Chapter Four
“If you’re not going to eat that…”
Nate handed Claire the bread roll and cheese from his barely touched airline tray. Under different circumstances he might be amused by her appetite. She’d already eaten his complimentary cashew nuts, along with her own.
“Anything else you want?” It had been a long time since he’d flown cattle class, but she’d refused to let him upgrade her to first, telling him to go ahead and book for himself.
Much as Nate needed the space, he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy Air New Zealand’s premier service while she sat in economy.
Accepting the roll, she eyed his dessert—a slice of blackberry cheesecake. He drained his glass of wine and indicated her unopened 187 ml bottle of merlot. “Swap you,” he suggested.
Claire passed it over. “Hair of the dog?” Her tone was carefully neutral.
“It’ll help me sleep.”
“I have a homeopathic remedy.”
“Hell, no,” he said feelingly and they shared an involuntary smile. Claire had once given Steve a sleeping tincture for the unit. The smell of the stuff alone—a cross between a decomposing rat and a flatulent elephant—had made everyone gag. The pilot of the Hercules had dropped altitude solely to jettison the bottles into the Pacific.
“It’s odorless,” she promised.
Nate unscrewed the cap on her wine and refilled his glass. “This will do fine.” Her lips tightened. Good. A buffer of disapproval made this whole thing easier. After the ambush, alcohol had helped counter his chronic insomnia, but since moving to the States he’d only needed it on the first anniversary of the ambush. And when his old life collided with his new life.
“You didn’t used to drink so much.”
“You didn’t used to eat so much,” he countered. “Though God knows you need to.”
She concentrated on digging a spoon into the creamy filling.
Nate wanted to kick himself. “Sorry. I can’t see a slender woman now without worrying she’s got an eating disorder.”
Claire glanced at his tray. “Give me your mint chocolate and I’ll forgive you.”
He surrendered it, holding on to the silver wrapper until she looked at him. “You’re still beautiful, Claire,” he said awkwardly.
She shrugged as if to say it wasn’t important now, and Nate changed the subject. “If you’re going to be a skipper you must have renewed your qualification?”
“Yes, I’m certified again. Do you remember Dad’s fishing partner, Uncle Dave in Northland? Lewis and I holidayed with him and Aunt Sally last Christmas and I skippered on his charter to bring my hours up.”
“So Lewis is keen to be involved?”
“Hell, no!” She gave that deep-throated chuckle that always made Nate smile because it came from such a slight frame. “He already thinks I’m a slave driver for making him clean his room occasionally, let alone swab decks and handle bait. No, Lewis is concentrating on improving his grades.”
“He’s having problems with his grades?” The kid had always done so well in school.
“His old friends placed a low value on education—they decided it was cooler to skip classes. But the headmistress of his new private school is confident that between us, we’ve got him back on track with his studies.”
She’d put down her spoon. Casually, Nate said, “How’s the cheesecake?”
Claire refocused on her plate. “Excellent.” She picked up her spoon again. “So there’s no point regretting the swap now.”
“Did you apply to the SAS trust for Lewis’s school fees?” The unit had a support system for bereaved families.
“I’ll see how it goes,” she said vaguely.
Nate frowned. “That’s what the trust’s for, Claire.”
“And I’ll get them involved if I have to,” she said with finality.
Claire finished his dessert, and shot him a sidelong glance as she peeled the plastic off the cheese. “You probably wouldn’t recognize Lewis, he’s grown so tall over the last year. I have a few photos on my phone.”
Resisting the urge to tell her that trying to draw him into the family circle wouldn’t work, Nate accepted her cell. For a moment he didn’t recognize the gangly youth standing next to her in the picture. “He’s as tall as you.” The child had been replaced by a teenager, with the half smile of someone embroiled in the desperate battle between cool and shy. His blond hair was Claire’s, but he had his dad’s hazel eyes. Nate couldn’t meet them.
“It was taken at Dan and Jo’s wedding,” she said. “There are a few shots there. Flick through,” she invited.
He did so reluctantly. Jo was the picture of a radiant bride; her groom a bedraggled, bruised mess with a beaming smile.
“What the hell?”
