Page 7 of Seduction Under the Southern Stars

I hesitate then. “I’m so sorry that your mum has been so unwell.” He told me just a week ago, when I contacted him to say I was coming to New Zealand, that his mother was recovering from breast cancer. I was very fond of Clemmie Bell, who was more like a mother to me than my own, and a very open-hearted, warm, and friendly woman.

“Thanks,” he says. “Elora spent a few months at home with her last year. It was a tough time for all of us, but she’s doing really well.”

“I’m glad.” I watch the Prius draw up. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“All right. Good luck. And Linc… I’m sorry about your father.”

I study the ground for a moment. “Don’t be,” I say eventually. “I’m not.” I give him a wave, get in the Prius, and buckle myself in.

As the Uber snakes through the busy streets of Wellington, I look out of the window, but I’m not really seeing the streets and shops. In my mind’s eye, all I can see are those blue eyes of Lora’s that, even when she was fourteen, reminded me of a summer sky, bright and beautiful.

In many ways, she hasn’t changed at all. She still looks demure in her white blouse, black trousers, and sensible shoes, with her hair in a bun, her makeup carefully applied in neutral shades. I bet she wears sensible white cotton underwear without a touch of lace.

Jesus, why does that turn me on so much?

She might look like a librarian, but there was something about her expression that sent my thermostat shooting up, just like it did when we were young, when her eyes begged me to kiss her.

It sounds as if she’s still single, though. I wonder why? I thought some intellectual sort at uni would have snapped her up and enjoyed stripping the innocence from those blue eyes.

I think about her telling her friends about the Bell Ring, and the way she’d looked at me, obviously remembering the day she’d told me about it. New to Greenfield, sporting half a dozen scars on my face and an attitude the size of Australia, I’d been quick to scoff at the Bell family’s interest in history and archaeology, saying it was dull and boring and a subject for nerds. It had been ten-year-old Elora who had ignited the spark of interest inside me with her tales of adventure and exploration as we pored over her dusty old atlas. And it was Elora who’d continued to fan the flames, her own passion for the past igniting something deep within the boy who’d had so little in his life to latch on to.

Lost in memories, I barely notice the houses flashing by. When the Prius comes to a halt, it’s with some surprise that I see we’ve arrived. I thank the driver, get out, and watch him leave.

On my right, the graves of the older part of the cemetery stretch away into the distance, framed by the Wellington hills and the cloudy skies above them. I turn and look at the building on my left with an archaeologist’s eye, remembering what I’d read about it online. The single story, brick-built crematorium and chapel building is listed, and was built in the Edwardian-Romanesque style. It bears the date 1909 above the door. The stained-glass windows are Irish-made, commissioned from the Irish glass company An Tur Gloine, which means Tower of Glass. There are six of them, the most important set of twentieth century imported windows of their kind in New Zealand.

I’m trying to distract myself, but it’s not working. My heart is starting to race. Not for the first time, I wish I hadn’t come. This was a mistake.

I’m on the verge of turning and walking away when I see a young man come through the doorway. He stares at me, and his face registers shock.

“Linc?” he says.

“Hey, Sean.” I walk up to him. My younger brother is a few inches shorter than me, wide and stocky, like our father was, with his distinctive dark-blond hair and blue eyes. We don’t look alike at all, really.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” he says. “We’re about to start.”

I study his face, not knowing what to say. We’ve stayed in touch—we exchange emails at Christmas, and I sent him a present when he got married—but we’re not close. What do you say to a sibling you abandoned? First when I went to Greenfield, and then again when I left the country? ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t come close to covering it.

“It’s good to see you,” I opt for, and I open my arms. I half expect him to ignore them, or maybe get angry and tell me to fuck off, but he doesn’t do either of those; he throws his arms around me, and we exchange a bearhug that makes my throat tighten.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers.

“Me too,” I say gruffly. I release him, and he moves back, eyes shining.

“Does Mum know you’re coming?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“You’ll probably give her a fucking heart attack,” he says. He looks around, checks that nobody else is on their way, then indicates for me to follow him inside. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

I walk behind him and stop at the back of the rows of pews. There are about fifty people here, which surprises me. I half expect everyone to be holding their own nail, prepared to hammer it into the coffin themselves.

Sean gestures for me to follow him to the front, but I shake my head. He nods and walks down the aisle, and I watch him slide into the front pew behind a woman with salt-and-pepper hair that hangs around her shoulders in unruly waves. He says something to her, and she bends her head toward him, says something, then looks over her shoulder.

Nancy Green stares at me, unsmiling.

I stare back. I haven’t seen her for ten years. We’ve exchanged a few awkward, stilted emails over the time we’ve been apart, and I called her on her fiftieth birthday and spoke to her for about ten minutes. I feel no connection with this woman. No love flows between us.

Eventually, she turns back as the vicar takes his place and begins speaking. Feeling queasy, I slide into the end of the nearest empty pew and fix my gaze on the coffin resting to one side.

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