“Takapuna?” I said, frowning. “I thought we were in Auckland.”
“Not quite. Technically, we’re in a suburb of North Shore City.” Cameron raised his hand and pointed to his right. “Auckland’s over there, across Waitemata Harbor.”
“Kia ora, Takapuna, Waitemata . . .” I sighed. “Just when I’m getting used to your accent, you ambush me with words I can hardly pronounce. I’m a stranger in a strange land, Cameron. I thought New Zealand would be more . . . English.”
“New Zealand is many things,” he said. “I wish you could stay long enough to see all of it, but Bill told me you were in a hurry to get home.”
“I am.” I patted the black leather document case in my shoulder bag. “But first I have to deliver a letter. Let’s go.”
I put on my sunglasses as we stepped out of the lobby. The sun shone brightly in a flawless blue sky, and the air was soft, moist, and scented with salt and seaweed—a reminder of how close we were to the ocean. Across the street from the Spencer, a large but tasteful sign marked the entrance to the Takapuna Lawn Bowling Club. The sign seemed to combine the Englishness I’d expected with the touch of “otherness” I’d found.
“What a lovely day,” I said, remembering the frigid monsoon that had drenched me in Upper Deeping.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Cameron cautioned. “It’s early spring in the Southern Hemisphere. The weather can—and will—change on a dime. Here we are,” he added, unlocking the doors of a spotless silver Ford Falcon. “It’s a rental. My own vehicle isn’t quite as clean.”
As we took our respective places in the car, I noted that the steering wheel was on the right-hand side—just like in England. I opened the window to enjoy the balmy breezes while we waited for a group of chattering passengers to board a minivan parked directly in front of us. Undismayed by the delay, Cameron turned to reach for something in the backseat and, much to my surprise, presented me with a colorful cookie tin.
“Anzac biscuits,” he said. “Baked by my wife, Donna. ‘Anzac’ stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. Legend has it that the biscuits were invented during the First World War by women who wanted to send nutritious and durable treats to their men fighting overseas. It’s Donna’s way of welcoming foreign visitors.”
“Your wife is very kind,” I said. “Please thank her for me. Do you have children?”
“Two boys,” he replied. “They’re not twins, like Will and Rob, but they’re only a year apart. Braden is ten and Ben is eleven.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Near Wellington,” he replied. “I’d be more specific, but I don’t want your eyes to glaze over.”
I smiled ruefully but pressed on. “What job am I tearing you away from? ”
“I train horses,” said Cameron, confirming my hunch about the outdoorsy nature of his occupation. “And you’re not tearing me away from anything. According to my wife, I’m in dire need of a holiday.”
“It’s a good thing I didn’t bring my sons with me,” I said. “They’d want you to go back to work straightaway. They love horses.”
“I know,” he said. “Bill has e-mailed quite a few pictures of Will and Rob on their ponies.”
“He’s a proud papa,” I acknowledged. I looked down at the biscuit tin and shook my head. “I don’t know what to say, Cameron. Not every man would leave his wife, his children, and his job for the sake of an old friend.”
“Nor would every woman. Looks as though we have something in common.” The minivan pulled away and he turned the key in the ignition. “All set?”
“Drive on,” I said.
Two minutes later we were cruising down the main drag of a bustling shopping district. Most of the shops were small and independently owned rather than links in multinational chains, and the sidewalks were crowded with people of all ages and races. There was so much to look at that I felt a small twinge of regret when the shops petered out and we entered a residential area.
A left-hand turn took us onto a short street lined with a mixture of fairly impressive mansions and modest but well-tended homes. At the end of the street, I caught a glimpse of ocean framed by towering trees I didn’t recognize.
“Pohutukawa trees,” said Cameron, following my gaze.
“Pohutu—what?” I said.
“Pohutukawas,” he said. “They’re covered in red blossoms at Christmastime. Very cheerful.”