Page 85 of Obsession Under the Southern Stars

A frown flickers on her brow. “I’m right, aren’t I? But you were at university when it happened, weren’t you?”

I give her a wry look. “I thought it was me who liked whelks. Stop wheedling.”

“I want to know. Why would you blame yourself for it?”

I shift on the chair. “Yeah, I was at university. I used to call home a few times a week, and one of those times, Dad told me it was Elora’s ball the following week. He knew about the After Ball parties, of course, and he said he was concerned that she might end up going to one. He said he’d spoken to Fraser about it, but Fraser was away in Sydney that week, on a museummanagement course. So Dad asked if I’d come up and go with her so I could keep an eye on her.”

Zoe frowns. “She wouldn’t have wanted you hanging around her.”

“I know. That’s partly why I said no. Dad was always over-protective of her, and I thought she needed some freedom. Plus I was busy. I had a new girlfriend, and a hectic social life, and upcoming exams, and the last thing I wanted to do was babysit for my sister.”

Zoe leans forward on the table, looking into my eyes again. “Does your dad blame you for what happened?”

I hesitate. “He says he doesn’t.”

“Oh, Joel.” She takes my hand. “And you blame yourself, too.”

I thread my fingers through hers. “If I’d gone with her, it probably wouldn’t have happened. Dad and I both know that. He blames himself too, of course. He was thinking about driving up there and picking her up, but in the end he decided not to. I know he struggles with that.”

She looks at our hands for a long moment. Then she says, “I’m going to say something quite harsh now. I hope you don’t take it the wrong way. But Elora chose to go to that After-Ball Party. And she chose to drink the punch.”

I stiffen. “She didn’t know it was spiked.”

“No, she didn’t. And that’s exactly my point. Every fork in the road can lead to joy or disaster. There’s no way of knowing. We make these decisions every day, from whether we have tea or coffee to whether we begin or end a relationship. We don’t have a crystal ball, and we can’t predict the outcome. At the time, when your dad asked you to go with her, the likelihood is that she’d have resented you being there. Maybe she’d have given you the slip, and she might still have been attacked. Either way, everyone made choices about that night, including Elora. To sayshe was powerless takes away her agency. She chose to go to the party. She chose to drink the punch. But that doesn’t mean she’s to blame for the outcome of the evening. Her dad isn’t either, and neither are you or Fraser. The only people responsible are the ones who hurt her.”

I look away, out of the window at the bright sunshine. It’s a nice thing to say, but I’ve lived with the guilt for so long that it’s corroded my soul the way seawater eats into iron. I’m so full of rust, my insides flaking and crumbling, that it doesn’t feel as if there’s any of me left to save. I don’t think Zoe will ever be able to convince me that I’m guiltless.

“Joel,” she says, squeezing my hand, “you weren’t to blame for the storm, or for the fact that we didn’t make it back in time. You need to let go of the feeling that if you’re not in control, your life is going to fall apart. It’s as if you’re attempting to control the elements—the storm, the ocean. We’re like pieces of driftwood carried by the tide. All we can do is hang on and hope we get to solid ground eventually.”

She lifts my hand and kisses it. “Now come on, we should get going, just in case anyone is worried about us.”

We rise and start packing up our things in the waterproof bag. Blushing, Zoe rolls up the thermal blanket and wipes down the mattress. I don’t say anything; I empty the water bucket outside, brush the floor, and rake the embers of the fire so they can cool. We make sure we put everything back where we left it.

She checks the wound on my leg, which has stopped bleeding and doesn’t look too bad, and changes the dressing.

Lastly, I pick up the pen that’s tied to a peg by the door and open the visitor’s book. I know they like you to write in it because it helps them to keep a record of events in the area. Zoe comes over and watches as I write, “Joel Bell and Zoe Moon swam to shore from the Codfather dive boat when she ran into trouble near the Black Rocks. We stayed the night during a bad stormand were very grateful for the shelter and the fire. We’re leaving this morning to walk to the other end of the island. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Zoe smiles. “You’re so polite.”

“It was beaten into me as a child. Not literally, I hasten to add.” I lift the strap of the bag over my head so it lies across my chest. “Come on then.”

We go outside and make sure the door is shut securely behind us. It’s just gone 8:30, and the morning is bright and clear.

“I’m kinda sad to leave it behind,” Zoe says.

I know what she means. I think about what happened between us last night and wonder whether it’ll happen again. She’s opened up to me, but I know she’s still hiding something, and I’m sure she’s not convinced that dating me is a good idea. One night of passion when you’re trying to find comfort during a storm is one thing; agreeing to have a relationship is something else entirely.

But there’s no point in worrying about it now; we have other things to worry about, like finding our way to civilization and getting back to the mainland.

Luckily, there’s a path from the cabin that we didn’t spot last night that heads westward into the trees, so we set off along it, still stunned that the fury of the storm has completely abated.

It’s a beautiful day. It’s early so it’s not too hot, but the sun shines down on us with gentle rays, the dark clouds moving away behind us. We walk quietly for a while, close to each other, not touching. The trees on either side of us stretch up to the sky—pohutukawa, manuka, and kowhai, dense karo, spiky harakeke plants, and small pockets of Nikau palms.

Tui birds give their distinctive calls from the tops of the trees, occasionally visible with the white bobble at their throats. Piwakawaka or fantails jump between the branches, severalkereru or wood pigeons flap slowly by, and at one point two rosellas swoop past us—parakeets with bright red heads, yellow and green bodies, and blue wings.

“Aw,” Zoe says, pointing to where two rabbits are nibbling grass in a small clearing.

“Could be us,” I tease.

---