Page 10 of A Wolf in the Garden

“Something. Nothing. It’s fine, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It was just a whiff and now it’s gone; maybe I was imagining things.”

There’s a deep frown between her brows now. “Do I need to be worried?” she whispers.

“No.No.” I don’t want her worrying, and hate that I’ve panicked her. It’s an issue of mine I’ve been trying to work on; the urge to protect everyone and everything around me is part alpha instinct and part trauma-induced response, as my therapist puts it.

“Alright.” She sounds unconvinced, her lips pursed. “Let’s get you home, then.”

I load the basket of produce in the back of the car. Before she climbs in the driver’s seat, she lifts her face to the sun, and I realise she must have ditched her hat in the house and tied her hair into a messy braid that I’m only noticing now that the scent of fae is out of my nose. I watch her close her eyes and take a deep breath, the light setting her golden hair aflame, shining like a halo around her face, the freckles that dot her nose and cheeks testament to her time spent outdoors.Sun goddess.When she opens her eyes, she seems calmer.

It doesn’t feel like I have a home, yet. Seeing her like this makes me wonder if she could be it; the place I settle, an anchor I would happily remain tethered to.

Three

ELLIE

I’m a nervous wreck as I drive to Lost Moon Estate Winery for my consultation meeting with Van, thatheart-caught-in-your-lungsfeeling enhancing my nausea. Outwardly, I appear calm, but inside my head I’m having a full-on, stress-fuelled conversation with myself, and I adjust the aircon in my car until it’s blasting cold air directly at me in order to combat the inevitable nervous sweat.Just don’t cry. We’re setting the bar really low for the day. No crying about the ex-boyfriend while meeting with said ex-boyfriend, equals success. If you additionally manage to get a job out of it, that’s a bonus.

The drive is only a short ten minutes — the benefit of living on a small island — taking me down across a causeway that stretches over a mangrove-covered inlet and then up again, winding through the hills into the more elevated area of the island, where the microclimates are perfect for growing grapes. It’s a surprise when I pull into the gravel parking lot outside Lost Moon and find it over half-full, despite the fact that it’s a Tuesday morning. I enter the main building through the arched brick entrance into a wide lobby with a vaulted ceiling, the hum of chatter and music filtering through from the restaurant off to the right. The customer service desk in the lobby is empty and Van isn’t in sight, so I head into the restaurant, looking around for someone who can point me in the right direction. I’m not really dressed in restaurant attire; I took far too long debating what to wear this morning, but settled on high-waist jeans and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to halfway, paired with my fancier set of ankle-height gumboots. Tidy and practical was what I was aiming for, and if my ass looks amazing in these jeans, well that’s just a nice bonus — they were definitelynotintentionally chosen because of who I’m meeting with. I’ve also taken no chances with the hair today, plaiting it in a loose fishtail braid that hides the points of my ears.

A young waitress approaches, and I give her a friendly smile. “Hi, I’m looking for Evander Livingston, I’ve got a meeting with him. Do you know where he is?”

She’s more nervous than I first realised. “Oh, um, he was here a minute ago… I think he went that way,” she points outside, looking rather lost herself. “Sorry, it’s my first day back since he took over. I’ve been on holiday. Crap timing, right!” Her eyes grow round as she snaps her mouth shut, and I have to stop myself from laughing. She looks fresh out of high school, and it’s obvious she hasn’t quite figured out the art of customer service yet.

“It’s fine, I’ll go look for him. Thank you.”

I step through the restaurant and onto the huge outdoor deck at the back of the building, moving around tables already filled with patrons. The main building sits at the top of a ridge, and from here the ground slopes away at a gentle angle, a grassed clearing — where picnic blankets are already laid out for guests — leading to a grove of olive trees, and the start of the grapevines after that. The huge flat paddock Van described to me sits to the right of all of this, the grass looking long and lush now that there are no animals grazing it. I take a moment to just enjoy the view; from the deck it’s all field upon field of grapevines in neat rows, sloping down towards the ocean that spreads out wide and vast, bright blue and completely flat on this windless spring day. In the distance, the high-rises of Auckland City stretch towards the sky, the Sky Tower’s spire a prominent figure against the horizon.

There’s a house below the last field of vines, before the land drops off in what looks like a steep cliff, and from what Van described to me the other day, I guess that it must be his new place. I look around again and notice a second house up on the opposite ridge, behind the huge empty paddock and further rows of grapes.That’s got to be the house Lacey will move into.

I spot Van at the start of the vines, dressed in a pale blue business shirt and black pants, and wearing the same dark glasses as he did the other day. He holds his phone to his ear, and even from this distance it’s clear from the set of his shoulders that he’s unhappy. As I walk closer, the deep frown on his face becomes apparent, making him look just like his father, and I stop, lingering in the clearing, not wanting to intrude.

