When We Believed in Mermaids Read online

  It’s appropriate that we’re in Auckland, the land of volcanoes, because my middle feels like it’s turned to magma, burning hot and impossible to calm.

  When I find her, I don’t know what I’ll do. Hit her? Spit on her? Hug her?

  I have no idea.

  Chapter Four

  Mari

  Simon and I arrange to meet Sarah’s teacher before class. We drive separately so that we can head out on our own afterward, me to Sapphire House to start taking notes, him to his empire of gyms.

  I’m in the best possible mood, thanks to dawn sex with my fit and vigorous husband, which made me so cheerful I whipped up blueberry muffins for breakfast, which even Sarah ate with alacrity, after picking at her food the past few days. I peer at her in the rearview, and she’s gazing out the window, her dark hair swept back from her freckled face. She’s so unlike me that it’s a little strange. You’d think your own child would have some resemblance to you, but she’s my father and my sister, all in one.

  Perhaps a fitting punishment for my sins, though I try not to dwell on it. Accept the things you cannot change and all that.

  What I do know is that Sarah will hate it when the other girls stop growing and she keeps on, just as my sister did. Already she has bigger hands and feet than the other girls and a solidness that is nothing close to fat, but she’ll see it that way if we don’t stay at it, countering the bullshit that she hears day in, day out.

  “Swim club today, sweetheart?”

  “Yes,” she says, her accent so very New Zealand, yis. “I beat Mara yesterday.”

  Her nemesis. “That’s fantastic. You’re stronger than she is, by far.”

  She shrugs, then meets my eyes in the mirror. “You don’t have to go to the school, you know.”

  “I don’t have to,” I agree mildly. “But you don’t seem very happy lately, and your dad and I want to make sure everything is okay.”

  “My teachers don’t know anything.” Her tone is not scornful, only matter-of-fact.

  The traffic is thick, and I have to pay attention to the road for a few moments. At the next stoplight, I say, “What don’t they know?”

  Her wide mouth flattens into an expression of resignation. She just shakes her head.

  “Sarah, it will be a lot easier to help you if you let me in on what’s going on.”

  She doesn’t reply. I pull into the school lot. Simon’s Infiniti is not yet here, so I turn off the car, unbuckle my belt, and turn around, sorting through the ten thousand possible responses for the one that will help unlock the secret here. “Are you having trouble with a friend?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not sure why you won’t just tell me. You know you can trust me.”

  “I can trust you, but if I tell you, everything just gets worse, and no one will like me at all.”

  “What will get worse?”

  She shouts, “I don’t want to tell you! Don’t you understand?”

  Reaching through the seats, I wrap my hand around her ankle and just sit there, willing myself to believe her secret is not as dire as mine was when I was just a little older. She’s a well-tended, well-observed child. “All right. There’s your dad. I’ll just pop into the school.”

  I meet Simon at the door, and he takes my hand. Our unified front.

  The teacher is young and pretty, and she blushes when Simon shakes her hand. “Good morning, Ms. Kanawa.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Edwards. Mrs. Edwards. Sit down, won’t you?” She folds her hands on the desk. “How can I help?”

  We outline the problem—that Sarah wants to be homeschooled suddenly, and it seems there might be something going on. Ms. Kanawa mulls it over. She says, “You know, I wonder if there might be some bullying. One of the girls is quite the queen bee, you know, and all the other girls listen to her as if she’s a royal.”

  “Is it Emma Reed?” I guess. She’s a milk-and-peaches child with ribbons of spun-gold hair and enormous blue eyes—all hiding the instincts of a barracuda.

  Ms. Kanawa nods. “She and Sarah have never got on.”

  “Why’s that?” Simon asks.

  “They’re both”—she pauses, chooses her words carefully—“willful girls. And there is some understanding that they are the children of popular parents.”

  “Popular?” I echo.

