CARELESS CHILD
Copyright 2014 by Karlene M. Kubat
























I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;
. . . . George Gordon Byron

I

The boat was rolling, reminding her of the smoothness of New
Zealand’s enormous Interislander, Aratere, with its six decks, two of them for
cars and cargo. Along with its sumptuous pleasures, she recalled the
mesmerizing rumble, a gentle lullaby of sound easing passengers between the
picture perfect little fishing cove of Picton on the north end of South Island
and blustery and blowing, hill-tucked Wellington on the south end of North
Island. The ferry she was on now, the Coho, was actually traveling from Port
Angeles, Washington to the Inner Harbour of Victoria on Vancouver Island
in the Canadian province of British Columbia. The trip took nearly two
hours, during which time she tried but failed to escape heavy thoughts, her
weary eyes transfixed on rough water and drizzling skies. For a time she
attempted to think of the in-betweeness of ferries, not even to think of it but
to reside in that place, in that arrested time where one forgot what they were:
commercial vessels bearing lives from point to point in routine, leisurely, or


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regretted passages. In that captive pause they collaborated as aloof and
graceful engines of escape, gliding over the timeless waters. She mused that
she could actually chart some of her life by the routes of ferries, having so
frequently crossed various placid and stormy waters of the miraculously
hydrated planet.
The misty cyan-blue hills over by Sooke Harbour rose and fell on the
horizon as the port edged up into the sky then dropped back into the choppy
Juan de Fuca Strait. The steady roll hinted of malaise, assisted by an anxiety
she hoped to dispel at her familiar and unfailing destination.
Was she far enough away yet? No, she would never get far enough
away, unable to run from what was inside. Deliverance was only from
immediate disintegration, not from the underlying cause. Why can’t I get it
right? Why can’t I ever get it right? Finally she had found something that made
her fall into a lush stillness without the echo of self-accusation. All too soon
its continuance reached a startling impasse -- so untenable she had to run
simply to free herself from the fear of having but having not. “You liar. Liar!”
echoed her impulsive and regretted cry, a flimsy accusation that a child might
make. She remembered the endearing bronze hand reaching out, hesitating a
moment then dropping back in a tight fist. “It doesn’t matter how far away
you go, Kate. One day you’ll look up and there I’ll be,” his message later
pursued her, the memory easily flaying her heart.
It was perpetual misery to think of her accusation, her confused
conduct. It did not fit the moment that had engendered it at all, and should
have been mutely aimed at her own self-deception. The boat rolled sharply;
she clenched her teeth in a wave of nausea. Just a short bit more and you’ll be in


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your room, your lovely walnut-paneled room, wrapping its comforting old history around
another wrecked endeavor. Hang on. Hang on.
The sleepless long transport from down under, on serviceably
proficient Air New Zealand, had imprisoned her with recurring and
undesirable memories, causing a relentless ache mimicking that of a broken
bone. Unpacking and repacking lightly in her Seattle apartment, she had
hastily driven down to the Winslow ferry, thereby reaching the Peninsula and
heading for the Port Angeles ferry’s car lot, her body all rigid tension behind
the wheel. She could have reached Victoria via the passenger-only jet boat
from the downtown wharf; driving over to Port Angeles simply made her
work at something.
Finally disembarking the Coho, she took a taxi to the grand old
Tudor guest house sprawling over its solid promontory--a Victoria landmark
that had become a restful home away from home. Nowadays home was any
extended time in one place. The courteous and accommodating owner
welcomed her as a familiar patron, offering brief pleasantries respectful of
her wish for privacy. Here, she occasionally encountered the same people in
the same generously appointed rooms, most of which, from various angles
and levels of the three stories, had a view of Juan de Fuca Strait and the
snowy Olympic Mountain Range across the restless waters in Washington.
The ground floor walnut-wainscoted room, which was her preferred refuge,
faced out on the strait and the cloud-tipped Olympic Range, in full and
spectacular panorama. It was a familiar place, in which she sometimes
managed to heal herself sufficiently for another foray, after covering a
bruising war or failing at a private existence -- the few personal relationships


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4
allowed to germinate were bound to wither, enduring just long enough for a
ruinous or eagerly desired end.
Lan would not follow her to Seattle, and certainly never find her in
Victoria. When he wrote that startling avowal, he must have really meant
that she would look up and find him foremost in her thoughts, needed sorely
enough to make her relinquish whatever defined her. He did not realize what
she could withstand. Her attenuated frame and painfully sensitive mind were
surprisingly resilient, relying on acquired toughness, a toughness that had
formed as a thickening scar from repeated abrasion. Sweltering flack jackets,
loud explosions, tumid, fly-covered, ripped-apart bodies had given her mettle
when there was nothing left but stubborn spirit. That toughening process
had actually started at a very early age. She would come through this, but she
was wrung out and tired to the bone, could not remember, did not care, what
day it was. The tiredness was nothing new. When one constantly moved
around the world, days went forward and backward, hyper hours shifting
into timeless periods of waiting, of merely lying down or standing up, finally
hurtling once again into the mix by sheer force of will.
For two days she did not leave her room, offering a few platitudes
when a gangly and equally taciturn British girl came in to make the bed and
restock the refrigerator. She arose late and sat with her arms propped on the
table by the window, staring out at the distant snowy peaks across the
changing shades of salt water. With an old pair of binoculars left lying on the
table for guests, the high snow fields yielded mysterious crevasses, the clean
slopes dazzling in brief late winter sun or remote in blue moon shadow or
peeking through morning sea fog. She stared and stared, as if a definitive


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answer could be wrested from the stippled water or the cunning mountains,
or even the slowly drifting low clouds. “I collect clouds...the way a child
collects something fascinating all too soon forgotten...nothing but clouds,”
she had told Lan. They were standing on the sheep-grazed, cloud-backed
South Island plain.
“Then ya can have all of this instead: Aotearoa, the land of the long
white cloud. This cannot be forgotten.”
“I’ve heard the other expression: the land of the wrong white crowd,” she
answered, knowing she had ruined the moment, ruined the most generous
offering perhaps another more pliable nature could have hoped to receive.
But The land of the long white cloud. How lyrical and tantalizing the expression,
and how exhilarating she found the amazing land itself.
After her regrettable comment there had been a moment of
uncomfortable silence. He looked at her with those inscrutable, very
extraordinary Maori-tinged eyes holding something she did not want. She
thought it was pity. Don’t pity me, Lan. I’ve had quite a life...and still a ways to go,
if I make it. He seemed to know himself so well; an enviable condition
beyond her will to achieve. She had never fit comfortably anywhere, outside,
always outside and belonging to nothing. Discomfiture had become a
catalyst for all her constant motion. The moment she settled anywhere for
any length of time the anxiety, the restless sleep and threatening dreams, fell
over her like a smothering blanket.
That unimaginable place in the South Pacific had held her like no
other, held her for a perfect pause, as he had held her. There was a man who
would not stand for any of her glibly spouted rationalizations, who mocked


