Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“A giant orangery or greenhouse for his bride?”
“Romantic, right?” Darcie flattened her lips. “I’m sure it made up for dragging her to the back of beyond.”
My mind flashed to the cookbook. I wondered if Clara Shepherd had written anything about this garden.
“Anyway”—Darcie plucked another orange off the branch—“the trees have been here forever. The oranges are okay, but the cherries are spectacular, so juicy and sweet. I ask Jim to pick me a huge box once or twice during the season and ship it up to Auckland.”
I’d been taking photographs as we spoke, and now Darcie laughed and put out a palm as if to block me. “If I’d known you’d catch me out here, I would’ve put on a nice dress.” She dropped her hand, the blue of her eyes sparkling. “Instead, you’re going to have photographs of me with a grandmotherly knot in my hair and pajamas over which I’ve put on a puffer jacket. Oh, and let’s not forget my gumboots. Classy.”
“The gumboots are the perfect touch,” I argued. “I’ll do more photos later if you want. Perfect for your social media.” Darcie’s profile, unsurprisingly, was one of those soft-focus, picture-perfect-life kinds of accounts. She was an influencer in lifestyle circles, had over a hundred thousand followers last I’d looked.
Not huge, but not tiny, either.
She also had an interesting circle of people she followed and promoted. Once, while I’d been bored and up far too late at night, I’d gone poking around and discovered that many of the accounts Darcie followed were far smaller than her own. Generous of her, I’d thought. Until I dug a little deeper and discovered that most of those accounts were linked to others far more powerful—whether by blood or by bonds of friendship.
Darcie making connections through the weakest link.
Clever, I supposed. And it seemed to be working for her.
As for her style, as a photographer for hire, I knew to give the client what they wanted, so that I’d get paid and get recommended for other jobs. My art was a thing quite apart from the bread-and-butter work I did to pay the bills.
Darcie’s point of difference was that, as an engineer, she wore hard hats as often as she did her favorite floaty dresses, and—alongside the home and hearth–type images—she tended to take images of the structures with which she was involved in her work. Same with Ash; he was a familiar presence on her account, all square jaw and perfect suits except when he was on a site.
Time was, Ash had lived in jeans and rugby shirts.
“These are just for us,” I added. “A true representation of a reunion where we all regress to our young adult years.” Warmth spilled through my veins. “Do you remember going to the supermarket in our onesies at six in the morning to get pancake mix?”
Darcie’s smile faded, her eyes hooded. “That wasn’t me.”
I went to part my lips to argue, right as I remembered that Darcie had never worn a onesie. She’d refused to get one when me, Bea, and Vansi had made the drunken decision to order them.
A unicorn, a mouse, and a tiger.
Instead of apologizing for inadvertently bringing up Bea, I chose to grab the opportunity. Even if I’d decided against raging at Darcie, I was tired of not talking about the girl who’d been such a huge part of all our lives. And surely it wouldn’t hurt her for us to talk about her sister? After all, wasn’t our silence part of the problem?
“I miss Bea.” Lowering my camera, I met Darcie’s gaze. “Can you imagine the fun she would’ve had this morning, racing around trying to organize us into an early morning adventure?”
Darcie’s features moved in a way that was unnatural, too tight, too jagged. Fighting themselves. “It was mania, you know.” Words twisted with pain. “How she used to get. She made me promise never to tell you. But she’s gone, and what use is it?”
Her lower lip quivered. “She’d have manic phases and then she’d come down off them into flat depression. Never bad enough that you’d notice it as anything other than Bea being in one of her quiet moods, but she’d been on medication since she was twelve.”
14
Istared at Darcie, her words simply not fitting into an understandable pattern inside my head. “What are you talking about?”
In response, she threw an orange hard against the trunk of another large tree, sending a shower of white blossoms floating to the earth. Then she collapsed into a sitting position on the ground, her hands pressed to her face.
Her shoulders shook violently, her sobs raw.
“Hey.” Snapping out of my frozen state, I came down to cradle her against my body with one arm. Because even if I would always be angry with her for what she’d chosen to do with Bea’s remains, Darcie was my friend, too. She had, in fact, been my friend first, before I ever met Bea. Seeing her in such pain . . . “Hey, Darcie. I’m here.”