  “Well-known. Emma’s mother is a broadcaster, of course, on TVNZ, and you, Mr. Edwards, are so visible because of the clubs.” He’s the spokesman for his own gyms, the genial host inviting everyone to visit and experience the health of good exercise. He also conducts fund-raisers every year for the Auckland Safeswim Initiative, a drive to make sure every child in the city knows how to swim.

  “I see.” I glance at Simon, who is wearing his unreadable genial expression, but I see his displeasure in the hard line of his mouth.

  “Have you observed bullying, Ms. Kanawa?” he asks.

  “Some name-calling and the like. The girls in question were reprimanded.”

  “What names?” I ask.

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s—”

  “What names?” I repeat.

  She sighs. “They call Sarah Shrek. Because she’s so tall.”

  Simon is still dead silent beside me.

  “And”—she slants a glance toward Simon—“Science Nerd.”

  “That’s an insult?”

  She lifts a shoulder.

  “I’ll talk to Emma’s mother,” I say. “In the meantime, will you let me know if there seems to be more trouble?”

  “Of course.”

  Simon’s jaw ripples slightly. “How were the girls reprimanded?”

  “Oh, I don’t . . . I can’t remember.”

  “I believe you’re lying, Ms. Kanawa, and I do not tolerate lying.”

  She colors and begins to protest. “No, I . . . I mean—”

  Simon stands, rising to his considerable six-four height. “I would suggest you make certain that any bullying, of any child, is swiftly punished. It’s just not sporting, and it should not be tolerated.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course you’re right.” Her cheeks burn magenta.

  “And do not lie to me again.”

  Simon takes my hand as we walk out, and he’s walking fast enough that I have trouble keeping up and skip behind him. He finally notices and halts. “Sorry. I just hate bullies.”

  “I know.” I never liked big sporting types before I met him, but this particular thing, his absolute adherence to fairness and honor, set him apart immediately. “I love you for it.”

  His shoulders ease, and he bends down to touch our noses together. “That’s not the only thing.”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Oh, it’s not little.”

  “No, dear. It surely isn’t.”

  After the meeting, I head up to Sapphire House for a walk-through on my own. I want the chance to feel the energy, for lack of a better word, and start to figure out a plan and who I’ll need to hire to do the work.

  As I drive up the rutted road sheltered by overgrown brush, I’m already making plans for how each room will be used and how to best catalog the fantastic lot of antiques contained within. A feijoa tree scrapes the side of the car, and I wince, thinking of what it’s doing to the silver paint. My tires must have smashed some of the fruits on the road, because the thick, sweet scent of them wafts in through my open window. On a whim, I stop the car and get out, fetching a canvas carry bag from the back seat.

  I’d never heard of a feijoa before I arrived in New Zealand. They’re a small green fruit that looks like a cross between an avocado and a lime on the outside, but inside boasts a fragrant yellow flesh with a texture much like a ripe pear’s. The flavor is an acquired taste—sweet and perfumed, a combination of a dozen other things—but to me, they are just simply, sublimely feijoa.

  With a sense of glee, I gather dozens of them into the bag, imagining the ways I’ll use the pulp. Imagining Simon’s face—he is nowhere near as fond of them as I am
—I chuckle to myself and tuck the bag gently into the bay of the passenger seat, humming under my breath as I climb the rest of the way up the hill.

  As I break out of the cover of the bush and into the sunlight, the view again takes my breath away. The sky and sea and the house itself, perched on the top like a queen overseeing the landscape. Sapphire House is an appropriate name for it—she overlooks all the blue jewels of nature. A shiver runs up my spine, a pleasure that’s so rich it’s nearly sexual. How is it possible that my life has led me here, to this house, which I will share with my children and their father, a man I still can’t quite believe is all he appears to be?

  As I stand there, admiring the landscape, a cloud scuds across the sun, throwing the scene into sudden shadow. A chill walks down my spine, as if it is a portent—things have been sunny for a long time in my life. Too long, maybe?

  But the cloud swirls away, the sun pours back over the scene, and I shake off my sense of warning.