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her excuses and cut her off in the middle of a facile explanation, which had
become her practiced method of avoiding commitment. “Listen to
yourself,” was his incisive charge. No other had ever suggested it.
She had gone to New Zealand to cover the America’s Cup races. For
her, that sort of reportage doubled as a vacation. The idea of escaping the
carnage of the world for a few short weeks had lifted her spirits and
enhanced the woefully neglected carefree side of her nature. Katharine
Gordon had, in a sudden spate of self-indulgence, allowed herself the liberty
of light-heartedness. That recently less frequent transition could be a
pleasure to observe. When this rare condition accompanied her deceptively
serene but startling malachite eyes, an ironic smile playing into a smirk of
amusement, certain men were bound to fall in love with her. Ultimately,
from their point of view, it was a mistake; from hers, it was usually an
imposition. She knew that eventually they would tell her she was too smart,
too competent, too habitually independent, too unneedful to ever be thought
of as a companion for more than a short season. Any longer and they might
feel a strong desire to mistreat her, even harshly, simply to put her in her
place. It had happened, once severely. From that experience she had
constructed a marvelous avoidance that involved a brief span of superficial
friendliness and a comparatively hasty exit. Learning to mistrust had come
much earlier. By age five, she had already been irreparably conditioned to
recognize her father’s heartless smile as the precursor of a hard slap. Out of
sight, out of mind in his bitter world of blame and self-absorption. Learning
that adage saved her many a beating but, blundering into his path, there were
also many she did not escape.


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7
Her first view of Auckland with its bustling harbor reminded her a bit
of San Francisco, without the tall buildings, for Auckland had almost none
very tall, giving it a friendly village-like atmosphere for a city of nearly a
million souls. Indeed many areas of the city were like unique villages,
restored from Victorian times and retaining their flavor in trendy upscale
shops and restaurants. Auckland glimmered in the sun, nestled between the
blue-green waters of its two harbors, Waitemata and Manukau, and sprawling
over or beneath some fifty volcanic cinder cones, some with manicured
emerald slopes holding remnants of a thousand-year old occupation. A few
indications of these Maori fortified villages known as pa remained as sacred
sites -- a vivid counterpoint to the grand modern Skytower reaching into the
clouds and offering a splendid view of near and far islands. The hundreds of
sailboat masts quilling the lively moorages gave the city an airy, sporty
conviviality, affording fatigued Katharine the leisurely promise of a buoyant
and rejuvenating stay.
Not long after arriving in this North Island sea town, and still feeling
cheerfully on holiday, she had walked into the New Zealand sailing team’s
signature store of apparel and gifts, in the America’s Cup Village, and blithely
announced to the clerk in a teasing voice, “I’ve come for America’s Cup.”
The accent of her voice had at once made it obvious that she was an
American.
Before the surprised clerk could mouth the same sentiment as the
one which came resoundingly over her shoulder, the resonant male voice
behind her had answered, “You will never get it back.”
Katharine turned around and found herself looking into the rarest of


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dark eyes, an indelible stare that left her usual sharp wit stillborn in her
throat: gold-ringed black eyes half teasing and amused, yet with a strange
fierceness implying anger and, she was defensively certain, unrevealing of
anything beyond a superficial interest. Yet it was something altogether
different, as if she had been shaken awake. Her smile faded.
“I think we will get our Cup back...eventually,” she said, regretting
her humorless smile as she made her exit. She had forgotten that she came
in to buy a souvenir baseball cap.
“Not ever in the Hauraki Gulf...not without Kiwi sailors,” came the
swift and, to her, accented reply, made as if an argument could lead to amity.
She experienced a sharp sting of irritation as she swung through the glass
doors and walked along Quay Street West, heading over to the outdoor
tables of a crowded restaurant and bar called The Loaded Hog.
It was a noisy, friendly place with all of those New Zealand accents
flying back and forth across her table. Probably a lot of sailing folk, as it was
just down the street from the wharf where most of the sailing syndicates
were located. Although, the entire city of Auckland could be described as a
lot of sailing folk, for it was known as the City of Sails and one in ten
Aucklanders owned a boat.
The day was humidly warm, and she removed the cream linen jacket
that hung unbuttoned over her pale green silk blouse, laying it over the
empty chair at her table. She rested her folded hands a bit rigidly in the lap
of her tan linen slacks and stared toward the waiter serving a nearby table.
Finally, she had his attention and requested, with what she was beginning to
hear as an American accent, “Please bring me a large Guinness.”


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“Good on ya,” came the arresting voice she had just escaped.
She turned around and saw the same very tan face and angular body,
half in the shadow of a fir-green umbrella and seated beside an attractive,
dark-haired young woman. His white shirt sleeves were fastidiously rolled,
the neck of the shirt slightly open, revealing a thorax well acquainted with the
sun’s searing coloration. He leaned on one hand, staring at her with his chin
in his palm and his elbow resting beside a tall beer, while the other arm was
flung across the back of the young woman’s chair.
“Is it?” she said inaudibly, and smiled to herself, shaking her head in
wonder and looking at her watch. She was supposed to meet a news
photographer at two o’clock, and he was quite late. Katharine Gordon was
always as punctual as she was punctilious in her work relationships, and
under the present circumstances she was more than a little annoyed.
She sat sipping her beer, occasionally glancing at her leather-strapped
wristwatch and feeling the eyes, which she had been unable to make herself
meet a second time, boring into her back. What could possibly be so
interesting about me? especially with an attractive woman like that seated
nearby, she wondered. Perhaps this curious Kiwi found Americans
intriguing. After years of necessary travel, she was well accustomed to the
extreme adoration or hatred Americans could generate. As she was taking
her last swallow, the photographer, Cash Taylor, slid into the other chair,
knocking her jacket to the cement and offering a lame “Sorry I’m late,” then
talking a mile a minute about having just come off a flash chase boat that
would be used in the races. She was about to retrieve her jacket, which
Taylor had made no attempt to pick up, when it was handed to her by a tall


