As Deep as the Ocean Page 13

  “What are you up to tomorrow?” he asked.

  “We’re going out exploring.” The three of them had bought a car a few days before, a station wagon with plenty of space in the back for bringing back purchases from the town, comfortable enough if they traveled any distance. “We haven’t seen much of the Northland yet, and we were saying how it’s going to be important for us to make sure we take time off when we’re working where we live, so we’re going to go out every Sunday somewhere different. Tomorrow it’s up to Doubtless Bay.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m sure I’ll see you about, but if not, I’ll be out in the sheds at eight on Monday. I guess I’ll see you then.”

  “Okay.”

  She hesitated, and for a brief second, he thought she was going to lift up and kiss his cheek. Then she gave a brief smile, turned, and walked away.

  He watched her until she disappeared into the B&B, then he walked up the path to the bench out the front of the house that faced the vineyard. He sat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, letting Scully lick his fingers.

  He felt angry, and he didn’t know why. Was it at Fred? He didn’t think so. Maybe it was more at the situation.

  What had he expected? He truly hadn’t agreed to marry her with the thought that it would turn into a real relationship.

  Or had he? Maybe deep down, he’d thought she’d be so grateful to him that she’d... what? Fall into his arms? Declare he was the one she’d been waiting for?

  Dropping his head, he sank his hands into his hair. He’d known her exactly ten days. There was something seriously wrong with him for him to turn to the first woman who’d smiled at him, get down on one knee, and propose to her.

  It wasn’t like that, of course it wasn’t like that. But even so, he felt immensely stupid. He couldn’t lie to himself. He felt disappointed. It was idiotic and it made no sense at all, but he was disappointed that the day had ended like this. It was just a bit of paper, but it had changed him, changed the way he felt about her. Or maybe it had just clarified it, named it, brought it into being. It had switched on a light inside him, illuminating the emotions swirling in his heart.

  Around him, the light slowly faded, the moon rose, the air became cool. But Mac stayed sitting there for a long, long time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE DAYS FLEW BY.

  Ginger took over the running of the restaurant and discovered that the difficult Phil was much happier as her sous chef, and in the end the two of them worked side by side to redevelop the menu and revamp the kitchen.

  Sandi spent her days painting and gardening, the classical music they’d all grown up listening to spilling out of every window and filling the air with a sense of timelessness that Fred loved.

  Mac was pleased with the quality of the grapes and said it boded well for the vintage that year. Fred divided her days between learning the ropes of winemaking, helping with the ongoing harvest, and working on the house. The latter was hard work, but rewarding, as the marked wallpaper and chipped woodwork began to disappear, to be replaced by fresh paint, clean curtains, cheap, comfortable furniture, and bright cushions and throws.

  Fred enjoyed going into town with Sandi and shopping for knick-knacks to brighten the place up—colorful mobiles with chimes to hang in the windows, paintings of funny blue and red birds called pukekos and the beautiful scarlet flowers of the pohutukawa tree, a set of two large mirrors in the shape of the islands of New Zealand, and metal or porcelain Maori shapes like the koru, which was a spiral, or the hei matau, which was a stylized fish hook. Sandi was also keen to emphasize her family’s history, and bought prints of old paintings of the missionaries arriving at Blue Penguin Bay, showing what the place looked like in the early nineteenth century.

  The majority of the money, though, went on the vineyard. In the first few days after the wedding, Fred sat down with Mac at the computer and they went through hundreds of sites looking at vineyard equipment, deciding what was the best way to spend the money they had—what needed to be replaced, versus what they could make do with.

  Mac suggested that as they had used hand pickers for so long, they continued to do so for the foreseeable future. Mechanical harvesters, he explained, often had trouble telling the difference between the ripe grapes and any that were moldy, and picked out leaves and stems, or even small animals and bird nests. Instead, they bought a new mechanical crusher and de-stemmer for the red wines, and a new press, the pieces of equipment that Mac said most needed replacing.

