I forced a smile, bit into my cookie, and chewed. It was healthier than grinding my teeth.
My prickly mood vanished as soon as Cameron and I were airborne. It was impossible to remain irritable while gazing down on the sparkling waters of Lake Taupo and the strange, crinkled landscape of Tongariro National Park. As we flew farther south, Cameron pointed out the green spines of the Ruahine and the Tararua ranges to the east and the telltale cone shape of Mount Taranaki to the west. He also drew my attention to a variegated patch of green in the Tasman Sea.
“Kapiti Island,” he informed me. “It’s a nature reserve. More of an ark, really. It’s the last best hope on earth for some of our most endangered species.”
I enjoyed the flight so thoroughly that I felt a jab of disappointment when he informed me that we were about to land. I was also confused. Although Angelo had described Wellington as a small city, I was certain that it had to be bigger than the farmstead Cameron was circling.
“Where’s Wellington?” I asked.
“About fifty kilometers farther south,” he said. “We’ll leave the plane here and drive into town.”
“I get it,” I said, as understanding dawned. “Whose car are we borrowing this time?”
“Mine,” said Cameron. “Hold on tight, Lori. You’re about to experience your first paddock landing.”
I had no time to panic or to plead with him to find a paved runway. One minute we were in the air and the next we were bouncing along the grass in the center of a fenced field. The bounces were surprisingly gentle and we seemed to have plenty of room, so on the whole I preferred the paddock landing to the one we’d made on the shores of Lake Taupo.
“Well done,” I said, when the plane came to a halt.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve had a fair amount of practice landing in this particular paddock because I live here. Well, actually . . .” He pointed to a large and handsome one-story brick house a few hundred yards away from us. “I live there.”
I unbuckled my seat belt in record time, lowered myself onto the grass without Cameron’s assistance, and took a good look at my surroundings. Although I was anxious to get to Wellington, I wasn’t about to waste a golden opportunity to see the place my native guide called home.
Cameron’s house stood on a rise with its back to a range of rolling green hills, facing acres of tree-fringed fields that sloped gradually down to the sea. Dozens of exquisite horses grazed or galloped in the verdant pastures adjacent to the one in which we’d landed. The pastureland was dotted with tiny yellow flowers, and Kapiti Island floated offshore, swathed in a faint haze that made it appear dramatically remote and mysterious.
Cameron hopped out of the plane, retrieved our bags, and came to stand beside me.
“Will and Rob would go googly over this place,” I said. “A horse-filled pasture is their idea of paradise.”
“You’ll have to bring them with you next time.” He pointed to a dense avenue of trees to our right. “The stables and the training facilities are behind the shelterbelt.”
“What’s a shelterbelt?” I asked.
“A really big hedgerow,” he answered, grinning. “The trees protect my outbuildings from the gales that blow in off the Tassie.” He swept an arm through the air to indicate pretty much every square inch of land in sight. “My property runs from the hills down to the sea. Nice view, eh?”
“Nice?” I cried. “Cameron, the view is astounding.”
“It’s all right,” he said with a diffident shrug. “Come on. Donna’s waiting for us.”
I followed him through a gate in the two-bar wooden fence surrounding the field and up a dirt driveway to his house. We’d scarcely set foot on the verandah when the front door opened and a frisky black-and-white Jack Russell terrier scampered outside to greet us.
Close on the terrier’s heels came a diminutive, dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her early thirties. She was dressed in jeans, a navy blue track jacket, and white sweat socks, and she carried a duffel bag similar to Cameron’s. While the dog sniffed his master’s cat-scented shoes, the woman stood on tiptoe to give Cameron a peck on the cheek, then nodded to me.
“Donna Mackenzie,” she said.
“Lori Shepherd,” I responded. “Thank you so much for the Anzac biscuits. I hope you won’t mind if I pester you for the recipe. My sons will gobble them up.”
“I’ll e-mail it to Bill,” she said, smiling. “As a matter of fact, he sent an e-mail to me this morning, to give to you.” She handed me a white business envelope addressed to Aubrey Aroha Pym. “It’s a letter,” she explained, “from the Pym sisters to their great-grandniece.”
“They must be feeling better, if they’re dictating letters,” I marveled, slipping the envelope into my day pack. “Thanks a lot, Donna.”
“No worries,” she said. “Cam’s told me what you’re doing and I think it’s fantastic.”