Page 2 of A Wolf in the Garden

I scan the garden quickly as I walk back to the house, checking for what feels like the tenth time today that everything looks right. It does. The sky is clear this morning, promising a perfect spring day, and songbirds — tuis, grey warblers, even the odd fantail — sing in the trees, harmonising with the hum of the bees from the hive. I watch a plump bumblebee drift from flower to flower, disappearing into the trumpets of a spire of foxglove, while the hens cluck away in their coop. Everything is exactly as it should be.

When I get back to the volunteer station, this time with a dark green fedora on my head, Ana launches into her story straight away.

“The new owner of Lost Moon Estate is here on the island; he spent all of yesterday going around gardens with Cameron Morrison, and apparently they’re doing the same with the rest of the gardens, which means he’s coming here!” she explains.

“Did Lost Moon sell? I didn’t even know it was on the market.” I’ve only been to that particular vineyard once, and it wasn’t the greatest experience. Motuwai is known for its wine and wineries, and although the wine itself was good, the buildings at Lost Moon were a little run down, the gardens tired and sad, and the staff less than enthused.

“Well no, that’s the exciting part,” Betty jumps in. “Rumour has it that the new owner heard from Cam that it was in a bad state and made the old owners a cheeky offer, knowing it was going to be a fixer-upper. Who does that?”

“Someone with a lot of money,” I say.

“Exactly,” Ana agrees. “This man isloadedfrom what I hear. And that’s not even the best part.”

“What is it then?” I can see the first wave of visitors arriving, their cars pulling over to park on the side of the road. “You better make it quick, the crowds are coming.”

“He’s awerewolf.”

“Awolf?” I don’t bother hiding the surprise on my face. There aren’t many wolf-people around Auckland City and Motuwai, at least compared to the more obvious orcs and elves. Then again, the biggest tell that someone is a wolf is their eyes, which range from bright yellow to dark gold, and that is easily enough disguised with a pair of sunglasses.

“I thought he was a wolf shifter,” Betty muses.

“Aren’t they the same thing?” Ana asks.

“No, I think they’re different,” I answer, stepping back because I really need to finish setting up the drinks station at the back of the garden. Ana’s hand on my arm stops me, her ruddy brown skin glowing in the sun as she grins.

“Wait, wait Ellie. He’shandsome.” She gives me a knowing look.

I laugh, shaking my head “You haven’t met him!”

“I have it on good authority that all the ladies were swooning over this man yesterday. He’s about your age. And single! And nice!”

“You can’t know all of this!”

“We know it! Ellie, this could be the man for you.”

“Rich, handsome, American man,” Betty interjects. “Owns a vineyard! They say he used to visit New Zealand in the summers so he knows it well enough. There’s the wolf part, but I’ve heard that’s a good thing, if you know what I mean,” she adds with a waggling brow.

“Betty!” I say with disbelief. Idoknow what she means — I don’t think there’s an adult in the world now who doesn’t know what a werewolf knot is, thanks to the Unravelling — but I can’t believe old Betty here is bringing it up. Then again, that’s a me problem if I’m judging her based on her age; if she wants to spend her days thinking about werewolf penises, more power to her.

“Ellie,” Ana says gently. “At some point, you’re going to need to let a man get close to you again. Nine years is a long time to let some teenage heartbreak get to you.”

Nope, nope,nope. They mean well, but I am not having this conversation now. I regret the day I ever explained to them the reasons why I’d left my hometown, where my mum still lives. I ignore that sour pang in my gut becauseAna’s right— the sting of that first heartbreak that drove me to move down to Auckland is still so much worse than all the others since then, and itdoesstill get to me — but I’m only twenty-seven, and it’s not like I’ve been single inallthe years in between — I’ve had relationships, just not recently.And none with half as much passion as…

I don’t let myself finish that sentence, not even in my head. Today isnotthe day to think or talk about any of that. Carefully, I pull myself out of Ana’s grasp. “I’ll be up in my usual spot if you need me, okay?”

“I’m going to yell out to you when the wolf man arrives.”

I put my hands on my hips, hoping it plays off as comical and hides the fact that even just thinking of home hurts a little. “No, you’re not.” I give them both a stern glare and then turn away, heading back up the path before either woman can say anything else about it.

With guests almost at the gate, I run my eyes over the garden once more, allowing myself to feel really proud of what I’ve achieved here. When I bought the land two and a half years ago, I’d planned on building a small two-bedroom house on it. Then the Unravelling occurred and the economy crashed in the wake of it, and building materials and costs skyrocketed. In the end, all I could afford was a tiny house built on a truck bed. Since it sits on wheels, it’s classed as a vehicle and not a building, and I was able to save money by bypassing council permits and bylaws when placing it at the back of my property. Other than that, the only structures on the land here are the garden shed, the greenhouse, and the chicken coop.

I chose my little home based on aesthetics as well as functionality, picking one with cute Scandinavian styling and large windows that let in tons of light. Inside, I repainted everything white except the floors, so that light is reflected rather than absorbed in the small space. It’s my cosy, eco-friendly, solar-powered happy place, and all I need. I spend large portions of my day outdoors unless I’m catching up on business admin or drawing up my designs for clients. I haven’t been with anyone in the past two years because I’ve been paranoid about theear thing, so I don’t need to worry about the fact that my double bed sits above my bathroom, has only three feet clearance from the ceiling, and isn’t really designed to enable fantastic sex.

I finish setting up the drinks station for guests to help themselves, placing the large dispensers of chilled water — flavoured with homegrown mint and cucumber — on the rustic outdoor table I picked up for free from a local family. It all sits under my largest plum tree, a beautiful old specimen that’s still a great producer. Even now it’s covered in tiny green plums that will ripen in the first week of January, and it’s this tree and the others like it that sold me this specific piece of land over any others on the island.

I’m setting out the last of the paper cups when I spot something strange and white in one of the flower beds.

At first I think it’s a ball — my neighbours have kids, and sometimes the odd toy ends up getting tossed over the fence by accident — but as I step closer I realise it’s a mushroom, pale white and perfectly formed, with a large domed cap about the size of my fist and a thick stem. “Bloody hell,” I mutter to myself, bending down to look under the cap, ignoring the fact that I’m probably muddying up my pretty white dress that I wore today specifically because I’m not meant to be doing any dirty work.

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