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frame ducking under the umbrella. She looked up, and there were the
relentless eyes again.
“Thank you,” she said, and knew that her voice could not be heard it
was so soft and far beneath the ubiquitous chatter driving against her ears.
She felt the beginnings of a headache.
Taylor glanced at the man and at her. She looked away across the
opaque green waters. The man hesitated a moment, and Taylor stuck out his
hand, introducing himself then remembering to introduce Katharine. She
heard the name for the first time: Lachlan Manutaane. The sound, she
thought it was something like Muh-nay-tah-ah-neh, pulsed in her ears. He
smiled at her, an incredibly generous, gleaming smile that she could not begin
to reciprocate in her now flagging state. She felt the heat in her face, the
muggy air. Her head at that precise moment began a furious throbbing.
In the next several minutes Katharine had to suffer in silence while
her loose-tongued colleague chatted chummily with Lachlan Manutaane, who
occasionally glanced at her as her name came up. Apparently he was the
owner of a large sheep and cattle ranch on South Island. She heard herself
touted as a sort of Wonder Woman globetrotting reporter in town for the
races, and then tuned the rest out, propping her head on her hand. She was
too miserable even to protest Cash Taylor’s vaunting manner and outrageous
hyperbole in describing the way she handled her profession. Perhaps he very
mistakenly thought he was doing her a service.
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I need to get back to my room now. It’s my
head...sometimes the barometric pressure does this,” she was at last forced to
explain, feeling a little faint and looking at Taylor.


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“Gee, Kate, can you snag a taxi? I said I’d have some tucker with the
mates on the boat,” Taylor said, pleased with his newly acquired verbiage and
glancing at his watch.
“Yes, a taxi.” She stood up with pounding head, laying out money
for their bill and looking forlornly off down the street.
“No worries, I’ll drop ya. Just parked around the corner,” Lachlan
Manutaane offered. His voice held the accent of his countrymen -- if a little
impatient and capricious -- switching vowels around then biting them off in
sudden elision, or stretching them almost beyond comprehension, boxing the
ears of eloquence. Yet when this man spoke that way and looked at her so
directly it did things to her stomach that had nothing to do with her steadily
worsening headache.
She directed an apologetic smile toward his serious young female
companion, still seated nearby, then answered Manutaane. “No, I’ll get there
somehow...but thank you. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your...your
afternoon. Nice meeting you.”
“This is my sister, Rani,” Manutaane quickly explained. He stepped
back to his table and offered her name to his sister: “Katharine Gordon.
Wait for me here, Rani, while I get Miss Gordon to her hotel.”
What might have been Katharine’s habitual reluctance, or possibly
even dismissal, was overcome by pained urgency as she got into his Range
Rover and silently rode the few blocks over to the Hyatt Regency. He
accompanied her all the way to the door of her room. She had not looked at
him once.
“It is sultry this time of year in Auckland,” he commented. “Where I


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live it’s better -- South Island, dry hot wind...better.
She remained silent, fumbling for her key.
“Will ya look at me, please?”
She lifted her pounding head and felt the weakness in her knees,
imminent collapse. Narrowed eyes keenly assessed her condition.
“Ya really do have a headache.”
“Migraine,” she muttered and thought she would swoon or very soon
vomit. Light and sound were becoming unbearable.
“Ya need some help, I think.”
“No...thank you. Just let me get inside and lie down...in a dark
room...something cool on my head...need to find my pills.”
He took the key out of her trembling hand, opened the door and
said, “Come. I’ll get ya some ice.”
She remained outside. “I’m sorry, I don’t know you.”
“Yeah...that’s what we’re doing here.”
“Please...I have to take something and lie down. Otherwise, I
think...I’m going to...vomit.”
Then they were inside the room. She was leaning against a chair, and
he was bringing ice from somewhere, wrapped in a wash cloth. She flung
herself on the bed and rolled onto her back, covering her eyes. He pulled off
her sandals, closed the curtains, then held the bundled ice gently against her
forehead.
“Can ya hold this while I get a glass of water?”
She grasped the cold bundle, closed her eyes and moaned softly
against waves of pain, muttering in a ragged voice when he returned.


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“I...don’t...understand...why you’re here.”
“Fortuitous. Your photographer mate has no manners. Never seen
eyes like yours, green as the Hauraki Gulf...full of pain. Sorry. Swallow
this...from your kit bag...suppose it’ll help. Here, take another one. I’ll stay
with ya until ya fall asleep.”
“No, please...just leave me.”
“I can’t just leave ya. Not until I see if that stuff ya swallowed is
working.”
***
“Please, please don’t leave me, mama.”
“I’m just going away for a little while, Katie-bird. I’ll come back to
you soon, my sweet girl. I promise, my darling. We’ll hunt for lady-slippers
in the meadow.”
“No, mama. No, mama! I won’t ever see you again.”
Katharine struggled up from a familiar dream, crying out and
sweating in a dark room. What room? Where? She remembered the
headache, which was essentially gone, but had no idea what time it was. She
squinted at the digital clock. Ten o’clock. Then she remembered Lachlan
Manutaane and rapidly sat up, switching on a bedside lamp and staring
around the room. There was no sign that anyone else had been here.
Perhaps she had imagined him; but of course not; it was he who had brought
her the two pills that so efficiently knocked her out: an essential prescription
she always carried. There was no effective cure for the misery of a migraine
but unconsciousness, if it could be achieved.
Pangs of hunger were at least a sign of returning lucidity. She called


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down for a sandwich and ate it before the television, watching a tourism
station touting lovely exotic looking places on both islands, places she wished
she had time to visit: Abel Tasman National Park, with giant silver ferns and
black ferns and wood pigeons and tiny jewel-green beaches far below the
trails, and then leaping whales off Kaikoura and joyfully bold porpoises
choreographing their playful frolicking in the airy world above the green sea
surface. She stared in awe at the giant kauri trees, listening to their history.
Their extruded gum was nearly indestructible and much prized. Magnificent
at two hundred feet and with a massive girth that dwarfed the human figure,
they reached maturity at the ripe old age of 1,500 years.
Periodically his face, his voice flashed across her mind, unsummoned
and unsettling. The tall dark figure leaning over her with the ice-filled cloth,
an outdoorsman’s skin, powerful, weatherized hands, but surprisingly gentle
and ministering. The pain had precluded any consideration of this special
attention, and now it came to her that it was certainly a generous kindness.
She had not even thanked him and suddenly thought of herself as another
wary ugly American. I’ll try to find an address and send him a thank you note,
she decided. No I won’t, she vetoed herself, remembering his face. An
intelligent well-molded tan face with high cheek bones, a full firm mouth and
a straight Gaelic nose, black waves of hair above that concerned forehead,
but the strange eyes altogether amused, fierce, and unreadable. They would
brook no foolishness. More benignant eyes than those had once abused her.
Irrelevant now, for nothing more would be set in motion. It was only a
passing kindness, she reminded herself. Best to forget about it and get on
with her work.


