandals and wandered out into the gardens to find the river Ryder was so passionate about, the one targeted to provide water for cooling the new data facility.
Ziggy pranced at my heels, snapping at the monarch butterflies that swarmed in abundance.
I paused for a moment, sipping my coffee as I watched the gorgeous creatures flit gracefully around the veritable nursery of swan plants Ryder had planted to keep them happy.
As I watched their bright dancing, the anger and anxiety I carried about all that had happened began to bleed from my bones, little by little, into the soil beneath my feet.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d walked through a garden before I’d come to the cottage.
My mother’s, perhaps? But we mostly stayed in the house when I visited, or met for lunch or coffee.
My apartment complex had a communal rooftop garden and barbecue area, but I’d never bothered going up there.
I walked through Wellington’s Botanical Gardens on a semi-regular basis, but only for exercise, listening to music while working on whatever coding issue was foremost in my mind.
I never looked around. Never listened. Never stopped.
It was something I’d noticed about Ryder in the short time I’d been at the cottage.
He often stopped whatever he was doing to pay attention to something that I’d missed.
I’d look up from my coding to find him standing at the bifold doors, entranced by something in his garden, although I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly what.
One, because I didn’t want to look like an idiot for not knowing.
And two, because it felt wrong to interrupt him, the same way it was wrong to disturb someone in prayer.
Other times, I’d catch him staring into the kitchen sink with his head cocked to one side.
Then he’d smile, walk into the laundry, rummage around for a few seconds, then head out the back door.
It took a couple of times for me to register that he’d been listening to a tui.
The bird would sit in the large cherry tree by the clothesline, where a nectar feeder hung, and if the feeder was empty, the cheeky thing would actually call to Ryder, telling him to get his shit together and refill it.
Ryder invariably obliged.
I was living with fucking Doctor Dolittle.
Still standing and sipping on my coffee, I began to notice other things in Ryder’s garden: Fat bumblebees hauling their chubby arses through the plantings, squatting on flowers, and drinking their fill.
Dragonflies hovering above the ugly flower stems of some large tropical-looking plant with shiny leaves the size of a small car.
Tuis flying in and out of the large flaxes, sucking the nectar from reddish buds with their long curved beaks.
And a blackbird glaring at me from beneath a rosebush like I was fucking up its plans.
I raised my coffee cup to the bird. “My apologies. I’ll be on my way.
” The second I moved, the bird hopped onto the lawn and started trolling for worms. I offered a low bow and said, “You’re welcome.
” The blackbird studied me with beady eyes, then gave a flick of his head and hopped back toward the cottage.
Continuing toward the chicken shed, I crossed into the water garden and made my way around the pond.
Ryder had mentioned that he pumped river water through both it and the glasshouses, so I figured there must be pipes I could follow back to the source.
I made for a narrow gap in the hedging on the far side, and when Ziggy bolted ahead and disappeared from view, I guessed I was on the right track.
On the other side of the hedge was a small pumphouse.
I followed the pipes down a steep, muddy track to a surging boulder-strewn river at the bottom.
The Korimako. I shouted at Ziggy, who was already standing in the shallows, barking, but my voice was lost to the roar of the water.
Scrambling down the last few metres, I secured him under my arm, then ditched my jandals and clambered awkwardly onto a large flat-top rock and set Ziggy on my lap.
As I took in the thundering space, an excited thrill ran up my spine.
The energy was exhilarating, and it wasn’t long before I noticed a strange hum running through my body.
I set my palm on the stone beside my hip, my eyes widening at the power of the river’s current passing through it like a shallow tremor. Passing through me.
The river. The rock. Me. Ziggy. All four of us connected.
From the safety of my lap, Ziggy watched the tumbling waters, mesmerised, his occasional yaps drowned out by the roar that circled the tall, overhanging banks like an echo chamber.
I couldn’t hear myself think, and so I didn’t.
I sat, and I watched, and I lost myself to the booming rush and constant roll of the water—sunlight sparkling in ever-changing patterns on its churning surface.
Shadows passed in and out and through the electric dance, and the clacking and plinking of stones shifting in the shallows added a lighter note to the constant boom.
Whirlpools formed and dissolved. Branches and storm debris passed on their way to the sea.
On and on, I watched and listened until my eyes fluttered closed and the booming, rumbling rush of the river was all that was left. That and the thrum of my heart beating in my ears, slow and sure, finding rhythm with the river.
Ziggy settled in the crease between my thighs, like he too had succumbed to the witchery—submitting to the wash of sound and the feel of the deep waters running through his body. I laid my hand on his back and felt the river tremble in his flesh. Comforting. Beckoning.
How long we stayed like that, I had no idea; the world beyond softening into oblivion.
When I finally opened my eyes, the forest shadows had lengthened into long limbs that stretched across the water to swallow my feet.
Cold stone numbed my butt. The river roared back into my head.
Everything the same, and yet somehow, not.
I rolled my eyes to the thinning blue sky above and grumbled, “Enough with the weird shit, you hear me?” I looked back down and caught movement in the darkening bush on the opposite bank. A flash of white, and then nothing. Was that—
Ziggy stirred and lifted his head, sniffing into the breeze blowing across the river from the other side. A low growl rumbled in his throat.