“Jo had Dan dropped in the wilderness with twenty-four hours to get to the wedding.” Claire munched her crackers. “She wanted to convince him of her faith in him. I don’t entirely understand her logic, but Dan did, so that’s all that matters. He’d been beating himself up about not being with you guys through the ambush. But he’s better now.”
And just like that she’d tricked him into caring. Why wasn’t I told Dan was in trouble? Biting back the question, Nate blanked his expression and returned the cell.
Because he’d never asked.
“You were missed at the wedding, Nate,” she said. “You and Jules.”
Lee’s fiancee. Searchers had found their missing gunner’s remains the next day, spread-eagle over a boulder. The insurgents had packed explosives under his corpse and the approach of the retrieval crew detonated a trip wire. Two more men died. There was nothing to retrieve of Lee except one of his boots, found a few meters away. One of the local allies picked up a fingertip, which confirmed his DNA.
He refilled his plastic wine goblet, then pushed the call button. “How is she?” he heard himself ask. The hostess arrived before Claire could answer. “Another bottle of red, please.”
The brunette hostess glanced at the two empty bottles on his tray and then instinctively at Claire.
She shrugged. “I wish I had some influence, but I don’t.”
Flustered, the other woman murmured, “Let me get that for you, sir,” and left.
Claire speared him with those Viking blues. “Jules is struggling—like all the survivors. But we’re a support group for each other. Maybe you should try it.”
Nate scowled. “Remember our deal. No one knows I’m home.”
“Jules is my lawyer, Nate. You’d know that if you’d opened her mail.”
Shit.
“But don’t worry.” Claire bit into her cheese and cracker with a snap. “I’ll be sure to tell her we can’t care about you anymore.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
The hostess reappeared with a third bottle. Claire turned her attention to the in-flight romantic comedy, leaving Nate alone with the drink and his thoughts.
No man left behind.
He’d intended to carry Ross to relative safety and return. But in his heart he’d known there’d be no second chances. Risking his own life was one thing; risking Ross’s another. Steve had played on that and Nate had let him. And left him.
Now all he remembered was the spark of relief when the decision was taken out of his hands. He didn’t want to die. I was only obeying orders. How many times through history had culpable men said that?
The day he’d been awarded a valor medal was the second-worst day of his life. Thank God he’d resigned from the service before it was approved, otherwise he’d have been stuck with the military’s highest honor, the Victoria Cross. As a civilian, he’d escaped with the New Zealand Cross. A bravery medal for a coward. And even if he wasn’t a coward, he hadn’t deserved recognition.
A hero would have found a way to save both.
The rattle of a service cart pulled him out of his dark reverie and he realized the air hostesses were clearing dinner. Nate put up his tray table and settled his thin pillow against the window after a fruitless attempt to get more incline from his seat. Claire glanced at him, but didn’t try to reengage him in conversation. She was learning.
Closing weary eyes, Nate tried to rest. He’d had a busy morning briefing his stand-in. Fortunately, he job shared Zander…no one could handle that ego 24-7…and it had been relatively easy to talk his counterpart into covering him for a few days. It had been much harder to find a volunteer bodyguard for his women’s-shelter work. He fell asleep to the soothing hum of the B747 engines.
The dream was always the same. He was behind the wheel of the Humvee, trying to outdrive a pursuing foe, bumping and jolting through pitch-dark terrain, terrified and straining to see. Everyone was there…. Dan, Lee, Ross and Steve, unconscious and bloody. Only he could save them…except he was driving blind. He felt the vehicle lose terra firma….
Nate woke with a low groan, his temple pounding, and struggled to reorient himself. The cabin lay in darkness. Here and there the dim flash of screens indicated the insomniacs watching in-flight movies. He tensed as the cabin rattled under another pocket of turbulence. No wonder this dream had felt so real. A blanket lay over his legs. About to push it off, he realized his hand was intertwined with Claire’s.
Turning his head, he saw her curled beside him, watching him anxiously. That someone had witnessed his distress hit him like an electric shock. Dismay must have shown in his face, because she closed her eyes, giving him privacy.
But her fingers tightened on his.
Nate suffered her comforting clasp a couple of minutes before he freed his hand. By then, his forehead was beaded with sweat.