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By the end of the following day Katharine, with her usual methodical
perseverance, had managed to interview two of the men who would be
crewing on the sleek Kiwi boat, and had also expediently induced rather
interesting comments from their wives. Cash Taylor had arrived late, having
dallied heedlessly in the Skytower casino, just in time to run his shutter for
the accompanying photographs.
Later over a glass of chardonnay, this time along with their dinner at
Gault’s on Quay -- it would be rather embarrassing to run into Lachlan
Manutaane again at The Loaded Hog -- she irritably complained to Cash about
his haphazard attention to business.
“Look, Cash,” she criticized, swallowing a bite of perfectly seared
swordfish, “I, too, have thought this was rather like a holiday, but when I do
business I work at it and I’m on time for my appointments. I can’t keep
people waiting while you lounge on someone’s sailboat, gamble away the
hours, or chummily swill beer somewhere out of range. So in the future
when we need a shoot will you please--”
“All right, all right, duchess, I’ll get there. Hey, you know your
reputation precedes you. You’re really going to make me work too, aren’t
you?”
She put down her fork, took another swallow of her tepid
chardonnay, and studied Cash with her head turned to one side. The brash
blue eyes, wild and curly bleached blond hair, open-fronted violet silk shirt,
and the gold earring were all of a piece well familiar to her in the world in
which she moved. Everything he wore would most certainly have the
appropriate label. She was never at ease with this marvelous superficiality,


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was often, in fact, repulsed by it.
“Oh come on, lay-dee, cut loose. You said you used to sing with a
band in college. Work a little boogie down under in Kiwi land. Why not
rustle up some high-end Kiwis and swing low?”
“High-end Kiwis? Swing low? What on earth are you talking about,
Cash? Have you lost it completely?”
“I mean...well, do you want to meet some guys I know? They have
long sailboats and fat wallets, and some of them might even go for your type:
the smart lady journalist who sings rhythm and blues...sort of unusual and
a...sexy.”
The evening was again sultry and this time she was dressed for it, in a
sleeveless chiffon dress, white with red flowers, and red high-heeled sandals.
Cash was staring brazenly at her breasts, and she wanted to douse him with
her full water glass.
“I’m afraid my type finds your type off the chart. Singing and
swinging are two different things in my book. I think this is the last time I’ll
be dining with you, Cash. You work a lot better when you’re wearing ear
muffs and a parka. Please see that you’re on time for the morning shoot with
the U.S. grinders. And this time you pay the bill. Okay?”
She finished her chardonnay, stood up, placed her thin-strapped red
leather purse over her shoulder, and sauntered out of the restaurant. Nearer
the water there was a gentle breeze. She remained standing for a while,
staring out at the sloshing pale green waters -- something quite different
going on here. The equator was up north, she reminded herself. Strolling
slowly along she came to a bench and sat down, thinking how nice it would


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17
be to be talking to an informative native. The wife of the Kiwi crew’s
helmsman had invited her to a barbecue the following evening. It felt good
to be invited to a private gathering while sojourning in a strange place; in just
that mood of alienation and gratitude she decided to turn up.

***
The tall helmsman, Ian Smith, was a skilled and experienced man of
the sea, a highly respected sailor familiar with every shiver of water and
shifting wind in the mercurial Hauraki Gulf. The Americans would be hard-
pressed to wrest their Cup from the savvy crew Katharine had been getting
to know. Ian’s wife, Margaret, was very skilled behind the helm herself, and
quite adept at dealing with the constant stream of people surrounding their
competitive lives. From their first encounter, Katharine felt that she had
possibly found a heavy-weather friend, a level head with a genuine interest in
others and a much appreciated sense of humor. As the late afternoon
progressed, her first impression was augmented by Margaret’s demonstrated
perspicacity, a smooth deftness at handling social obligations. Her inclusive
manner, rather than the polite exclusion expected, was especially endearing to
Katharine, whose veiled loneliness for friendship was never very intentionally
addressed. The competitive Kiwis were rousingly so when it came to their
serious race against the Americans, but this did not preclude a generous
friendliness toward Katharine.
“Am I rudely early?” Katharine had asked as she came up the brick
walk of the Smith’s large white bungalow-style house; it was perched high on
a cinder cone hill in an Auckland suburb.


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“No such thing as rudely early around here,” Margaret assured her.
“Although I might have put ya to work if you hadn’t worn such a lovely
dress.”
“This?” Katharine laughed. “I travel light and chiffon is mainly
something cool. Guess I’m a cold-blooded Northwestern American. This
sultry weather really takes me down.”
“Yeah, it is a bit sultry. We’re all used to that, I reckon.” Margaret
fluffed her feathery hair with quick fingers, and pointed to the red brick walk
leading around to the back of the sprawling house.
Katharine followed the trim young woman, focusing on her tan
shorts and blue shirt and enviably long tan legs. The large back yard was a
veritable jungle of broad-leaved plants and spidery clusters of flowers in
various colorful hues. It was partially ringed with a thick stand of golden-
trunked bamboo, the rest of the perimeter shady and pleasantly pungent with
eucalyptus trees.
“Oh, this is lovely, so lush. Please tell me what I can do to make
myself useful...since I’ve had the nerve to arrive too early.”
“Really, I’m flattered that you’ve come early, Katharine. You could
arrange some silver on that table at the end of the deck while I answer the
phone. The caterers will do most everything else.”
“Just call me Kate and I’ll respond to all directives,” Katharine
advised with cheerful laughter.
Margaret returned with tall frosty glasses of iced tea, and they sat in
lawn chairs on the patio, visiting in the few minutes left to them before the
others arrived.


