2 ~ STELLA

My first look at our new tenant on the island made me wonder if he’d been hiding in a cave for most of his life. But now that I’ve taken the time to study him further, I decide he’s probably in some witness protection programme. He is American, after all. No one looking like he does voluntarily drops out of life. I mean, beneath that beard is a jaw you could crack coconuts with. Just by looks alone, the world is his oyster.

My fingers itch for my camera, which is unusual. I’m into landscape photography rather than people, preferring the outdoors over hot lights in a studio. Sometimes people appear in my photographs, though they’re rarely aware they’ve been captured.

Apart from weddings.

To make rent, I have taken on wedding photography and, to be honest, all that stress just messes with me. What’s supposed to be the biggest day in a bride’s life—until children, I guess—turns into this deep well of stress, and angst, and tears.

“I’ve only got instant.” He’s filling the jug at the sink. The water pressure is low, so I guess the pump needs an overhaul or the filter is blocked. I add the task to the list running in my head, while checking out Reuben’s body from behind.

He’s backlit by the kitchen window, and the angle of the sun, which has yet to shift above the overhang of the veranda roof, has turned the solid block of his body into a silhouette.

And that body? It’s impressive. This is a country where we breed large, hard-built, testosterone-filled rugby players. It takes a lot to make our jaws drop. Reuben, though, did just that, about three seconds before my panties all but disintegrated.

I can’t even believe I’m thinking this way, but I can’t take my eyes off him.

His shoulders are broad, forearms thick and muscled, and I don’t know what it is about his hands. They’re capable, sure, but the fingers are never still, as if they’re constantly tapping out a beat he’s got going in his head.

Or the guy has bad nerves.

I want my camera the way some people crave chocolate. He would be anonymous from this angle, and he gives off a vibe that suggests he wants to be alone. Framed as he is in this precise moment, all of that emotion would be evident.

Granddad’s the caretaker around here. He owns the island, was born here, and these past two weeks since his heart attack constitute the longest time he’s spent off it.

I’m so grateful that he fell ill on the day his supplies were being dropped in by boat. Otherwise, here alone, I think he’d have died. They were unloading at the small dock, and he’d just stepped to the beach when he collapsed.

At the time, I was in the South Island finishing a photography project down in the Catlins, and I got back as soon as I could. Even though I knew we had a tenant turning up, my first priority was making sure Granddad was stable before I came over to Ahunui, so this tenant has been abandoned to look after himself when we’re usually a lot more hospitable.

I still have to visit Ox, the guy who runs the boat deliveries, to thank him for his help. Not only with Granddad, but I imagine he brought Reuben across from Waitapu, our nearest town, and set him up here.

I go to the oven, jumping to grab the latch on the cupboard that’s above. Granddad loves to tease me that I’m vertically challenged. After two jumps, and misses, I’m about to explain to Reuben that if he opens the cupboard he’ll find a coffee percolator, when his strong hands grip my waist and hoist me into the air.

“You look as though you need a lift,” he says. His voice is gruff, and I feel his words in his breath that tickles the back of my neck.

I have this alarming thought about how wonderful his hands feel. Perhaps I can take a few minutes rummaging in the cupboard just to enjoy the hold he has on my waist, but the coffee pot is near the front.

A surge of heat pours through my veins, leaving my face aflame, and I notice when I’m lowered to the floor, his hands linger a moment.

This is no way to start. I don’t have time for messing about with men. The last boyfriend was a total time-and-emotion suck with diminishing rewards. Now I’m completely focused on my work and building a name for myself.

I’m on the cusp, apparently, and at twenty-four, I’m so fortunate to have the support of a great gallery to push my work. My relationship with the owners is recent, and they’re taking a gamble, giving me exhibition space, so I intend to be totally dedicated and professional. They’re demanding, but that’s because they want me to succeed.

I duck under Reuben’s arm when he places me on the floor. At the bench, I pull the old Bialetti coffee percolator apart, while trying to pull myself together. I spend time examining the funnel, with way more scrutiny than it requires, to make sure there are no dried grounds caking the holes. Of course there aren’t. Between tenants, Ox’s wife, Shirley, comes over and treats the house to a thorough spring clean and she’s fantastic at her job.

