Chapter 15 #2
Curiosity piqued, Oliver checked a few more. Most were dated between 1941 and the early fifties. One note read:
Sender advised to cease correspondence. Recipient declines further delivery.
The dates aligned in his head. 1941. The arrival of the US Marines.
He could see it now: men billeted nearby, slipping letters through a quiet arrangement with the hotel, trying to keep their private lives hidden from wives, parents, commanders. Lovers’ mailboxes in a filing cabinet.
He reached for another file, wiped away the dust — and stilled.
MACLEOD, N.
Ngaire maybe? Wasn’t that the name of Lucy’s great grandmother? How many MacLeods could there be in MacLeod’s Cove? Quite a few, probably. But the name still tugged at him. He opened the file. Correspondence listed, payments made and another note:
Recipient no longer wishes to receive. Sender notified.
He checked the date. 1946. He stood for a moment with the file in his hand, staring out through the grimy window.
Two tui swayed on a flowering flax stalk, warbling.
Beyond them, the cracked terrace, the hint of a sundial half-swallowed by long grass, broken plastic chairs and rusting barrels scattered like discarded props.
The place told a story. War-time rendezvous in the restaurant, couples slipping out to the terrace, promises made and broken. Lives that had intersected here and then ripped apart again.
He shook himself and slid the file into a box he’d already started for Kate and her family — old photos, early hotel papers, anything that looked like history rather than rubbish.
He made a mental note to get his architects to check the sundial.
Apparently he was in the business of preserving things now.
It wasn’t like him. His decisions had always been calculated, clean. Numbers on a spreadsheet. But somewhere between Lucy’s café garden and this neglected one, something had shifted.
And he wasn’t entirely sure he liked it.
Oliver pulled up outside MacLeod’s Cottage and killed the engine. The last time he’d been here, he’d walked up the path with bottles of champagne and the arrogant certainty of a man who always got his way. Today he carried a cardboard box of dusty files and absolutely no certainty at all.
He knocked. While he waited, he glanced around. Nothing about the weathered verandah, the mismatched chairs, the kids’ toys scattered by the steps suggested a world that had room for men like him. But he was here now. Too late to turn back.
Footsteps thudded down the hall. He prayed for Kate.
The door opened on Dan.
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve,’ Dan said, stepping out and pulling the door shut behind him. Arms crossed. Jaw tight.
‘Dan.’ Oliver didn’t bother to offer his hand. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘I bet you didn’t. I’m sure you thought you could just waltz back in and pick up where you left off with the women.’ Dan took a step closer. ‘Not happening. I’m not letting you take my family for a ride.’
Oliver took the hit. He deserved worse.
‘You fooled Lucy,’ Dan went on. ‘You fooled Mum. Said one thing, did another. What makes you think you can treat them like that and then turn up on the doorstep?’
‘Because I found something I think might matter to you,’ Oliver said quietly. ‘To all of you.’
Dan snorted. ‘Doubt it.’
‘I found some old hotel records which I thought Kate might be interested in.’
At that moment Liam came pelting around the side of the house. ‘Hey, Dan —’ He stopped dead when he saw Oliver.
Dan’s stance shifted, softening. ‘Hey, mate.’
Liam’s gaze flicked between them. ‘That’s Aunty Lucy’s friend,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Oliver’s throat tightened.
‘That’s right,’ Dan said.
‘Lucy isn’t here,’ Liam added.
‘That’s OK,’ Oliver said. ‘I didn’t expect her to be.’ He lifted the box a little. ‘I brought something for your grandmother. Is she at home?’
Liam shook his head. ‘There’s just me and Liam, mate,’ Dan said, the warmth gone again. ‘You can say whatever you were going to say to Mum, to me.’
‘Sure.’ Oliver adjusted his grip on the box. ‘Does the initial “N MacLeod” mean anything to you?’
Dan’s eyes sharpened. ‘Maybe. Why?’
‘I found references to some old correspondence between her and someone else.’ He tapped the lid.
‘To my great-grandmother?’ Dan blinked. ‘Yeah, that means something. What are you doing with her stuff?’
‘Look, Dan —’
‘Don’t “look, Dan” me.’
Oliver set the box on a verandah ledge. He might need both hands if this escalated.
‘Daniel!’ Kate’s voice cut across the tension. They both turned. She was striding up the path, face set.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ she demanded. ‘Dan, take Liam inside and put the kettle on. Liam, milo for you. We’ll have tea, won’t we, Oliver?’
Oliver let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. ‘Tea would be great,’ he said.
Dan shot him one last murderous look, then shepherded Liam inside.
Kate watched them go, then turned back to Oliver. ‘As you can tell, we don’t like how you’ve treated Lucy,’ she said calmly. ‘But that doesn’t excuse rudeness.’
‘Completely fair,’ he said. ‘If I were Dan, I’d feel the same.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Two reasons.’ He met her gaze. ‘First, to apologise. I’m sorry for what’s happened. For the way I behaved. I was out of line. What I did was wrong.’
She inclined her head, accepting the words without softening.
‘Second,’ he went on, lifting the box back into his arms, ‘I’ve been going through the papers in the Old Colonial’s basement.’
She took a half-step back. ‘What did you find?’
‘Old war-time photos of dances, the village, but records mainly. Including a record of correspondence between an N. MacLeod and a J. Kowalski.’
Her eyes flicked to the box, then away, as if it contained something dangerous.
‘You’re not going to look?’ he asked gently.
She stayed very still. That was when he realised it wasn’t disinterest holding her back, but fear.
He opened the box and took out the top file.
‘N. MacLeod,’ he read. ‘Returned correspondence marked “return to sender” dated 1946. It looks like they corresponded from 1941 to 1946.’
Her hands trembled as she took it. ‘And the sender was J. Kowalski,’ she murmured, tracing the name with a fingertip.
‘Kate…are you all right?’ he asked quietly.
She blinked rapidly, eyes suddenly bright, and managed a small, wobbly smile. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
He nodded once. ‘Then I’ve done what I came to do.’ He stepped away. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
When he glanced back he saw Kate hadn’t moved. Every instinct urged him to go to her, to sit at that old kitchen table and talk through what he’d found. But he wasn’t family. He wasn’t even a friend anymore.
He’d forfeited that right the moment he chose his project over her daughter.