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“What must it be like to grow up in this beautiful life, in this beautiful
country so far away from the threat and strife of the troubled world?”
Katharine asked.
“All that being true, I still have to add that every life and every place
has its own sort of strife,” Margaret corrected. “Yeah, a lot of us have been
lucky and we’re heaps proud of our country, but things aren’t always spot on
around here. Family problems, unemployment, alcoholism. We also have
our wonky politicians and plenty of other troubles, same as everywhere else.
We’re a part of this troubled world.”
“At least you don’t yet have a population problem. I took a shuttle in
from the airport and heard homecoming passengers complaining about the
traffic jam on the motorway. I didn’t see any traffic jam. It looked like clear
sailing to me, everything moving just fine. You Kiwis really have no idea
what a traffic jam looks like, and I hope you never find out. Seattle has one
of the most congested freeways in the nation. Sometimes the freeways are
just giant parking lots...or I guess you’d say car parks.”
“Well, our narrow little roads get pretty jammed sometimes.”
“But you, Margaret...you must have had a wonderful childhood with
all of this incredible variation in nature to play in. My country has great
beauty, but you have to travel a long way for the diversity you apparently
have condensed in these two lovely islands...and the sailing.”
“Yeah. My brother and I learned to sail when we were still practically
little anklebiters, and we were lucky enough to have a family that liked to
tramp all over the place.”
“It seems to me that you could hike around North and South Island


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20
all of your life and never run out of spectacular places. I’ve only seen videos
of your parks on television but they’re a mouthwatering temptation."
“What about you, your family? What did you do?” Margaret asked,
leaning forward and touching Katharine’s arm.
“I didn’t have a conventional one...had a grandmother who took very
good care of me when she finally took charge.” Katharine sipped her iced
tea with intentional evasiveness and thankfully noticed that people were
starting to arrive. She did not like talking about herself, her history.
Ultimately, it was like pointing the finger at a self that had done something
shameful, something cloudy and vague that would necessitate puffery
somewhere else to counteract an obscure wrongdoing, which could never, or
must never, be revealed. Yes, I was a worthless child, but I got high marks at school.
The end result was always a consuming guilt, a bewildering guilt that could
actually change her chemistry. It had taken her years to realize what was
happening to her and to learn to cope with it, not always successfully.
“We’ll talk more later,” Margaret said, with her lively, take-charge
body already in motion.
Within an hour the spacious back yard had been transformed into a
cheering section for the Vulcan’s Fire crew and the entire syndicate. Darkness
slid across the sky, and the rose lights strung through the trees winked on,
creating interesting abstract shadows among the lacy webbed floral bracts
and spiky plants. Katharine sat on a bench under arching sprays of vivid
pink bougainvillea, discursively chatting in journalese with a sports writer for
the New Zealand Herald. They were well into the conflicting aspects of
reportage.


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21
“Excuse me, Phillip, Jennifer says you’re being paged,” a female voice
sang out from the dim shadows, the airy words just audible above the band
warming up at the foot of the garden.
“Ah, even when I give my wife the pager I can’t escape,” the sports
writer said in a regretful voice, for he truly seemed to be enjoying their talk.
He rose and left to answer his call.
Still smiling, Katharine sat staring at the dispersed crowd of buzzing,
laughing voices. With her back against the cooling verdure and the stars
coming out, she felt almost comfortable, almost a part of something solid
and ongoing and admirable. The pervasive smell of eucalyptus was so
pungently delicious.
“Even in this bosky darkness I can tell you’ve no headache tonight,”
sounded a voice echoing the recent past.
“Oh!” Katharine cried out as she jumped to her feet and turned
around. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same question,” Lachlan Manutaane said. “Ian and I
were schoolmates. I’ve known him just that long. It’s why I’ve come north,
to see him win.”
“Sorry...didn’t mean to sound so... You really surprised me. Well,
now that we’ve met again I’ll make amends for not thanking you the other
day. I was in such a miserable state that I...totally lost my manners. Thank
you so much for your help...your kindness, Mr. Manutaane...did I say it
right?”
“I understood how ya were the other day. Ya did say it right but I’d
rather hear Lan. Do ya go by Kate?”


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“My friends always...yes.”
“You’ve no glass in your hand.”
“I’m careful...headaches.”
“Ah, right...but ya were drinking Guinness.”
“Yes, it cures one thing and causes another.”
“Will ya please sit down. Ya looked more relaxed before ya saw me.”
After Katharine had sat back down, Lachlan Manutaane casually
settled beside her, placing his empty glass below the bench. She was now far
from relaxed, and hopeful of keeping her distance. Too close to this man
and she became rather swiftly inarticulate.
“What does it cure?”
“What?”
“Guinness.”
“Oh, nerves, I suppose,” she said, staring off at the band.
“Am I causing nerves...or boredom?”
“Boredom?” She was uncomfortable with this sudden intimacy and
unable to laugh if off. “That’s...not a very casual remark.”
“When I’m thoroughly interested in something...someone, it doesn’t
translate as casual.”
She turned toward him for the first time and looked at his face. His
dark eyes flamed with the points of light sparkling above in the trees.
Something had ignited inside her, and her heart began to speed up. Careful,
Katharine, his idea of a friendly encounter and yours are two entirely different things. Her
wary head quickly dropped, taking in his apparel. Another white shirt,
glowing in the darkness, but this time jeans and deck shoes without socks.


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He moved closer, then reached toward her and lifted her chin until he had
her averted eyes fixed on his. She could not look away. Before his hand
dropped, her head had stiffened and trembled. Why had he touched her like
that, a near stranger? It must have been the intimacy resulting from the
headache, vulnerability in a shared experience evoking a certain affinity. She
reminded herself that he had watched her as the anodyne carried her from
pain into sleep. A welcome rush of air fanned against her flushed face. He
grinned, raising his hand to thrust his fingers through a jet lock of hair blown
into his eyes. His wristwatch flashed glints of gold. Allusive lips parted over
even white teeth, while his eyes laid her waste with an unsettling scrutiny.
She swallowed slowly, wondering how to get away without showing any
emotion, without showing anything at all.
“I think...” she began, her eyes searching through the crowd for
Margaret. Come and rescue me, Margaret. If only she knew more people here.
Why had this intrusive man fastened on her? What had she done to incur
such intense focus? She almost spoke aloud: What have I done to make you act
this way?
His amused expression held curiosity, enviable self-assurance.
“Why’re ya so skittish, Kate? Bloody sure I’m behaving myself.”
She tossed her head with a flash of anger at his accuracy. “Since you
really don’t me at all, it occurs to me that you might be interested in...only
one thing. Sorry to be so...direct, but I’m here in New Zealand on an
assignment...working. It may not look like it at the moment but that’s the
reason I’m here...and I think--”
“And ya don’t know me, Kate. There are plenty of bodies around for


