Found (Not Quite a Billionaire Book 3) (33 page)

Hope

You could have called Hemi’s divorce three weeks after our meeting with Anika an anticlimax, if it hadn’t been for the undercurrents.

I’d driven up to Auckland—yes,
I’d
driven, and in a blowing rain, too—together with Koro and Tane to meet Hemi, who’d flown straight there. Koro had come because he’d wanted to be there almost as much as I did, and Tane had come because he would be driving Koro home again. It couldn’t be me, because Hemi and I had someplace else to go afterward, somewhere we’d need to fly to reach in time. I’d had to schedule it for today, since Hemi wasn’t even staying overnight.

I wanted him to hang around longer, you bet I did. But being apart had been my idea, not his, and he had important things to do. Some parts of our life could change, but not every part. I was realistic enough to know that. At least I hoped I was, because otherwise, I was setting myself up for a lifetime of disappointment. I’d have him today, and today counted. Today was important.

He was waiting for us under the protective overhang in front of the Auckland District Court, mere blocks from the lingerie shop where I’d first discovered he’d been married before, when all of this had begun. But then, Auckland wasn’t very big.

My mind was skittering off to that insignificant detail because I was nervous. Not for me—for him.

Do you think he looked nervous, though? Of course he didn’t. He looked as cool and controlled as ever in his usual black suit and white shirt. Tailored and barbered to perfection, and betraying his emotions by not so much as a muscle twitch in his set face.

Until he saw us approaching under our umbrellas, that is. Then his face changed and he was coming forward fast, greeting Koro with a hongi, the Maori salutation that was both hug and kiss. A meeting of forehead and nose, a grasp of a shoulder. After that, he put his arms around me for a too-brief moment before shaking his cousin’s hand. He kept his arm around me, though, as if he needed to hold me. Which was good, because I certainly needed to hold him.

That was about as exciting as it got for a good two hours. We sat in a half-empty courtroom and watched a judge run through one civil case after another, a fair percentage of them divorces. None of the other marital parties seemed to be in attendance, or if they were, they didn’t do anything. An attorney presented the case, the judge ruled the marriage dissolved, and it was done. No testimony and no arguments, just two people’s once-bright hopes and dreams becoming their past.

The weight of it sank more and more deeply into me the longer it went on. This was meant to be a positive occasion for the two of us, wiping Hemi’s slate clean so we could start again. Instead, it felt dark and cold, and I could tell from Hemi’s face that it was exactly the same for him. He was remembering what it had felt like when his parents had been divorced, probably, and the blow when Anika had told him she wasn’t joining him in New York. He was thinking about his mum and his wife telling him he wasn’t worth keeping, so they were setting him aside. Letting him go.

He’d never say that, but he didn’t have to. I held his hand and tried to let him know his new truth, doing my best to send the message from my body into his.

That was then, and this is now. This is us, and it’s forever.

At last, his name was being read out. His and Anika’s. And in less than five minutes, it was over. The judge’s gavel hit the bench with the sharp
crack
of finality, he said, “Next case,” Hemi’s New Zealand attorney turned to leave, and Hemi stood up so fast, I nearly stumbled getting to my own feet.

The rain hadn’t abated one bit in the past two hours, either, I found when we were back in the lobby. It was blowing straight across the windows as Hemi shook hands with his lawyer, who headed off again at once. Job done, bill to come.

Tane watched him go, then asked, “How much did he charge you for two hours of sitting and five minutes of standing? Too much, I reckon.”

Hemi cracked his first smile of the morning. “Let’s say it was worth it.”

“Well, congrats, cuz,” Tane said. “I wouldn’t normally say that to a bloke about his divorce, but I’m saying it about this one. I’m saying, break out the bubbly. Or maybe I’ll say what June did. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.’”

Koro said, sharply for him, “You don’t celebrate misfortunes and endings. You know better, my son.”

“Probably right,” Tane said. “Sorry. Time for lunch, eh. Wash the taste away.”

“We don’t have time, unfortunately,” I put in. “We’re on a schedule here.”

“She tell you yet what her surprise is, mate?” Tane asked Hemi.

“Nah.” Hemi still looked shut down, and no wonder. “Only that we need to fly to Tauranga for it, and that it wasn’t at Koro’s.”

Tane looked smug at that. Koro looked satisfied himself, but all he said was, “Go on, then. You don’t want to be late.”

Hemi hesitated. “Wish I could stay the night, but . . .”

Koro waved his good hand. “Never mind. You’ll be back.”

The flight to Tauranga was mercifully brief, because the little jet bucked and pitched through the storm in a way that recalled all too vividly my arrival in New Zealand. I held Hemi’s hand again, but this time, I was receiving rather than giving comfort.

It
wasn’t
an omen. There was no such thing. There was no terrible surprise waiting on the other end. There couldn’t be. It would be too unfair.

When has life been fair?
my treacherous brain mocked.

This mattered too much, though. This mattered more than anything. To me, and to Hemi. He was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and he’d told me I was that for him. Our bad luck was
over.
It had to be.

I breathed a little easier when we were on the ground again. And when we were in the car, which I was once again driving—“Part of the surprise,” I’d said, trying to sound cheerful and perky—Hemi started talking a little more, which meant that he must be breathing more easily himself.

“Karen wanted to come,” he said. “I said no.”

“I know.” I pulled cautiously out onto the main road from the Tauranga airport, my windshield wipers slapping furiously at the sheets of water, my headlights probing the murky gray. “I’ve been getting blow-by-blow details. I was glad you said no. No way she should miss two days of school to watch you get divorced. It would probably have scarred her for life, as depressing as that was. Anyway, I texted her that it was done.”