  From the bag of feijoas, I grab a handful of fruits and then pick up my canvas workbag packed with notebooks and pens, measuring tapes, and an iPad. The sun beats down on the top of my head, and I wonder if I need to grab my hat. As a surfer girl from California, I thought I knew all about sun, but it took only one serious sunburn in New Zealand to realize how much more intense it is here. No one who lives here goes out without gallons of sunscreen.

  But I’m not going to be outside today, and I leave the white cotton hat on the front seat, then swim through the strangely high humidity toward the front door. It could be a miserable afternoon unless the wind starts blowing. At the moment, it’s dead still, and perspiration trickles out of my hair down the back of my neck and along my ears.

  Inside, the air is cooler, though I doubt there’s any air-conditioning. Even in such a high-end house, it would be very rare. Dropping my bag on the buffet by the door, I head for the long doors in the lounge. They face the sea, and when I open them one by one, at least a little whisper of freshness chases away the faint, distinct scent of mildew. There are no window coverings at all, which feels a little uncomfortable to me, even if it’s only ocean out there, but the glasswork is so spectacular, I get it. Between each set of doors is a panel of clear leaded glass, the lead forming chevron patterns. I touch the point of one. Remarkable.

  Every room is like that, every detail. I do another walk-through on the main level, looking more carefully at what is actually worth saving and what needs to go. Much of it is faded and weary looking but not as bad as I would have expected. Veronica’s sister, Helen, must have had good housekeeping over the years.

  On a yellow legal tablet, I note that all the sofas and chairs will have to be reupholstered, if not completely let go. Some styles are uncomfortable for actual human beings, and I’m not interested in living in a museum, so they can go to auction. A pair of chairs tucked into a corner are magnificent, if shabby, mirroring each other with a graduating back that looks like stair steps. Keepers, along with the dining room table, credenzas, and a stunning cabinet radio inlaid with abalone and what appears to be teak. Much of the art is unremarkable reproductions of landscapes and the usual classics, but there are also a number of pieces in a modernist style and distinctively New Zealand landscapes that might be notable. I recognize a seafront view in the style of Colin McCahon, those simplistic shapes, but it’s much too early for his work. I wonder if Veronica supported local artists.

  As I move through the rooms, scribbling notes, I notice there’s actually a lot of art, both paintings and ceramics, some of it tucked into small spaces, like the seascape in shades of green and turquoise that graces the narrow wall above a telephone table. A classic black telephone with a rotary dial sits on the stand, and I pick up the handset curiously. A dial tone buzzes in my ear, and, bemused, I set it back down, resting my hand on the curved shape. I’ll have to show the children. I wonder if they’ll even know what it is.

  For a moment, I’m thirteen, doing dishes in our house, the phone tucked between my ear and my shoulder, the cord swinging behind me every time I move. My mother appears, briskly clacking through the doorway. “Get off the phone and get to work. They’re swamped in the dining room.”

  A little wave of nostalgia washes through me, a longing for that particular day, before all of it fell to pieces. Going down to Eden in my uniform to serve my father’s Sicilian dishes the customers all came to eat, swordfish rolls and stuffed artichokes and arancini. Such good food. These days, my dad would be a Top Chef contender. Back then, he was still something of a king in his world, the dashing and charismatic center of Eden, the man who knew everyone’s name and clapped you on the back and gave the best hugs in the world. Everyone adored him, including me, at least as a child.

  For a moment, I’m so lost in the memories that the handset warms beneath my palm, and the predictable kaleidoscope of emotions tumbles through me—longing and regret and shame and love. I miss them all, Dylan and my father, my mother and, most of all, Kit.

  I grab my bag from the front door and carry it into the kitchen. It’s a calm, efficient place, clearly used very little. From a drawer, I take a sharp knife and a spoon and slice the feijoas in half. Within, each boasts a soft jelly center laced with seeds, a design that to me looks like a medieval cross. A couple of them are overripe, but the others are sweet and cool and delicious, and I slurp them up, getting sticky.

  Happy.