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one thing. Sometimes more is wanted.”
“This completely unknown me is more?”
“I’m trying to find out...I think so.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake! I thought I’d heard it all.”
“Now you’re insulting me. You’re a stroppy little wahine.”
“What? It’s just that you...I’m not really who...you ought to realize
that I’m just not...I’m sorry but you’re so...familiar.”
“I’ve recognized ya, too,” he said, laughing. “Why should I fool
around with inane banter to get where we already are? Ask Margaret. She’ll
tell ya I’m direct.”
A pretty young girl with a bouncing black braid and wearing shorts
and a halter came hurrying up. Katharine saw that it was Lachlan’s sister,
Rani, and felt a wash of relief.
“There ya are. Come and dance with us, Lan. Ya promised us you’d
dance. Come on. You promised.”
“Haere atu. You’re acting bloody rude, Rani,” Lachlan said with a low
cool voice.
“Hello, Rani. Nice to see you again. How are you?” Katharine
swiftly chimed in, her eager voice almost desperate.
“Box of birds,” Rani answered.
“What?” Katharine responded with surprise.
Lachlan threw back his head, enjoying her baffled reaction with a
thoroughly self-indulgent rush of laughter.
“It’s an expression ya haven’t heard,” he said. “It means she’s doing
just great. But she won’t be doing just great if she doesn’t take her little


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backside out of here right now.”
Rani backed up slowly, lowering her head and looking very
disconcerted. Even when she turned to walk away, she could be seen
looking over her shoulder from time to time, until she vanished into the
removed but still audibly chattering crowd.
Once again they were quite alone, and Katharine was sorry she had
chosen such an isolated place to enjoy the garden, sorry she could think of
no polite way to achieve a safe distance.
“You spoke Maori to Rani.”
“I was trying to spare ya that...just told her to rack off.”
“How did you happen to find me peacefully hidden away here?”
“I was watching ya earlier...then I saw ya with Phillip. Being the
polite fellow I am, I waited until ya were free.”
“I’m not...free.”
“Are ya married?”
“No...I was once.”
“Then you’re free to do what ya want.”
“I don’t understand why you’ve fastened on me...you should know
that it isn’t worth--”
“What...have ya no self-esteem?”
“Some...enough to get by.”
“Good. Ya have pounamu eyes and you’re no nonsense.”
“Pounamu?”
“Greenstone...jade.”
“I’ve admired it in the shops...very beautiful.”


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“Yeah, true nephrite. Here, many kinds, all with names.
She glanced toward the guests. “Guess I’d better--”
“Katharine...I didn’t intend to see ya until after the races when your
work was finished, but here ya are. Sonsy.”
“What?”
“It’s an old Scottish expression of my mother’s...it means lucky,
fortunate.”
“The day my work is finished is the day I leave.”
“Ya don’t like my country?”
“It must be one of the most beautiful places on earth...the little I’ve
seen of it.”
“You’ve seen nothing...but ya will.”
“Lachlan...Lan, please understand that I’m really a very independent
person. I don’t take well to being ordered around.”
“Was I ordering ya around? Please excuse me. I was only expressing
disbelief that ya could leave without seeing my country. Is there something
you’d like to ask me?”
“You are really quite...surprising. I mean, I’ve never... Yes...yes,
there is something I’ve wanted to know.” Dropping her head back, she
studied the sky. “Where is the Southern Cross?”
He laughed softly then stood up. “Come away from these lights.”
They walked over into the shadows, beside muted yellow trunks of
bamboo, and looked up at the star-filled sky. He put his hand on her
shoulder. She felt an electric pulse shooting through her from that touched
spot, almost caving her knees. He pulled her in against his chest and pointed


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overhead into the myriad stars. Instead, she was looking at his tilted profile,
his silhouetted Scottish nose, the angle of his chin, the shadowed well at his
throat. She could feel her entire body trembling out of control. It was
frightening. She was in the wrong place for anything like this, or in the
wrong life. She struggled to stay focused, but there was nothing she could do
or, worse, wanted to do to save herself. Catching the scent of Scotch and
citrus, she longed for an ample glass of The Macallan -- would even that be
of any use?
“Follow my hand. Can ya see it? Right there.”
“I don’t...oh...yes. Wonderful...how wonderful. At last I’ve seen the
Southern Cross...the four lovely stars on your flag.”
He spun her around and stared down into her startled eyes, then
drew her slowly in until their noses just touched. “Hongi,” she heard him say
softly, and remembered that nose-touching was a Maori greeting. She had
supposed it part of a ceremony.
“That’s a...Maori thing.” Her voice was a mere whisper.
“The sharing of life breath.”
For a few wavering seconds, he perhaps gave her the chance to
refuse his embrace, then the delicate propriety vanished in unrestrained
indulgence. She thought she was resisting that overconfident mouth,
intended that her hands push him away, but her hands would not work.
Nothing worked but the desire to go on and on, responding to that powerful
surge of commingled longing. She was far beyond frivolous anticipation,
beyond the fancifully imagined, beyond the ridiculous, beyond even fear.
With eyes closed, she still saw the curl of smile. The gently increasing


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pressure of his pliant mouth sliding over her parched lips, warm and
whiskey-tinged, sent her floating up into the realm of the Southern Cross.
It was he who drew back, looking at her and catching her teetering
body. She had withstood being shot at, but had never been kissed with an
effect that folded her body as though she had been shot. Embarrassed, she
held on to steady herself.
“Bloody hell, have ya really drunk nothing?”
“I...don’t remember...drinking anything.”
He scrutinized her face, offering a shadowy smile. “You’re drunk on
something. Ka pai...strange little manuwhiri.”
“Don’t, please. That’s confusing...I don’t understand.”
“I only said it was quite all right...good. The expression also means
thanks, and I do thank ya for that.” He was laughing.
“What is a...a manuwhiri?”
“Just a visitor.”
“And that’s what I am, just a visitor.”
“I rather enjoy teasing ya, Kate. Ya are going to come sailing with
me...when your work is finished.”
“There you go again.”
“Excuse me. Will ya let me take ya sailing?”
“I’m sorry...I don’t think so...thank you, though.”
“There, ya see? So much for good manners. Now I’ll have to insist.”
“Oh, there you are,” Margaret said, coming up to them. “I’m so
sorry to interrupt, but Ian is looking for you, Lan. He’s making a toast.”
“Right, and just in time before I lose my head,” Lachlan said, winking


