As Deep as the Ocean Page 2

  “The pool guy still comes up once a week to clean it,” Mac said. He’d come into the room to stand next to her, also looking out at the view. “So you can have a swim later, if you’d like.”

  Fred’s eyebrows rose. “Will it be warm enough?”

  “Should be around twenty-five or so—the cover keeps the temperature up a few degrees.”

  They studied the view silently, and then Fred turned to face him. He continued to stare at the garden, so she had the opportunity to examine his profile. He was a good-looking guy, if somewhat worn, like a well-loved teddy bear that never looked new no matter how much you washed it and mended any tears. His hair curled around his temples and neck, needing a trim, and although his navy polo shirt was clean, it looked a tad crumpled—she knew he hadn’t ironed it, had instead put it straight on a hanger when he’d washed it. His faded jeans had a small rip in the knee, and she was certain it wasn’t a fashion statement but probably damage done by a stray nail poking out of a fence. He had no ring on his finger. That didn’t mean anything, but something told her this man lived alone, or, if he was with someone, she wasn’t the sort to fuss around him, tell him to get his hair cut, or mend his clothes.

  His eyes were sad, and his shoulders sagged a little. He looked defeated. He was finding this hard. Fred felt a surprising twinge of sympathy.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He turned puzzled eyes on her. “What do you have to thank me for?”

  “For telling us about the will. You didn’t have to.”

  “Of course I did.” His expression told her that he couldn’t have kept the news to himself any more than fly. “I’m sorry.” His jaw knotted. “I’m sorry for everything.”

  Fred opened her mouth to reply, but he’d already turned away.

  “Take a few minutes to unpack,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be outside when you’re ready, and I’ll show you around.”

  He disappeared through the door, leaving Fred standing there, her stomach a jumble of emotions, churning like a washing machine full of colored clothes. She heard him call for Scully, and then his footsteps faded away.

  Sandi’s head appeared around the door. “What do you think?”

  Fred turned to her bag, unzipped it, and began removing her clothes to hang in the built-in wardrobe. “Pleasant enough. Just bland, that’s all.”

  “Yeah.” Sandi leaned on the doorjamb, arms folded. “It’s like whoever ran it before stripped all the color and character from the place. Totally unmemorable.”

  “You can change that, though, right?” Fred flashed her an amused look.

  “Maybe.” Sandi’s grin belied her non-committal words. “Ginger said she’s going to take five to freshen up. Okay with you?”

  “Yeah. Mac says he’ll be outside when we’re ready.”

  Sandi rested her head on the doorpost. “What did you think of him?”

  Fred unfolded a long dress and put it on a hanger. “Younger than I thought he’d be. And nicer, I suppose.”

  “Yeah. I expected some middle-aged grump. I thought he’d be really resentful, but he just seemed... sad.” Sandi pushed herself off the post. “Oh well. See you in a bit.” She walked back to her room.

  Fred nudged the door closed and sat on the edge of the bed. Tucked in a pocket of her bag was a large envelope, and she retrieved it and pulled out the pieces of paper inside.

  The top sheet was a printout of the first email she’d received from Mac, forwarded to them by their lawyer.

  To the Cartwrights, (it read)

  I write to you today to express my shame and sorrow at the behavior of my late father, James MacDonald. I know that your lawyer has explained the present circumstances, and all I can say at this point is that I wish things could have been different, and if there is anything I can do to remedy the situation, I will of course do what I can. I am willing to advise you as you go forward, whether you decide to take over the running of the vineyard, or to help you find a good buyer if you decide to sell, but of course the choice is yours. I will understand if you wish me to leave straight away. I look forward to hearing from you, Mac.

  Fred folded the paper and placed it to one side. The tone of the letter had been regretful, but not overflowing with apologies. Mac had resented writing that letter with every bone in his body.

  She understood why. Her lawyer had related to them what Mac had explained to him over the phone.

