Page 60 of A Wolf in the Garden

“E pehea ana koe?”she says, slower this time, enunciating each word for me, the tone of her voice rising at the end in question.

My mind suddenly clicks.How are you?Of course that’s the question. “Pai,” I answer,good. It’s the one word I’ve learned so far that I can actually use in this context. She’s been teaching me, just a tiny bit at a time, while she studies the Ngapuhi dialect ofte reo Maoriwith her old study notes and learn-at-home books in the evenings. It’s been a nice activity for us both to enjoy; she says my willingness to learn has helped to motivate her again, and for me, learning the odd word has been incredibly helpful. In less than a decade, the prevalence ofte reo Maoriwords used in everyday life seems to have increased tenfold — it’s on council signage, on the radio, and on television, with presenters interjecting Maori words into the middle of sentences while speaking English. It’s been one of the biggest — happy — surprises when returning to New Zealand.

It’s certainly beneficial for me to have some basic understanding of the language and Maori concepts in terms of operating a business within New Zealand.

Ellie crosses the room, humming as she wraps her arms around me, leaning into my bare chest. “Mmmm.Ka pai, well done. Are you actually good, though? Becausepaiis always my standard answer when anyone asks me that question; my mind goes blank and it’s as if all the vocab I’ve learned over the years has somehow been erased from my brain.”

“Hm, I’m good. Truly. Especially now that you’re here.” I lift her in my arms, her legs wrapping around my waist as my hands move to her ass, and kiss her slowly, revelling in the scent of her, sweet and perfect andmine. When it comes to Ellie, it doesn’t take much at all to get me hard, and as our tongues glide together she’s already digging her heels into my lower back, using it as leverage to grind against my cock. I break the kiss reluctantly. “I have to stir the pancetta or it’ll burn.”

“Okay.” She plants one last kiss on my cheek, murmuring, “You shaved,” before sliding off me, running a hand back through her long hair as she goes to retrieve her flowers.

“I’m always shaving,” I complain. “It’s the one thing I miss about my old human body, not having to shave so damn often.”

She makes a humming sound of amusement. “You know I like your face all the ways, clean shaven right through to your three-day-old beard.”

“I know. Do you want a glass of wine?”

“Yes please.”

“Any requests?”

She shakes her head, sniffing a rose, a dreamy smile on her face. “You’re the expert. You choose one that pairs well with dinner; I always look forward to your reasons why. Besides, I know what you’re like and I know you already have one in mind, and if I choose wrong you won’tsayanything, but the look on your face will say it all.” I laugh in response, watching as she pulls a vase out of one of the cupboards under the sink — I bought her a collection of them, since she brings flowers over almost daily — and begins arranging on the far countertop, picking off leaves, trimming stalks, and sweeping up the odd ant that runs out from between the petals.

“Kind of like the look you gave me when I put chicken manure under your beanstalks,” I retort.

“Just because grapevines like nitrogen doesn’t mean all plants do!”

“I know, Iknow, I’ve learned my lesson.Trust me.” I hear her scoff as I give the pancetta another stir, and then grab the bottle of wine I have in mind out of the fridge. “Alright, we’ll have a pinot bianco, also known as a pinot blanc. This particular bottle is the vintage I worked on, from that vineyard I told you about in Northern Italy.”

“Really? You madethatwine right there?”

“I helped, yes.”

She grins at me over her shoulder, radiating happiness. “That’s amazing.” She means it too, and it strikes me that she’s one of the few people that truly appreciates what I’ve chosen to do with my life.

I clear my throat, feeling overly emotional. “What’s that over there?” I ask, nodding towards the newspaper.

“Oh, it’s the article. In the Motuwai Chronicles.”

There’s something strange in her tone, and she certainly doesn’t sound overly enthusiastic about it.

“It’s that bad, is it?” I ask, feeling my gut twist.

“Nooo,” she says unconvincingly, placing her flowers down on the counter and walking over to where she left the newspaper. “It’s not negative about you or Lost Moon. It’s just… just read it, okay? I don’t want to mar your opinion. You look amazing, and the photos of the vineyard are beautiful. And your answers all sound great.”

“It’s the wolf issue, isn’t it?”

She hands me the paper, and I frown at the half-page photo of me, framed by text. I’ve already been expecting the worst.

I dislike journalists. I’m not a fan of interviews. I still remember what they were like in the wake of Jenny’s death, a swarm of lowlife scum, in my opinion, there to profit off the death of a little girl because it was somehownewsworthy, clickbait titles rolling out across media in both New Zealand and the States because she happened to be the daughter of a billionaire. As if that somehow made her deathdifferent. I’d made the mistake of reading the comments on one online post, of reading the absolute vitriol aimed at my family, comments likea billionaire like him deserves to feel pain.

Jenny didn’t deserve that, and it makes me feel sick that people celebrated her passing.

Ellie stands beside me, rubbing soothing circles on my back. “Overall I think it’s a good article. It’s really positive about Lost Moon. And you look very handsome in that photo.”

“Hm.”

I agreed to the interview with the young journalist from the island’s monthly publication because I didn’t really have a choice. You can’t run a business on a small island and claim to be community friendly, and then alienate the single grassroots publication from that same island. As I read through, I shake my head at his comments on my appearance, and when I get to the part where he comments on the concerns for personal safety I canhearmy teeth grinding together.

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