I’m all thumbs as I make the coffee, babbling on about the low pressure from the sink tap and how I hope the shower is adequate. Then I’m embarrassed because mentioning the shower immediately brings a picture to mind of Reuben naked and wet. More flustered than ever, I overfill the base of the Bialetti, tip too much water out, go to start all over, when he takes a firm hold of it and removes it from my hands.

“I invited you for coffee, which means I get to make it.”

I tug it back. “I’m the host.”

He tugs, and wins. “I thought you were the caretaker. Now you’re the gardener and the host?”

“I multitask; it’s my superpower.”

“Is that so?”

Through this short exchange he’s filled and assembled the coffee pot and set it on the gas hob. He’s not that perfect, though, because he lights the wrong ring.

“You might want to—”

“I know. Try the other knob.”

I turn from him so that he can’t see my stupid smile. In short time, the coffee is bubbling, and the aroma fills the kitchen. I load up a tray with mugs, milk, the coffee pot, and Reuben picks it up, following me onto the veranda.

This is the original homestead for the island. There’s another small cottage, where Granddad lives and where I’ll stay until he’s well enough to return. The idea of renting out the homestead came after Grandma passed ten years ago. It was Granddad’s idea, and it surprised me. He said the homestead was too big for him, and that he and Grandma had been thinking about setting it up as a holiday rental. I told him there was no reason not to go ahead with the plan, and quite honestly, it’s a relief for me to know that at least part of the time he has company on the island he refuses to leave.

Except, one day that choice will be out of his hands. The island is no longer viable as the small farm it once was. Bills are mounting up. Granddad hasn’t paid his land taxes in quite some time. I’m paying them off in increments, but the debt increases faster than I can earn spare cash, and with the way property values are soaring, I don’t know how long this grace period will last.

The island has been listed for sale for two years. Sure, a lot of people like the idea of owning an island, but the practicality of it, thankfully, puts off any purchaser. I can’t say that the lack of serious interest bothers Granddad and me. We both love the place, and I secretly hope that one day I’ll earn enough to pay off the taxes and be able to afford to keep it. But I’m going to have to be mega-successful as a photographer to do that.

Tourists love the idea of holidaying somewhere out of the way and private, without being too flashy. We got the decorators in and improved the kitchen and bathrooms, but the rest is homely, the old furniture comfortable. It’s a sprawling wooden bungalow with a return veranda, so there’s always somewhere sheltered to sit outside if it’s windy, which it quite often is.

I lead Reuben to the northern side, where there’s a light breeze and sun. The view is away from the other islands in the group, which are small and uninhabited. But we can see the coastline of the mainland up to the tip of the Coromandel Peninsula.

“So, these superpowers of yours, are there any others I should know about?” he asks.

I want to tell him I can steal his soul with my camera. It’s a line Granddad used to use on me when I was a kid. Apparently something his father said the first time somebody tried to take his portrait. But a camera is intrusive until you’re invited in, so I keep the fact that I’d love to photograph him to myself.

Every moment of eye contact is intense, until he shuts it down. Like me, his hair is dark, but where my eyes are blue, his are coffee brown with a gold fleck that catches the light. Thick black lashes frame them, making them look even more brilliant. I pull my thoughts back to his question. “Not exactly superpowers, but I can cook, catch fish—I’ll get some mussels and tuatua at low tide for dinner tonight, if you like shellfish.”

“You don’t have to cook for me.”

“I’ll be cooking for myself, so it’s nothing to add a bit more food to the pot, and anyway, your kitchen is better than mine.”

He stares off at the ocean, where gannets are diving for bait fish. When he speaks, it’s to the view. “It’s hard to describe this place. Serene, raw, astoundingly primitive yet somehow near perfection.”

“I’m glad you like it.” As a response, my words sound inadequate. Quite honestly, I’m stunned. In that sentence he’s pretty much summed up the way I feel about Ahunui.