* * *
Arriving in his homeland at dawn was another torture. The Kiwi accents in passport control stabbed Nate with nostalgia.
“G’day, mate,” said the Maori customs official. “How was Paris when you left?”
“I got off the flight from Los Angeles.”
“Yeah, mate. I’m talking about Paris Hilton.”
“Nice one, bro.”
Adding to the unwanted twinge of wistfulness was the fresh coolness of spring rain after L.A.’s dry heat and the scent of green pasture as Claire drove three hours north in Steve’s pink 1959 Cadillac Coupe DeVille. “Something else I can’t sell without your signature,” she commented above the rumble of the V8 engine.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.” Expertly, she manipulated the gear lever mounted on the steering column. “It’s time she went to a collector who’ll cherish her like Steve did.”
There was an edge in her voice that in any other woman he would have called bitterness. He must be mistaken. Steve and Claire had had the perfect marriage. “You drive her much?”
“Only on special occasions. She sits in storage mostly. But I thought you’d enjoy a ride in her if I talked you into coming home.”
He caressed the brown leather. He and the guys had shared some great road trips in this Caddy. Steve had meant to repaint her when he’d bought her in a never-to-be-repeated deal, but somehow the pink had become part of her charm. “If you want to nap, I’m happy to drive.”
“I’m fine for now.” She glanced over. “Did you get any sleep?” And it was between them again, that moment she’d seen him unguarded.
Nate lowered the window, let the cold breeze play over his face. “Yeah,” he lied. “So fill me in on what I need to know about the trust.” She’d promised to cram appointments to facilitate his return to the States.
Over the next hour she outlined her business plan, the negotiations over the house, and brought him up to date on the mechanics of dissolving the trust.
“Sounds like it’s been in the planning for a while,” he commented as they pulled into a gas station at Wellsford.
“I started the ball rolling six months after Steve died.”
Nate unbuckled his seat belt. “Aren’t you supposed to wait two years before making life-changing decisions?”
“One year,” she corrected. “It’s now closer to two.” She got out of the Caddy and crossed to the pump. Except all the delays had been due to him.
He got out to help, removing the petrol cap and positioning the nozzle while Claire keyed in a dollar amount. “So, what feedback are you getting from Ross, Dan and Jo about all this?”
“Not much. I’ve been drip-feeding information until it’s all signed and sealed.” She pulled a credit card out of her purse. “Obviously, they’re aware my house is on the market and I intend moving to Stingray Bay. Dan and Jo know I went to L.A. to fetch you, because they’re looking after Lewis.”
“Why the secrecy? And put your wallet away. I’m paying for the gas.”
“Because I don’t want anyone talking me out of it,” she said frankly. “And I’m paying for this…. Want a Kiwi meat pie to remind you you’re home?”
“Sure.” With a frown, he watched her walk into the service station. These were big decisions she was making. You’d think she’d have run them by close friends.
“You okay to drive now?” Claire said on her return. Was she deliberately trying to distract him? Nate accepted the keys, the pie and the hint.
“Happy to.”
They had the same goal, break the trust. Three days tops and he was out of here. Everything else was her business.
She’d fallen asleep by the time they’d reached Whangarei, where he bypassed the city to take the turnoff to Stingray Bay, forty-five minutes east. She was curled up like a kid in the passenger seat, blond hair falling across her cheek. Undoing his seat belt, Nate shrugged off his Italian-leather jacket and covered her, keeping a hand on the steering wheel.
As the Caddy ate up the miles the road changed with the rural landscape, becoming narrow and winding. Nate pulled over at a one-lane bridge to give way to a lumbering dairy tanker, letting the dust of the unsealed road settle behind it before he accelerated. How many times had he traveled this way, heading to the bach—beach house—of his favorite couple? Usually with Lee, Ross and Dan, sometimes alone. Looking forward to R & R—diving for crays and scallops, fishing off the bridge, surfing when there was a swell.
His pulse started to beat faster as the car bypassed the mangrove swamps. They were close. Nate wound down the driver’s window, inhaled the swampy-salty odor of mudflats exposed by low tide. Some of the happiest times in his life had been spent here. Glancing at Claire, he wondered how she could stand returning now. Except her memories predated Steve’s arrival in her life. Her family had holidayed in Stingray Bay for four generations, and she’d inherited the bach from her father. That probably offset the deep sadness making him grip the steering wheel.