  After that, they concentrated on replacing or repairing smaller items—new oak barrels, testing equipment, some parts for the filtration machines, and a replacement for the oldest labelling machine.

  On Fred’s insistence, they also spruced up the workers’ rest area, replacing the ancient kitchen with a new sink, microwave, and fridge, throwing away the ripped, stained chairs and wobbly wooden table, and buying a set of comfortable red seats and a new table that would be easier to clean. She also repainted their bathroom and bought new mirrors, hand towels, and other toiletries that made it a more pleasant place for their employees to use.

  The days were busy, and Fred spent many of the evenings poring over the books with Mac, trying to make sense of the past few years of accounts, as well as planning for the future. Mac had a keen business mind, and he was full of ideas for where to take the vineyard. But he took great pains to make it clear that she was the one in charge, and all the decisions were ultimately up to her.

  The more time she spent with him, the more she began to feel that he was dismantling the steel barriers around her heart piece by piece, and taking down the barbed wire that had surrounded her emotions, keeping him at bay. It wasn’t a voluntary thing—she didn’t make the decision at any time to forgive him and his family—but she could feel herself softening toward him as he won her over with his calm common sense, his hard work, his dry sense of humor, and the fact that, at all times, he seemed intent on putting her first.

  How much of it was to do with the fact that they were married? Fred didn’t want to ask him, but she watched him when he was around other women—her sisters, the waitresses in the restaurant, the women who worked on the vineyard—and he was definitely different when he was with her. When he was with other women, he was still funny, still warm, still deferential and gentle and kind, but she noticed that he always kept his hands to himself—she never saw him touch any of them, not even a brush of their arm or a pat on the back.

  With herself, though, it felt as if he was always touching her. When he passed her, he would rest a hand on her shoulder. When they were walking through the vineyard and he wanted to attract her attention, he would take her hand and guide her toward him, even though he released it straight afterward. If they were working on the accounts, he’d often sit close enough so that his arm brushed hers, or his knee bumped hers under the table. And sometimes—and this was the oddest thing—if other men were around, in the vineyard or occasionally if they called into town to pick something up, Mac would put a hand in the small of her back, just a touch, light as a feather, but there was something territorial about it. Something possessive. Mine, he was saying. Hands off.

  Fred knew that should annoy her. He was acting as if she was his property. As if she belonged to him, and that went against their agreement that the contract meant nothing to them personally.

  Oddly, though, it didn’t make her angry. For a start, she was certain he wasn’t doing it on purpose—his movements were unthinking, and occasionally he whipped his hand away, as if he’d caught himself doing it.

  And secondly, she kind of liked it. Why, she couldn’t say. She certainly didn’t want him thinking that just because they were married, he had some kind of hold over her, as if he controlled her.

  But when he did it, when he touched her, it made her feel less lonely, as if she had someone in her corner, fighting for her against the world.

  It seemed ridiculous whe
n she considered his family had almost ruined hers, and he was the last person she should trust. She was healing, there was no doubt about that—the peace of the vineyard and the bay were helping the wounds she’d suffered close over. They would always be there, a subtle ache deep inside, like shrapnel buried beneath the surface, lying dormant until something tweaked it and made it hurt again. She could never forget what James MacDonald had done, and she would never forgive him. But maybe she was close to taking the first steps to forgiving his son.

  It was now April. The Chardonnay and Pinot Gris grapes had been harvested, and they were partway through the Merlot and Chambourcin, with Cabernet grapes being the final ones to be brought in.

  One Friday, after the workforce had gone home, Sandi and Ginger declared that they were going into town to grab some dinner and have a few drinks.

  Ginger stuck her head around Fred’s door. “You coming?”

  “Not tonight,” Fred replied. “I’m a bit tired. I might have a bath at the house and an early night.”

  “Boring.” Ginger stuck out her tongue. “You’re getting old.”