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at Katharine. She was blushing thoroughly and glad for the covering
darkness. “Margie, please talk to my friend here, while I toast Vulcan’s Fire
and its soon-to-be-triumphant helmsman.”
Margaret sat down, laughing and pointing through the ginger leaves
at Rani, who was dancing flamboyantly with one of the grinders. She turned
back to Katharine and said, “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. This must be
quite a different scene from your normal work.”
“Yes, although I’ve never thought of any of my work as very normal.
But you...you are so wonderfully normal, Margaret. I feel as if I’ve known
you all of my life.”
“What a choice compliment.”
There was a moment of silence, and even before Margaret spoke
Katharine knew she was thinking of Lachlan Manutaane.
“It seems to me you’ve met Lan before this party. If I’m prying, tell
me to shut up.”
“No,” Katharine said, quick to explain her short encounter with
Lachlan and her headache.
“Oh, poor girl. They’re beastly I hear. Lucky me, I’ve never had
one. I just get the flimsy little ones that can be knocked down with an
aspirin.”
“Lachlan is...a very different sort of person,” Katharine said, wanting
very much to know more but disinclined to pry.
“Yeah, he is. Even his given name...he was named after his maternal
great-grandfather. He’s a very old friend, one of Ian’s best friends. I can see
that you’re quite curious about him. I would not gossip behind his back, but


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I’ll say a few things that I know, given time, he would probably say himself.
He’s very direct, pulls no punches, as they say. His father was Maori, Rang
Manutaane, and his mother is a Scot, Mary McGregor. She was an only
child, the heiress of heaps of sheep and cattle lands on South Island. Her
brusque hulk of a father, Donald McGregor, bloody nearly made it into a
kingdom, one he ruled all right. When she fell in love with Rang, a
handsome laborer on the station, her father threatened to disown her, not
especially because he was Maori, mind you, but because her father had
wanted her to marry the son of adjoining lands and combine their large
stations. He actually came to admire Rang Manutaane -- the man was a
genius with animals -- and, of course, her father had no other heir. In the
end he left Mary the entire station. She had married Rang, and they ran the
place together. Her daughter--”
“Oh, yes, lovely Rani.”
“No, Rani is no blood kin. She’s Maori and adopted. Mary’s ten-
year-old daughter drowned in a flood while out on horseback. Mary wanted
a girl...couldn’t have children after Lan, and Rani was a foundling child.
She’s terribly spoiled, a decent girl essentially, I believe, but quite spoiled.
She’s older than she appears...twenty-two. I really think she stays in that
childish mode because she gets so much attention that way. Lan treats her
like a child.”
“So Lachlan Manutaane is a prominent sheep rancher?”
“Oh, much more...quite a shrewd businessman. As a boy he went
through a rather wild period, but his wise father soon straightened him out.
He has always gone back and forth between Pakeha, that is white, and Maori


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cultures...speaks fluent Maori, as does his mother, who learned the language
to honor his father. I’ve often heard mother and son conversing in
Maori...their private language. Rani understands Maori, but I’ve never heard
her speak much -- many Maori speak little or none of it, but their children are
taught it now. Lan was educated at Oxford...has turned his holdings into a
quite profitable business, or I should say businesses...owns a restaurant here;
there’s a fine Thoroughbred stud farm down west of Lake Taupo that
belongs to him. Maori always have good positions on his places and in his
businesses. He’s been quite generous to the Vulcan’s Fire Syndicate. But it
wouldn’t have mattered. He’ll always be Ian’s friend. He’s easy to like,
simple in his tastes...spurns most excess, except for a few interests in which
he indulges. He really leans toward the teachings of his father...for whom he
cared deeply. He tries to be a big brother to Rani...do what is best for
her...that also being the wish of his mother, whom he certainly adores. I
think she’s ill...anyway a recluse. His father was fishing at sea with friends
when their boat capsized a few years ago, in one of our sudden wicked
storms. He was never found.”
“How interesting, how moving this all is...really almost a magazine
piece in itself.”
“Good lord, I hope you’re not going to write it.”
“Oh, no.” Katharine laughed. “I could, but it isn’t exactly my
professional cup of tea.
“I imagine Lachlan would be considered quite a catch for some
worthy girl,” Katharine suggested. She had suddenly thought of the opening
line of Pride and Prejudice, which made her smile: IT IS a truth universally


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acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
“He was married...to the most beautiful and clever girl you’d ever
imagine...absolutely breathtaking, the daughter of a Maori chief. She died of
a rare form of leukemia.”
“How sad, Margaret...such a sad story it pains my heart to hear it.”
“It certainly broke his...changed him considerably -- he drank heaps
for a while...then suddenly straightened up and went on with empire building.
I really doubt he’ll ever find anyone like that again. There are any number of
pretty girls who seem to fall at his feet...but he steps over most of them.”
Margaret laughed and shook her head. “I’ve seen him do it...deftly and
politely...before the poor young things even catch on. He likes to do his own
choosing. A few onlookers thought he might marry Rani, although they
seem to have little in common. I believe he’d consider that incestuous, even
though, as I say, they’re not blood related. But, of course, I’m beginning to
stray into a place that is none of my business. So now you’ve snagged an
interesting bit of family history to take home with you.”
“Yes...a memorable story...and sad.
“I’m really falling in love with this land, Margaret, and I’ve still seen
almost nothing of it,” Katharine diverged, now certain it was time to change
the subject. “I did see those incredible places on the tourist channel. They
just made me want to run away and explore. I’m crazy about nature, this
kind of nature, and you don’t even have anything here that bites.”
“Just one quite rare little poisonous spider: katipo, related to your
black widow, and of course we have sandflies.” Margaret stood up. “I’d
better go check on a few items...see that the caterers don’t accidentally walk