“I wondered,” he said. “And since you always say this, it’s probably my turn. Good job letting go of the control and letting me make that decision.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “Huh. I never even thought of it that way. All right, then. You’re welcome.” I turned onto Bethlehem Road, then into the drive of Mills Reef.

Hemi studied the curving, elegant sweep of the low, modern building, the warm golden light glowing in the windows against the bleakness of the day, then glanced at me quizzically. “This my surprise?”

“First part of it.” I felt more certain, suddenly, as I pulled beneath the portico, hopped out, and handed my keys to the valet. We walked through glass doors into a foyer that smelled like flowers and good food, and I breathed in the aromas and said, “I was afraid we were going to miss our booking when I saw that everybody else in New Zealand was getting divorced before you did, but here we are. And this is
my
treat, by the way. This is my present.”

“I’ve been here before, you know,” he said. “If we’re having lunch, it’s likely to mean a day’s wages for you, or even more.”

“Fortunately, my future husband is both rich and indulgent.” I took his arm. “Which means I get to spend my meager earnings on whatever I want. Come on. I have a baby to feed, and it’s getting cranky. Or maybe that’s me.”

I got his second smile of the day for that, and in another minute, we were seated in a cozy spot in the corner of the wine estate’s sumptuous dining room, its white tablecloths and glittering modern chandeliers offering welcome cheer on this dreary day. And five minutes after
that,
Hemi had been served a glass of red wine and I hadn’t, and he was saying, “Koro said you don’t celebrate misfortune, but I’m celebrating this one all the same. Not saying that was fun, but I’m free, and I reckon both of us can celebrate that.”

“We can.” I lifted my water glass and touched it to his. “Congratulations. It was bad, but now we’re moving on.”

“Together.” He lifted his glass and drank. When he put it down again, though, he pulled out his phone.

I couldn’t help it. My heart sank. He had to check his messages
now?

Apparently not, because what he said was, “I’ve got a couple surprises of my own for you, and here’s the first one.” And with that, he handed the phone to me.

It took me a few seconds to understand what I was seeing. The stone floor of Hemi’s terrace, the planters filled with roses around the edges, and something else. Something new.

“It’s not glass.” First came my smile, and then a laugh.
“Hemi.
The walls aren’t glass anymore. You did this? Did you do it for me?”

He looked proud, he looked pleased, and he wasn’t trying to hide either thing. “Yeh. Talked it over with Karen, and we worked out the design together. Concrete to three feet up, glass above that for another eighteen inches. So you can feel safe going up to the edge and cutting your own roses, and we can have the baby out there without making you nervous. I thought we could do a sandpit, and maybe a wee play structure as well. I was looking at a few.”

You could say I was surprised. You could say that. “Hemi Te Mana,” I teased, the tears there behind my eyes, “king of the sandbox. Are you going to sit on the edge and help him or her build castles?”

“Could be. And that’s the other bit of my surprise.”

We were interrupted at that inopportune moment with our lunches. Well, not so inopportune, because I
was
starved, and I’d ordered a salmon salad that I wanted to start eating right
now.

Hemi must have seen the haste with which I seized my fork, because he commanded, “You eat and I’ll talk. The surprise is this. I’ve worked out a timetable for when you’re back, and for when the baby arrives. For all of that.”

I finished my absolutely delicious bite of fresh, buttery fish and crunchy, tangy greens, then said, trying not to be disappointed, “Babies don’t run on timetables, though. They’re hard to schedule. That’s how I remember Karen, and what I’ve read, too.”

He didn’t look the least bit abashed. Instead he looked smug. “Ah. But you see, this isn’t a timetable for the baby. It’s a timetable for me. I’m coming home in time to eat dinner with all of you every evening from here on out.”

“You are?” I may have been sitting there, stupefied. It’s possible. “What about work?”

“Got a home office, haven’t I. I can work there after dinner, after I’ve heard about everybody’s day, told you about mine, and helped put my baby to bed, maybe. Dunno why I haven’t been doing that all along, except that change doesn’t come easily to me. It’s come now, though. What do you reckon?”

“I reckon that’s a pretty great idea. I reckon I’m pretty happy to hear that.” An hour or so a day wasn’t exactly Mr. Mom territory, but it was more than I’d expected, for sure.

“But here’s the big one,” he said. “Ready?”

“Oh, yeah.” My heart had started to beat faster. It was the way he looked, maybe. Brimming with expectancy and pleasure, exactly the opposite of the shut-down man in that courtroom.

“Sundays,” he said. “They’re for you, and for my family. They’re for us. No calls, no meetings, no email. Nothing. From the day you come back home, Sundays are for you, and so are Women’s Wednesdays, except that they’ll be Family Wednesdays now.”

“Or maybe,” I said, “Whanau Wednesdays.”

He smiled, and it was so sweet, I could barely stand it. “Even better. Though I’m keeping our date night as well.”

“You’d better,” I said. “That one’s sacred.”

The amusement left his face, and he put out a hand and grasped mine. “Something Eugene told me a long time ago. I may have forgotten it for a while, but I won’t be forgetting it again. He told me that love isn’t something you say. It’s something you do. I’m going to be doing it, and so are you.”

“That’s some surprise,” I said, the happiness threatening to overpower me. “That’s . . . that’s a
change.”

“You told me people could change. You said you could learn to put your hand on me and tell me that you needed my time and attention, and I could learn to give them to you. I reckon it’s better if you don’t have to put your hand on me. It’s better if we know we have that time and attention coming. For both of us.”

All I could do was nod. If I tried to talk, I was very much afraid I was going to cry. And then I thought of something.

“What if Anika gets what she wants?” I asked. “What if you do have to start again from halfway down, rebuilding? Are you sure you won’t be thinking that you need your Sundays? That you’ll need every bit of time you have to do that?”

“That’s why they’re called priorities. Because they’re what matters most.”