  “I am. I’m positively ancient. Bugger off.”

  Ginger laughed. “Have fun with your rubber duck. See you later.”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Fred called as the girls left. They just laughed, the door banged, and they were gone.

  Fred let out a long sigh. She loved her sisters and luckily they all got on really well, but sometimes she wished she had her own space that consisted of more than just a bedroom. All her life, she’d lived with others, and she’d never had the freedom of a whole house or apartment to herself. Still, she had to count her blessings—there were others who weren’t as fortunate as she was, and she had to appreciate what she had.

  It had been an odd day. It hadn’t rained, but the wind had whipped through the vines, scattering leaves everywhere, and it had left her with a strangely unsettled feeling in her stomach, an awareness of the country moving toward autumn, as if things were on the change.

  Refusing to spend the evening musing on the past, she picked up her phone and sent Mac a text.

  Is the bathroom free? I fancy a bath.

  Her phone beeped.

  Yeah, of course.

  I’ll be up in five, she replied.

  She went into the kitchen, took a bottle of Pinot Gris out of the fridge, and poured herself an inch in a glass. Then she went back into her room, sat on the bed, and took the two pieces of paper out of her case. She placed Mac’s email aside and spent a few moments reading the letter from her father. Then she laid the paper down and stood to look out at the garden, sipping her wine.

  Would Harry be pleased with what his daughters had done here? She hoped he would, even if it had meant she’d gone against his wishes and accessed her inheritance without being properly married.

  You are properly married, a voice said in her head. Just because she wasn’t in love with the guy, it didn’t change the legality of that situation—Jackie had been very clear about that.

  She sipped her wine, musing on it for a while. Then, when the five minutes had passed, she grabbed a pair of pajamas and headed out of the B&B and up to the house. Russet and gold leaves danced across the path in front of her as she walked, and the cool air held a suggestion of winter to come. One of the websites she’d read in the U.K. had called the Northland the ‘winterless north’, but Mac had said they still occasionally had frosts in the bay, although rarely any snow.

  Thinking of Mac made her feel jittery, and her stomach fluttered. What was wrong with her tonight? She should have brought the bottle of wine with her, but she’d left it in the house. Maybe the soak in the bath would help settle her nerves.

  The bathrooms in the B&B had only a shower cubicle, something Sandi thought she might rectify in the future, as she insisted that part of the fun of escaping for a weekend was taking a luxurious bath.

  The main house had a surprisingly magnificent bathroom, which unfortunately James had left in a disgusting condition. While Mac had been staying there, he’d used the smaller en suite bathroom that hadn’t been in quite such bad condition.

  He’d started to get rid of some of the rubbish and the filth in the main one, and Fred had continued the process, cleaning it thoroughly, then giving it a fresh coat of paint. Gradually, she’d returned it to the beautiful room it had once been. It had a huge white sunken bath in front of large sliding glass doors that looked out onto the vineyard, almost making it feel as if you were bathing outside. Fred had no idea why her father would have spent so much on the bathroom, but she thanked him from the bottom of her heart.

  Reaching the front door, she knocked, heard Mac’s answering hello, and went in.

  “You don’t have to knock,” he said as she walked in. “I keep telling you—it’s your house.”

  “Yeah, well, you might be doing something personal.” She stopped in front of the sofa to greet a wagging Scully. Mac was sitting watching the TV, his laptop on his knees, his bare feet propped up on the coffee table.

  “Doing something personal? Like what?” he asked, amused.

  She shrugged. “You might have had a lady friend here.”

  “Forsaking all others, Fred. I promised. Sort of. And anyway, you said you’d only be five minutes. I hope I have a bit more stamina and self-control than that.” He met her gaze, and his eyes held a touch of mischievousness.

  “Maybe you were doing a bit of DIY then. I’d be surprised if that took more than five minutes.” Ooh, jeez. She’d only had a tiny glass of wine. Maybe it was because she hadn’t eaten.