“Are we here already?” Opening her eyes, Claire yawned and sat up.
He blinked hard. “Just about.” The Caddy swung left onto the thumb of land that ended at the mouth of an estuary that divided Stingray Bay North and South.
Amidst the rush of coastal development, the sleepy settlement remained a nostalgic relic. Though the outhouses had been superseded by indoor plumbing, most of the four hundred dwellings were the original baches clad with fiber cement board. The permanent population of a few hundred swelled to four times that in summer, which coincided with the opening of the only store at the campground.
It was a place where inhabitants measured their day by the tides…. Collecting shellfish in the estuary when it was low, launching the aluminum dinghy—tinny—when it was high, and in-between times sitting in deck chairs and watching its slow ebb and flow.
A place where you got out of your vehicle on arrival and didn’t climb in it until departure, where nightlife was a game of Monopoly or cards and the only way to reach the store was to walk across the footbridge separating Stingray North and South or kayak across the estuary. There was no direct road access between the halves. To reach one from the other by car you had to drive for forty-five minutes around the mainland.
Toward the end of the tiny peninsula, the road became gravel driveway and Nate steered the Caddy into the communal grass yard behind a row of old baches. No one put up fences here. Claire’s bach sat at the end, freshly painted blue fiber cement board siding with white trim, patio doors at both ends and a corrugated-iron roof.
The bathroom was a lean-to accessed from the front deck, which stepped down to a lawn of hardy kikuyu grass and overlooked the wide estuary and the baches of Stingray South, five hundred meters across the water. The rear deck gave a peep of the ocean beach, which lay below a rise some twelve feet from the rear boundary. It had always been a spectacular location.
Claire handed him the house key, sliding over to the driver’s seat as he got out of the car. “I’ll be back around nine tonight.” She was going home to Whangarei to change vehicles, catch up with Steve’s mother and gather the paperwork for Nate to read over before their appointments tomorrow. “Help yourself to what’s in the freezer. I’ll bring fresh supplies with me.”
She waited while Nate retrieved his weekend bag from the trunk. “And if you feel like taking a look at Heaven Sent, she’s in the boat shed near the footbridge. There’s a key for it on a hook beside the fridge.”
With a nod, he went to close her door, but she reached out and held it open. “Are you sure you’re okay…being here?”
“Drive carefully,” he said and clicked it shut. When the Caddy had rumbled out of sight, he sat at the sturdy wooden picnic table on the deck looking out to the estuary, his bag beside him. It was a typical September day, the wind a brisk spring-cleaner full of bustle and blow.
It still took thirty minutes to get cold enough to go inside.
The whole living space was about the size of his kitchen in L.A. Open-plan lounge/dining took up most of it, with a pocket-size kitchen only large enough for two to stand at an L-shaped counter, holding the stove and sink. Off the kitchen a curtain partition led to a bedroom so small there was barely room to walk between two single beds. Another curtain off the living room led to a bunk room and master bedroom. When he and the guys stayed, they’d pitched a tent on the lawn, invariably commandeered by Lewis and the neighborhood’s kids through the day for use as a fort.
The covered rear deck had a railing that doubled as a clothesline for towels. In summer all the living was outdoors on the decks, all cooking done on the barbecue, and space was never an issue. As a winter residence it seemed way too small for a woman and her teenage son.
Don’t get involved.
He gravitated to a large corkboard in the living room. It held a tide calendar and decades of faded snapshots of sunburned laughing holidaymakers, himself among them. His gaze shied away.
He’d bought a bottle of scotch duty free, but he couldn’t open it. It seemed irreverent somehow, though God knows they’d held some parties here in their time. But this was a happy place, maudlin drinking had no place here.
Nate dumped his bag in the small bedroom, changed into running gear and headed for the ocean beach where he pounded up and down the soft white sand of its three-kilometer length until his legs were jelly and he could barely put one foot in front of the other.
Then he returned to the bach and took a shower, making a mental note to improve the water pressure. Donning a pair of boxers, he fell exhausted into one of the single beds.
Already the walls were closing in.