  For some bizarre reason—maybe because he’d tried to put them out of his mind, maybe because he felt ashamed at having left them, they would never know—the only person that Harry Cartwright had ever told about his family in the U.K. was his estate manager and close friend, James MacDonald. When Harry had fallen ill from cancer five years ago, he’d dictated his will to James and asked him to lodge it with his solicitor.

  Instead, James had drawn up a new will, forged Harry’s signature, tricked another witness into signing it, and lodged that with the lawyer instead. The new will had stated that Blue Penguin Bay estate—including the vineyard, the B&B, and the restaurant—would pass on Harry’s death to James. Mac might have been none the wiser if he hadn’t discovered a letter from Harry to his children in a pile of old papers.

  Fred extracted her copy of the letter, and placed it on her lap. She smoothed it out, calming herself before reading it, knowing it would stir up her emotions.

  To Fred, Sandi, and Ginger, (it read),

  It’s been a long time, and I have no idea how this letter is going to be received. I can only presume that you all resent me deeply for leaving England, otherwise I’m sure at least one of you would have replied to my letters over the years. I regret not having been there to watch you grow up, but believe me, it was best for everyone that I left. I hope you are all strong, happy, and healthy. I, unfortunately, am not—I have lung cancer, and have only a few weeks left to live. You will discover that I have left the family estate to the three of you, as I never remarried here, and have had no further children. It is yours to do with as you will. I hope that at least one of you will come to New Zealand and discover the land of your ancestors, who have farmed this land since the first Henry Cartwright landed here back in 1820. It has been what Maori call my turangawaewae—my place to stand—and I hope it will be yours too. But if you decide to sell, so be it. I hope only that you lead long happy lives. Don’t think too badly of me. I remain, and will always be, your father, Harry.

  Fred folded up the letter and placed it back in the envelope with the other papers, biting her lip hard. He could never have known what a hurricane of emotions and events he was going to stir up when he wrote that. She could only imagine what had gone through Mac’s mind when he’d read it. He must have been so tempted to screw it up and throw it on the nearest fire. Apparently, there was no sign of the original will. Nobody would ever have known what it said, and Blue Penguin Bay estate would have been his. But instead, he’d contacted them to tell them what had happened, and had told his lawyer that the fake will shouldn’t stand, and that the estate was theirs.

  Fred looked out across the garden and frowned. Just before they’d left, Mac had implied in an email that there were problems with the estate, but he’d prefer to talk to them face to face about it. There were so many layers to this story. It felt to Fred as if the estate itself was like a vine, its roots weaving back into the past, intertwining all their lives—James’s and Mac’s, hers and her sisters, Harry’s and her mother’s. So much lying and betrayal and pain. Would she ever be able to unravel the truth?

  Well, there was no time like the present. Mac was waiting for them, and maybe he’d finally be able to give them some answers.

  She went into the bathroom with her washbag, splashed some water on her face, then studied her reflection as she dried the drops with a towel. Unbidden, her mind wandered back to when Mac had stood next to her at the window, his fresh lemon scent stirring her senses. She couldn’t think why—and she no longer trusted her instincts the way she once had—but she li
ked him. Oddly, he reminded her of her father. Maybe it was because they were both Kiwi men. She’d only been seven when her father had left England, so her memories of him had faded, like clothing left too long in the sun, but she remembered him as being down-to-earth, open, honest, and no-nonsense, and she suspected Mac had been plucked from the same vine.

  And yet, obviously not all Kiwi men were like that. She thought of James MacDonald, and her lips pressed into a hard line.

  For most of her life, she’d trusted her heart, but it was time to let her head make the decisions. Everything she’d believed had turned out to be a lie, and she’d be damned if she was going to let people play her like an old banjo for the rest of her life.

  Feeling the need to freshen up, she kept on her jeans but changed out of her tee and into a white shirt. Then she released her hair from its clip. They’d had a few days in Sydney, so she’d gotten over most of her jet lag, and she’d been able to have a shower that morning, so the hair that tumbled to her hips was clean and held a slight wave from where she’d pinned it up. She added a slick of pink lip gloss to her lips to give her face some color.