  Mac’s eyebrows rose, and his lips curved up. He rested an arm on the back of the sofa, and observed her with interest.

  “Did I say that out loud?” Fred said.

  “I’m afraid so.” Trying not to laugh, he gestured down the corridor with his head. “Enjoy your bath.”

  “Thanks.” She walked past him, face burning. The thought of him carrying out any personal DIY made her all shivery. She could imagine him sitting like he was now, feet planted wide, completely naked, eyes closed and head tipped back while he stroked himself to a climax.

  Oh, Fred! Shaking her head, she opened the door and entered the bathroom, desperate to hide her blush.

  Then she stopped short. Mac had filled the bath for her, and must have added some of the lavender and peppermint bath salts she’d bought for herself, because the room smelled gorgeous. He’d also placed about a hundred tea lights around the edge of the bath, and he must have been out in the garden, because he’d scattered rose petals in between the candles and on the surface of the water. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was playing on a set of speakers into which he’d set his iPhone, filling the air with the light melody of autumn. And on the shelf beside the bath, he’d placed a glass of Pinot Gris and a saucer holding half a dozen chocolate truffles.

  Fred went back out and along the corridor to the living room.

  He was studying his laptop, but he looked up when she stopped in front of the sofa.

  “Did I forget something?” he said.

  She bent down. “You’re very sweet,” she whispered, and leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

  “You deserve it,” he said, somewhat gruffly.

  “Perhaps I should ask you to get in with me,” she said, straightening. “We could play submarines or something.”

  He met her gaze and held it for a long moment, and her stomach fluttered again.

  Finally, he swallowed. “I feel there’s a joke somewhere in there about up periscopes,” he said, “but I’m damned if I can think of it.”

  She laughed. He wasn’t sure if she was joking, and neither was she, so it was probably best that they both assumed she was.

  “I’ll see you in a while,” she told him. “I’m going to make the most of it.”

  “Enjoy.”

  She walked away, feeling his gaze on her, and her lips curved up in a smile.

  Chapter Eighteen

>   WHILE FRED WAS IN THE bath, Mac put away his laptop, tidied up a bit, straightened the cushions, then went into the kitchen and leaned against the worktop, arms folded.

  He didn’t want her to go. He was tired of being on his own, of watching TV and having nobody to talk to. On paper, it sounded like a good idea, but lately when he was alone all he did was think of Fred, and how much he missed her.

  “How can we get her to stay?” he asked Scully.

  Scully sneezed.

  “A good suggestion,” he said, “but I need a bit more than that.”

  He walked out and down the corridor to the bathroom, pausing outside the door. He could hear her singing softly, her high voice mirroring Vivaldi’s violins. Smiling, he tapped on the door.

  “Yes?” she called.

  “I was just wondering... I’m sure you’ve probably eaten and won’t want anything, but just in case, I thought I’d ask...” He was waffling, and he cleared his throat. “You don’t fancy dinner, do you? I could knock up some pasta or something.” Jeez. Way to make it sound attractive.

  There was a slight pause. He looked at his feet and screwed up his nose. He shouldn’t have said anything. She was trying to think of a way to refuse him without insulting him.

  But to his surprise, she said, “Actually, that would be lovely. I haven’t eaten yet. If you don’t mind me sitting there in my pajamas.”

  He laughed. “No worries. I’ll get started. No rush though. You take as long as you want.”

  “Okay, thanks.” After a few seconds, she started singing again.

  Smiling, he went back into the kitchen and started the dinner.

  He was just draining the pasta and mixing it in with the sauce when Fred emerged, her face pink, her hair braided and pinned up on the top of her head, and dressed in the cutest pair of pink pajamas with purple flowers he’d ever seen on a grown woman.

  “Don’t say anything,” she warned him, jumping onto a barstool. “Sandi bought them for me for Christmas and I didn’t have the heart to say I’m sure they’re for an eight-year-old.”