Page 117 of Under Southern Stars
“A mating pair,” Lily whispers. “They’re monogamous, often staying together for their entire lives.”
Jack nods. “We have to collect their eggs because they’re not the best at taking care of them,” he explains to Madison. “And when we do, they think a predator got them, but they’re too lazy to build a new nest, so they just move on to one of their old nests and rotate through them.”
“That doesn’t sound very smart,” Madison whispers back.
“They’re surprisingly daft for a national icon,” Jack agrees. “But extremely endangered, so we help them along.”
I watch Jack’s profile in the dim red light, the way he leans in to whisper explanations to Madison, pointed out behaviors, answered her questions with genuine interest. There is no performance here, no attempt to impress. Just the same authentic enthusiasm I’d seen when he’d taught her to make pasta in my kitchen.
“Jack was sixteen when he found that injured chick,” Lily says quietly, glancing my way. “Convinced Dad to set aside this entire gully.”
Another reminder of what wealth could accomplish. What ordinary person could convince their father to reserve fifty acres as a teenager? Who had that kind of power, that kind of privilege?
“I was a stubborn kid,” Jack says, looking embarrassed.
“He spent that whole summer volunteering at the Rotorua breeding center,” Lily continues, “learning everything about kiwi care. Even talked about becoming a conservationist before…”
She trails off, perhaps realizing she was venturing into territory that highlighted the deception.
“We occasionally have University of Canterbury students intern here,” Jack says, smoothly changing the subject. “The estate helps pay for their accommodation and stipends.”
Another casual mention of resources beyond my comprehension. I focus on the birds instead, trying to quiet the turmoil in my chest.
A smaller kiwi approaches unusually close to the viewing window, pecking curiously at the ground just feet away.
“That’s Manawa,” Jack says softly. “She was the first chick born in the sanctuary. She’s unusually comfortable around the hides.”
Without thinking, I speak directly to him for the first time since our confrontation. “What does the name mean?”
Jack looks startled, as if he hadn’t expected me to engage. “Heart or spirit in Maori,” he answers, his eyes meeting mine. “She was stubborn, always fighting. Smallest of her clutch, but the strongest.”
Something passes between us in that moment—a flicker of the connection we’d shared before. I look away quickly, uncomfortable with how easily it had surfaced despite everything.
We watch the kiwis for another twenty minutes, Jack pointing out behaviors to Madison, who absorbs every word. Asthey interact, I find myself studying Jack more than the birds—the gentleness in his hands as he directed Madison’s attention, the patience in his explanations, the way he gauged her interest and adjusted accordingly.
The man I see before me was the same one who’d brought me coffee in the ER, who’d taught Madison to make pasta, who’d looked at me like I hung the moon. The context has changed dramatically, but his essential nature hasn’t.
That realization unsettles me more than anything else.
As we leave the hide and head back up the path, Madison chatters excitedly to Lily about everything she’d learned. Jack hangs back, keeping pace with me but maintaining a careful distance.
“Thanks for doing this,” he says quietly, his voice barely audible above the crunch of leaves. “She seems to be enjoying herself.”
“She is,” I acknowledge. “She’s been talking about seeing kiwis since before we left home.”
An awkward silence falls between us. I sense he wants to say more but is restraining himself. A part of me appreciates his restraint—I’m not ready for another conversation—but another part aches at the wall between us.
Ahead of us, Lily is inviting Madison to help with the morning feeding. “If your mom’s okay with it?” she adds, glancing back at me.
“Can I, Mom? Please?” Madison’s enthusiasm is impossible to resist.
“If it’s not an imposition,” I say cautiously.
“Not at all,” Lily assures me. “We’d love the help.”
As we emerge from the woods back onto the estate grounds, the main house looms before us, its windows warm with light against the darkening sky. The casual opulence of it all strikes me again—the manicured gardens, the vineyard stretching into the distance, the mountains framing it all like a perfect backdrop.
This is Jack’s world. The world he’d hidden from me. The world that had shaped him into the man I thought I knew.
