Why was he telling her this? Were memories coming at him so hard and fast they had to escape? No. Maybe it was because he’d had more time to process these ones. They’d been spinning and growing in his head and his heart for days. They’d inspired this whole project.
‘She came back here to marry him and I was born the same year. He...died when I was five and I got taken back to France a year or so later.’
Turning points. When life had gone so wrong. He couldn’t fix that, of course. But he could honour the time when it had been perfect. Not that he could share any of that with Zanna. Maybe he’d already said too much.
‘I still have a home there,’ he finished. ‘But I also live in London.’
Zanna’s eyes were wide. ‘I’ve lived here since I was six. My parents got killed in a car accident and my aunt Magda adopted me. I’ve only recently come back, though. I’ve been in London for the last few years.’
The point of connection brought them instantly that little bit closer and Nic was aware of a curl of warmth but then, oddly, it became an emotional seesaw and he felt disappointed. So they’d been living in the same city, oblivious to the existence of each other? What a waste...
Another leaf drifted down. And then another. Zanna looked up, frowning.
‘I’d better get some water onto these trees. It’s odd. I didn’t think the summer’s been dry enough to distress them.’
‘Maybe autumn’s arriving early.’
‘They’re not deciduous. They’re southern ratas. They don’t flower very well more than once every few years but when they do, they’re one of our most spectacular native trees. They have bright red, hairy sort of flowers—like the pohutukawa. The street was named after them. And the house. But they were here first and they’re protected now, which is a good thing.’
‘Why?’
‘The trees are big enough to make it harder to develop the land—if it’s ever sold.’
‘You’re thinking of selling?’ Maybe this mission would end up being easier than expected. Done and dusted within a few days, even. Strange that the prospect gave him another pang of...what was that? Like knowing that he’d lived in the same city as Zanna without knowing about it. Not quite disappointment...more like regret?
Yet he knew perfectly well that the world was full of beautiful women and he’d never had trouble attracting his fair share of them. What was it about Zanna Zelenksy? Her striking colouring? Those eyes? The strong character?
She certainly wasn’t feeling it. Her face stilled and he could see a flash of strong emotion darken her eyes.
‘Not in my lifetime. This is my home. My refuge.’
Refuge? What did she need to run and hide from? Was there a streak of vulnerability in that strength? Yes...maybe that was why his interest had been captured. But Zanna ignored his curious glance and began walking down the path.
‘It’s part of the city’s heritage, too,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘Only the council’s too stupid to recognise it. They’d rather see it pulled down and have some horrible, modern skyscraper take its place.’
It wouldn’t be a skyscraper.
It would be a beautiful, low building that echoed the curve of the river.
The Brabant Academy. A music school and performance centre, funded by the trust that would bring brilliant musicians together to nurture young talent. A serene setting but a place where dreams could be realised. A place of beautiful music. And hope for the future.
Nic followed her along the path. Heritage was often overrated, in his opinion. A smokescreen that could hide the truth that sometimes it was preferable to wipe out the past and put something new and beautiful in its place.
And this was one of those times. A final sweeping glance as he reached the steps leading to the main entrance of the house revealed the cracked weatherboards and faded shingles. Peeling paint and rust on the ironwork. Poverty and neglect were stamped into the fabric of this once grand residence and it struck deeply engrained notes in Nic’s soul.
A new memory of his father surfaced.
‘Why on earth would we want a grand old house that would take far too much money and time? We have everything we need right here, don’t we?’
The tiny cottage had contained everything they’d needed. It had been home.
The shock of moving to the slums of Paris had been all the more distressing. The smell of dirt and disease and...death.
Yes. The hatred of poverty and neglect was well honed. Memories of the misery were powerful enough to smother memories of happier things so it was no surprise that they were peeking out from the clouds for the first time ever. Maybe he would welcome them in time but they were too disturbing for now. They touched things Nic had been sure were long dead and buried. They had the potential to rekindle a dream that had been effectively crushed with his mother’s death—that one day he would again experience that feeling like no other.
The safety of home. Of family.
* * *
Zanna found she was holding her breath as she turned the brass knob and pushed open the solid kauri front door of her home.
First impressions mattered. Would he be blown away by the graceful curve of the wide staircase with its beautifully turned balustrade and the carved newel posts? Would he notice that the flower motif on the posts was repeated in the light switches and the brass plates around the doorknobs—even in the stained glass of the windows?
Maybe he’d be distracted by the clutter of Aunt Maggie’s eccentric collections, like the antique stringed instruments on the walls above the timber panelling and the arrays of unusual hats, umbrellas and walking sticks crowding more than one stand on the polished wooden floorboards.
He certainly seemed a little taken aback as he stepped into the entranceway but perhaps that was due to the black shape moving towards them at some speed from out of the darkness of the hallway beneath the stairs.
Three pitch-black cats with glowing yellow eyes. Siblings that stayed so close they could appear like one mythical creature sometimes. She could feel the way Nic relaxed as the shape came close enough to reveal its components.
‘Meet the M&Ms.’
‘Sorry?’
Zanna scooped up one of the small, silky cats. ‘This is Marmite. The others are Merlin and Mystic. We call them the M&Ms.’
‘Oh...’ He was looking down at his feet. Merlin, who was usually wary of strangers, was standing on his back feet, trying to reach his hand. He stretched out his fingers and the cat seemed to grow taller as he pushed his head against them.
Artistic fingers, Zanna noted, with their long shape that narrowed gradually to rounded tips. If Aunt Maggie were here, she’d say that this man was likely to be imaginative, impulsive and unconventional. That he’d prefer an occupation that gave him a sense of satisfaction even if it was poorly paid.
He’d said he used to be an architect. What did he do now? Consulting work with organisations like the historical protection society? It certainly seemed to fit.
Those artistic fingers were cupped now, shaping the cat’s body as they moved from its head to the tip of the long tail. Merlin emitted a sound of pleasure and Zanna had to bury her face in Marmite’s fur to stifle what could have been a tiny whimper of her own. She could almost feel what that caress would be like.
It was Mystic that started the yowling.
‘They’re hungry,’ Zanna said. ‘If I don’t feed them, they’ll be a nuisance, so would you mind if we start the tour in the kitchen?’
‘Not at all.’
She led him