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off with any of my silver. Come on, let me introduce you to a few more of
the others. Perhaps we’ll find someone to show you New Zealand. I wish I
had time; I’d take ya to some lovely places. You really can’t think of leaving
without a good dose of our nature.”
Katharine stood up, shook out her dress’s airy skirt, then walked
along with Margaret. Her head was awash with information. She wondered
what Lachlan had intended by that ruinous kiss, and even more unsettling to
her: how she could have so ardently responded, like a lovelorn fool.
Apparently brief encounters were more to his taste on his way to wherever
he was headed. Having implied the occasional need of a more in-depth
encounter, perhaps he thought she could presently fill that need. No thank
you. She had enough misery resulting from her own history. The tragic
information she had just acquired only made her want to run faster -- her
proclivity for empathic sympathy would make her quite vulnerable. She
suddenly realized that if Margaret now asked her friends for a helpful tour
guide, Lachlan would step forward and assume that role simply for his own
entertainment.
She took ahold of Margaret’s arm before they reached the others and
said, “Margaret, I’m so sorry but I have to leave. I have some early business
to attend and my head feels a little punk...can’t risk another headache.”
“I’ll have someone drive you back.”
“No. I mean, please don’t bother anyone. I’ll call a taxi. Thank you
so much for inviting me. I so enjoyed our talk. I hope we can spend more
time together before I leave.”
Margaret frowned. “And I hope you won’t leave until you’ve


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properly seen New Zealand. There’s a phone in the hall, Kate. I’ll look
forward to seeing you. We’ll toast the winners: us.”

***
Very early in the morning, Katharine’s phone rang and once again it
took a few seconds to remember where she was.
“Yes...hello?”
“Kate, ya could have let me drive ya back.”
“What? Who? Oh. God, it’s three o’clock.”
“Sorry, Green Eyes, I’m a little pissed -- that’s drunk to you -- and a
lot pissed-off. What did Margie say to ya at that piss-up? Must’ve told ya I
don’t kiss every woman I meet.”
“Well, this time you kissed the wrong one. Please, Lachlan,
Lan...I’m...I’m afraid I’m no good at casual relationships when I’m working.”
“Look, we’ll just forget about the casual status right now. I’m too
drunk to argue. As for the rest, I’ll wait until you’re quite finished with your
work...because I’m bloody hell not through with ya...not at all, pounamu eyes.
Haere raa.”
“Incredible!...damn you!...damn you!” Katharine shouted at the dead
phone. By the time she had recovered from her outrage enough to stop
tossing and turning it was nearly time to get up.
The late breakfast, ordered from her room, came with a red hibiscus
flower, a sealed envelope, and a small, gold-covered gift box. She stuck her
hands into the pockets of her bath robe and walked slowly around the table
holding these items, like a mongoose circling a cobra. Finally she snatched


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35
up the envelope in two fingers and broke its seal. The note read: Katharine
Green Eyes, I would have sworn that you would not do what you did last night: leave
without saying good-bye. Still, I should never have awakened you and spoken as impolitely
as I did. I can’t blame Ian for continually filling my glass, because I was the foolish chap
swallowing. Please forgive my bad conduct. The object in the box is called Totoeka -- a
rare form of the stuff your eyes are made of. I’ll see you after the races. Lan
She sat with her arms resting on the chair, her hand dangling over the
side, still grasping the note as she stared into space, foolishly smiling,
remembering precisely how she had celebrated her first view of the Southern
Cross. Reliving that eidetic experience, she did not very soon rise from her
chair. In a while she lifted the ribbon and pulled off the lid of the square
gold box. Nestled inside was a large pendant, a very beautiful, mysterious
piece of jade, carved in an oblong convex shape to accent the gorgeous
vermilion streak curling diagonally through its green field, like a rushing red
river. The smooth, cool, solid feel of it vibrated in her hand. She slipped the
black cord over her head and walked to the mirror.
“Oh, Kate,” she scolded the moist green eyes in the mirror, “you
know you cannot keep this precious thing.”

***
When Katharine was not sitting in her room at her laptop, typing and
sending back stories to the magazine that held the contract for her New
Zealand work, she was talking and listening to all sorts of people in and
around and involved with the races. It seemed that no one could talk or
think of anything else. The races had begun. The Kiwis and Americans were


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now battling it out in costly, well-matched, finely tuned vessels. Watching
them fly through the mercurial course out on the green Hauraki Gulf, and
rewatching later on television each night, where she could bite her nails in
seclusion, she concluded that, barring strange and unforeseen accidents and
exceptional boat design, the win was decided at the starting gun. Whichever
boat maneuvered into the most favorable position at the start more
frequently emerged the winner, and Ian Smith was a master at getting it right.
The smooth starting-point jockeying of the Kiwi helmsman and his crew in
their top-of-the-line, big twenty-seven meter Vulcan’s Fire was consistently
perfect to the second. They made it look as effortless as an aerobatic bird on
the wing, a masterfully delicate sort of finessing that swiftly won the
advantage.
There was no lack of material for her carefully written stories, articles
tailored to captivate the magazine’s rigorously researched readership. Her
only problem was keeping Cash Taylor in line for the various shoots she
arranged. He actually did his work quite skillfully, but his idea of punctuality
was more laid back than she had ever seen it. He continually abused her
good nature and high spirits with his frequent tardiness.
When they ran into each other on the crowded wharf, Margaret had
just enough time to inform Katharine that there would be a large celebration
at the Skytower if the Kiwis won. They were taking over the entire Fortuna
restaurant quarters, quite an accommodating space, which normally offered a
huge and varied buffet but would be exclusively turned into a spacious party
venue, complete with orchestra.
“You’re invited. I’ll have a ticket sent over to your hotel,” Margaret


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37
encouraged, giving a congenial flutter of her hand as she spun off toward the
syndicate offices.
The Americans had invited Katharine to a smaller gathering. She
intended to put in an appearance there, too, and come late to whatever the
Kiwi event might turn out to be. Margaret’s welcome inclusion topped a list
of other invitations, these Katharine intended to forego, certain she would
not be missed.
She saw Lachlan Manutaane only a couple of times, from a distance,
once with Rani and some other couples she did not know, and a second time
talking briefly to garrulous Cash Taylor and then looking in her direction.
She waved and turned away with her briefcase laptop attached to her other
hand. He had made no attempt to approach her. The reflexive jolt of
excitement at seeing him left her uncomfortably adrift in confusing territory.
What to do about the exquisite jade pendant? She had decided it
must be given back. It was flagrantly an introduction to an assignation that
would shortly end with herself in misery; not an unfamiliar pattern, except
that previously the misery had been short-lived or nonexistent. This was
undeniably different, as different as the man himself. She desired to know
much more about him, inadvertently pondering small details -- the intense
directness o