Most visitors don’t see much beyond the white sand beaches, the lagoon, overhung with ferns and nikau palms and edged with massive old flax bushes. They use the boat and kayaks, splash about in the surf and seem reluctant to explore the wild beauty of the eastern coastline, the depth of the unique native forest that grows here, or investigate the rock formations and the caves.

“Have you been exploring?” I ask.

“A little.”

He’s clearly not a big talker. I’d love to know who he is and why he’s here, but it’s none of my business. We settle the guests in, we’re there for them if they have questions, then we pretty much leave them to get on with their holiday. “I’ll get everything organised for you over the next day or two. I apologise there’s been nobody here to help—”

“I heard the caretaker took ill. How is he?”

“That’s my granddad. He’s stabilised, but he’s going to have to convalesce on the mainland for a while, and he’s not very happy about that.” We finish our coffee in silence, but he stops me when I start to pack up the tray.

“I’ll fix this.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, and just as I’m heading back to the garden he tells me he’d love shellfish for dinner.

I pull back the smile I want to beam at him.

***

“Here, taste.” I pull the first tuatua from the opened shell, dip it in the light Japanese-style sauce I made, and wave it in front of Reuben. He opens his mouth, and I reach forward, the shellfish pinched between my thumb and forefinger, to drop on his tongue. He takes my wrist, pulling my hand towards his lips, and they’re firm, wet, as they slide over my finger and take the food.

Holy smoke. I’m sure that was the sexiest move a guy’s ever pulled on me. Yep, that’s how sad my relationships have been. Then he licks the dribble of sauce that runs down my thumb, and my pussy throbs in response as if it wants his tongue, too.

Who am I kidding? Of course it does.

There’s been no man in my life since I split up with my boyfriend ten months ago. My intentions are honest, to keep things sociable between myself and my tenant, but my body isn’t listening. There’s a physical response, like the burst of an alarm, every time I’m in his presence.

Earlier Reuben joined me at the beach when I was knee-deep in the cold sea, twisting like a fifties dance maven as I searched with my feet for the tuatua just inches beneath the sand.

He stripped off his jeans and waded into the cold water in his briefs, his entire package on show when the first wave soaked him. He cursed, then laughed, a deep rumble erupting from his broad chest. His wet briefs left nothing to the imagination. Yeah, I looked, and Reuben caught me.

“You’ll have to allow for shrinkage,” he teased. “The cold water has taken its toll.”

I wasn’t sure what to say because if what I was staring at was undersized, then I’ve been dating the wrong guys.

Once we had collected our quota of tuatua, we headed to the rocks and gathered enough mussels for dinner.

I left Reuben to clean up and returned to the cottage for a shower. A cold shower. Not intentional, though that’s what my body deserved, to try to quieten it down, but the water cylinder hadn’t heated, which suggested it had finally died. I’d been warning Granddad that was going to happen, but he always reckoned it would see him out.

The sun had dipped behind the hills by the time I’d finished, and the temperature dropped with it. I pulled on some jeans and a light sweater, and fixed my hair in a loose braid.

The herb garden, though overgrown, had everything I needed to fix dinner, and when I arrived back at the main house I found Reuben scrubbing the mussels.

While he did that, I took a few minutes to steam the tuatua open, and I’m pleased Reuben likes them. He has a beer, and I have a glass of Pinot Gris, which I’m trying to make myself sip slowly. The state I’m in, I’ll probably do something I’ll regret if I disarm myself with an alcohol buzz.

When he lightens up, he’s fun, but already I’ve seen moments when some kind of cloud descends and his mood darkens. I think he’s here to heal something, and I hope it works for him the same way it has for others over the years.

“We can’t eat all of these,” he says.

We’re halfway through the pot, pulling the flesh from the shells. “Eat as many as you like and I’ll make fritters with the rest. They’re great eaten cold for lunch.”

“Do you always cook for the guests?”

“If I’m around, but I’m not usually here much these days, and most guests come as couples, families, or groups of friends, so they’re generally self-sufficient.”

“So, what does my caretaker do when she’s not on the island?”

“I’m a photographer,” I say, giving him a cheesy smile, but his face stops me in place. My words are like the off-switch to a light. Reuben’s face turns to granite, and he snatches his beer from the counter and leaves the house.