  Then she made her way out of the room and down to her sisters. The washing machine feeling had returned to her stomach, and she wasn’t sure why. Mac had been pleasant and polite—it didn’t seem as if this was going to degenerate into a shouting match, and she wasn’t expecting him to be hostile. Still, there was lots to discuss, and she anticipated that he wasn’t going to just roll over and give them everything—surely he would put up some resistance to them coming in and taking it over?

  Whatever, there were three of them and only one of him. If anyone should be feeling nervous, it was Eamon MacDonald.

  Chapter Three

  MAC WAS LEANING ON the desk in reception when the girls came out. He noticed that Ginger and Sandi had changed into shorts and T-shirts, but Fred wore a crisp white shirt. The brisk look was toned down by her hair, which fell all the way to her hips in smooth brown waves. He’d never seen anyone with hair that long in real life. Somehow, he knew it would smell clean and feel soft. He could imagine the way it would fall around him like a cool curtain if she were lying on top of him, kissing him.

  A light flush touched Fred’s cheekbones, and he realized he was staring.

  “Something wrong?” she said, her sharp tone belying her blush.

  “No.” He passed them and walked back down the corridor, Scully at his heels. “Let me show you around the rest of the B&B. This one’s a family room.” He opened the door at the end of the corridor, revealing a larger bedroom with two queen beds as well as a cot. Then he led them along to the communal room adjacent to the kitchen. “This is where they served breakfast, and where guests could help themselves to tea and coffee.”

  He stood back while the girls wandered around, brushing fingers across the dining table in the middle, the backs of the eight chairs, the cabinet against one wall on which bowls full of teabags, sachets of coffee and hot chocolate, and sugar sat next to a kettle.

  “What’s this wood?” Fred rested a hand on the cabinet.

  “Dacrydium cupressinum. We call it rimu. It’s an evergreen coniferous tree.” Stop talking, he scolded himself as her lips curved up. She hadn’t asked for a history of the species.

  “It’s nice,” she said. “I like the color.”

  “Most stuff around here is rimu, or occasionally kauri.”

  “Kauri? Like Tane Mahuta?”

  He raised his eyebrows, surprised she’d heard of the giant tree in the Waipoua Forest on the west coast, the largest known kauri still standing. “Yeah. You’ve done your homework.”

  She shrugged. “I did a little research.”

  Ginger snorted. “She read every single site that mentioned New Zealand on the internet.”

  Fred threw her a look. “I like to be prepared—what’s wrong with that?”

  “I’m not criticizing, I’m stating a fact.”

  Their tone held no animosity, and he got the feeling it was their standard way of communicating. As an only child, he found himself envying their casual bickering.

  “There’s a self-contained flat through there,” he gestured, “for the owner of the B&B—you might like to check that out. And this leads through to the kitchen.”

  He led the way. To his relief, the stainless steel gleamed, and the clean counters shone in the afternoon sunshine. Phil, the current chef, could be a difficult character, but Mac had decided not to replace him because he knew the Cartwrights would probably have their own plans for the kitchen.

  “Where is everyone?” Ginger asked, obviously surprised at the empty room.

  “The staff has gone home for the day. Food is currently offered from twelve until three. I made the decision to close the restaurant temporarily in the evening when I decided to close the B&B.” He turned away before they could query his actions. He had the facts and figures laid out on the table in the house. They’d get all the answers they wanted soon enough.

  Ginger said nothing, but began to open oven doors and check out the equipment.

  “She was head chef at a major London restaurant,” Fred murmured to him. “So she knows her stuff.”

  “Was?” He’d thought the Cartwrights were only here temporarily until they decided whether they wanted to stay.