  I’ve also packed myself a lunch, the same thing I packed for the children, a bento box with cherry tomatoes and green grapes, rolls of ham and cheese on skewers, a little brownie, and a clementine. They love the boxes and love to take turns coming up with new ideas to fill them. They remind me of the little snacks and skewers I helped my dad prepare for happy hour snacks at Eden, long ago.

  Around me, the house is very silent, and I’m aware of the size of it, the vastness. It’s a little spooky if I allow it to be. I can imagine Veronica’s ghost trapped here, wandering the rooms, seeking her lost lover.

  A door slams upstairs, and I practically leap out of my skin.

  Get a grip.

  If there were ghosts on this earth, I’d have met one by now. God knows I’ve looked for them often enough. To explain. To put things right.

  With a deliberate shift, I pop a tomato in my mouth and lean on the counter, wondering what I’m going to do with this space. It’s easily big enough to eat in, and we’ll have breakfast here almost certainly, but there isn’t as much light as I’d wish and no view at all, just the walls of the kitchen. Would it be worth adding some windows back here? I’ll have to get Simon’s input.

  Opening the back door, I toss the clementine skins and overripe grapes for the birds. They land in a thicket of shrubs along a cracked path that seems to loop only around the house. I try following it, but it ends in a tangle of vines that seems to be both roses and scarlet rātā. A tree fern rises above the mess. There might be rats, I suddenly realize, and wonder if I should have left the damn fruit out there.

  Whatever.

  Washing my hands, I head back into the main living areas on this floor, a long, wide room that can be divided by pocket doors and rather spectacular mosaic screens. We’ll want an entertaining room, and it will be stunning at night, with the doors open to the sea and maybe a piano in the corner. I stand in the middle of the room, hands on my hips, letting the vision come to me. Colors of clear turquoise and orange and silver. The mirrors in this room are fantastic pieces, with stair-stepped geometric flares on the sides, and I’ll have them resilvered.

  Many of the furnishings and appointments are mediocre. There are a number of knockoffs and facsimiles, which is odd, considering how particular the detailing in the actual house is. I wonder, picking up a bowl that looks to be an authentic green Rookwood with Native American styling, if someone furnished it for Veronica. She was a busy actress, much in demand, and although she started spending more time in New Zealand once she fell in love with George, she still didn’t have much time.

  Or, one pr
esumes, taste? Although that makes my ears flush a little in shame. Who am I to judge? It’s not like I had any training—I taught myself to recognize fine things. Maybe she did too. Maybe she just didn’t have time to approve everything.

  Now I’m curious about her, and to understand what happened to her, and why, I’m going to need to do a lot more research. All I know at the moment is the top level—the doomed romance, the house, the murder. But what kind of woman was Veronica Parker? Where did she come from? How did she become such a big star?

  And what about her lover, George?

  It seems important to know all of it, to know Veronica’s wishes and dreams. Sapphire House was her home, her vision, her dream of luxury, and now it’s mine. It seems a sacred undertaking to honor her. By understanding her, I’ll do a better job of restoring the house to the glory it deserves.

  My time is running out today, but I can at least explore the study. It’s a richly appointed room with a view through long windows to the curve of the harbor. In the distance are rolling blue hills rising out of the water with a scudding of long clouds over the peaks. It would be an excellent office for Simon—aside from the noise. He is very relaxed about most things, but when he works on his accounts or marketing or anything to do with business, he likes—needs—complete silence. He’ll want a space upstairs, away from everything. Maybe the sister’s suite of rooms.

  This will be mine, then. I take in a breath and let it go, absorbing the atmosphere. The cherry-wood desk, the bookshelves, the glass light fixtures with their sleek geometric insets. I don’t like the desk sitting in the middle of the room, but that’s easily changed.

  Remembering my task to discover more about Veronica, I open the drawers of the desk and find them all empty. Not just cleared out but untouched, as if they’ve never been used. It breaks my heart a little. That might mean the books were also stocked by a decorator. Bookshelves run the entire length of one wall, and on several there’s a conspicuous elegance—the books’ covers are printed leather, all classics.