Everything about this moment — Van’s designer clothes, his father’s scowl, the watch he wears that glints in the sunlight and probably costs just as much as my little house — seems to highlight the differences between us, between an ultra-wealthy Livingston and the poor, small-town girl that I still am at heart. While Van’s mother always welcomed me with open arms and a“There’s my sweet Ellie,”allowing me to practically live at their house every summer, Van’s father, Weston, always made it a priority to point out the differences between us. His dislike of me was never a secret, my presence barely tolerated, and I can still hear his voice from that last summer I saw him;“If you think that fucking my son is going to get you somewhere, you’re wrong. He’s heading back to college in the new year. You know that he’s in a different league to you. You have been a pleasant enough plaything for my children, but that’s all you’ll ever be to them.”

It hurt then, and it still hurts now. Growing up, I definitely had moments where I felt a level ofwhakama, of embarrassment and shame, just for being poor. Those feelings were especially pronounced when I compared myself to the Livingstons, which is so stupid, because their wealth is extreme and abnormal; unattainable for all but averyselect few in this world. Weston seemed to think I was there every summer to leech off their money, but for me, it wasneverabout that.

I cannot remember a time when I did not know Van and his sister Lacey. They were the best parts of every summer, of every Christmas and New Year. I spent time with them because I loved them. I missed them when they were gone for ten months of the year. I wasdevastatedwhen Van didn’t come to New Zealand for the first three years of his college degree — by then I’d been harbouring a major crush on him for a couple of years, and it only got worse the longer he stayed away. When he did finally return, the summer I was eighteen, I got swept up in the sudden passion that ignited between us, and for the next six weeks we were near-inseparable. I’d stayed over at their house every year since I was eight, so it wasn’tthatmuch of a stretch that I wound up sleeping in Van’s bed nearly every night that summer, and if his mother ever had an issue with it, she never said anything about it.

Reliving all of this has been fucking exhausting. My head has been so full of the past these last two days that I feel like I’ve been floating around only half-awake, caught in a bad daydream. It’s not quite a nightmare — there’s a whole childhood of happy summers — but it always ends in the most heart-wrenching sorrow, and that black cloud of depression that hung over me for so long afterwards terrifies me, because I don’t ever want to go back there.

I’m scared. I’m scared of howgoodit feels to see Van again, and I’m so fucking scared that history will repeat itself.

Part of the exhaustion comes from the fact that I’m now trying to see these memories through a new lens, now that I know that all the Livingstons are wolves. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to me as a child, so it feels odd to realise that there’sso muchI didn’t know about so many of the people I was closest to. Then again, there’s so much I didn’t know — that I still don’t know — about myself. It’s why I’m not at all upset that they never told me; if anyone understandswhysomeone might want to hide that sort of information, it’s me.

“Sorry, are you okay?”

I jump, startled by the male voice behind me. It’s another young staff member, concern etched across his face, and I realise I’ve been standing in the middle of the clearing like an idiot for far too long. I clear my throat, nodding in Van’s direction, where he’s still pacing up and down in front of the vines, looking agitated as he talks into his phone.

“Yeah, I’m just waiting for Evander to finish his call. I’m a garden designer — I have a consultation with him.”

“Ah, sweet as. I was just checking. You seemed lost.”

I shake my head, and the kid walks off. I’m not lost, but Ifeelit. Further memories flood my mind, of Van naked, stretching over me, filling me, murmuring dirty things in my ear. Those six weeks wereintensein the best way, and I can tell myself it was just the teenage hormones, but deep down I know that it wasn’t. It washim, and in all the men since then, no one has ever come close.

I keep walking, and as I reach the last of the olive trees, Van’s entire demeanour changes at once, the scowl disappearing in an instant as he waves at me, then lifts one finger as if to say ‘give me a minute’. He turns his back to me, though I can still hear the cold, authoritative tone in his voice as he speaks to whoever is at the end of the call. “Look, I’ve got a meeting to get to. You want to talk,properlytalk, next time schedule a call with my assistant.” He pulls his phone away from his ear, ending the call with a swipe of his thumb. I wait patiently as he pockets his phone, trying and failing not to look at his perfect ass in those tight pants.

It’s frustrating, this attraction, thispullI feel towards him. Despite the shock of seeing him again, I so quickly found myself slipping into easy conversation with him the other day, my guard falling, huge holes being poked in the walls I thought I’d built around my heart. Right now I’m just one big walking ball of hurt and excitement, anticipation and fear, utterly conflicted and I have no idea what I’m doing. Part of me wants to turn down the work here for this very reason, but I can’t do that. I’ve worked too hard to not take up an opportunity like this, and I know I’d regret it every time I drive past this place if I let some other designer take this job.

Van walks towards me, looking apologetic.

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