  “She resigned a few months ago.” Fred didn’t explain why, so he couldn’t tell whether Ginger had quit because of the news about her father, or for some other reason. “She’s looking for a new challenge,” Fred continued, watching her sisters stop to consult, their heads bent together as they gestured around the room, presumably discussing possible plans.

  “I can’t imagine this place would provide much of a challenge.” He didn’t stop the doubt creeping into his voice.

  Fred turned and began walking toward the door to the courtyard. Mac reached it before her and opened it, and she shot him a glance before heading outside into the sunshine, lowering her sunglasses. He did the same, welcoming the feel of the warm sunshine on his limbs. Scully did a big stretch, then began to sniff around the flowers.

  “For something to be a challenge, it doesn’t necessarily have to be bigger and better.” Fred walked slowly across the flagstones. “It just has to be different. She’s had a difficult time—we all have—and we’re all looking for a change.”

  He wondered what had happened to Fred, for her to say she’d had a difficult time. Broken relationship? He presumed none of the three girls were going steady if they were all talking about moving away. “I suppose emigrating to the other side of the world is a change.” He nodded across to the view of the bay. “And I’m guessing this is a bit different from where you come from.”

  “Just a bit.” She laughed, and her dimples reappeared. “We come from a tiny island called Sheppey in the Thames estuary, about fifty miles from London. The south-east is very built up and cramped. In its favor, it has a lot of history going right back to prehistoric times, and I think I’d miss that if I were to stay here.”

  “Our oldest stone building is the Stone Store in Kerikeri, built in the 1830s.”

  “My grandmother lived in a house older than that and it wasn’t even a listed building.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s odd being in a country that’s so new. There must be fields where nobody has ever set foot.”

  “We’re all immigrants here, even Maori technically—they arrived in the thirteenth century.”

  “I’ve read that there’s a pioneer feel to the place. Would you agree?”

  “Yes, I guess that’s true. We say we have a ‘number eight baling wire’ mentality. That was the wire used for sheep fencing, and early settlers supposedly used it for everything, because they couldn’t just call England if they needed something. We’re a resourceful people, used to coping on our own.”

  “I can see why.” She bent to pull out a weed. It was the sort of thing you did in your own garden, not in someone else’s. To Mac, it looked as though, in her mind, this was already her land, he
r estate. “It must have been odd in those early centuries, before the internet and mobile phones,” she said. “Now, the world has shrunk, hasn’t it? It only takes a day to get from one side of the Earth to the other. But it must have been strange when they landed in the bay, and knew that if they wanted to get home, it would take three months of uncomfortable sailing to get there.”

  “I suppose it made them get on with it. No point in complaining when there’s no one to listen.”

  “I guess.” She stopped by the door at the end of the path. “In here?”

  He opened it for her. “After you.”

  “You don’t have to open every door for me,” she scolded.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” He frowned, puzzled. It was just good manners.

  She said nothing, but her lips curved up again before she slipped by. Her hair brushed his bare arm as she passed, and again the hibernating bear inside him stirred.

  Scully looked up at him, her head tilted, as if to say, Really?

  “Shut up,” he murmured to her, and shooed her in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

  They entered the restaurant, and Fred stopped to look around. Mac tried to see it through her eyes—the cool, gray flagstones, the half a dozen rimu tables, the large windows overlooking the vineyard down to the sea, the roll-up plastic curtain that meant customers could sit outside, even in the rain. It was a simple set-up, and he could see now that it needed a fresh coat of paint, a touch of color, but he loved it, always had. He found himself holding his breath as he awaited her reaction.

  “What are these?” She placed a hand on two large doors with hinges in the middle.

  “They fold back to enlarge the restaurant if needed.”

  She continued moving around, running her fingers across the long kauri wood bar, looking up at the lighting, out at the view.

  Did she think it looked tired and outdated? He felt a need to defend the place. “It’s rustic,” he admitted. “Not quite the top-class restaurant your sister is used to, I’m sure. It was never meant for three-course meals, more a place for visitors to have some snacks to soak up the wine.”