Cameron had clearly made up his mind, so there was no point in arguing with him. I nodded reluctantly and took off down the path, feeling slightly dejected and a tiny bit fearful. What would I do if Bree flew into a rage? I wondered. Fend her off with my day pack? Reginald and Ruru wouldn’t make much of an impact, but the biscuit tin would pack a good punch. I slipped the day pack from my shoulders and held it by its straps in one hand, the better to swing it with.
If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with defensive measures, I would have enjoyed my solitary stroll. The weather was splendid and the gardens weren’t devoted exclusively to flowers. The path meandered past a lily pad-laden pond, a croquet lawn, a bowling green, and a set of tennis courts. It wound its way through trees adorned with glorious spring blossoms to a formal rose garden, which hadn’t yet come into bloom. And each time I remembered to look up, there was Lake Wakatipu, glinting through the greenery.
Beyond the rose garden sat an enormous gray granite boulder inset with a pair of marble plaques. Above the plaques, five white marble stars formed a constellation that had guided explorers for centuries. I gazed at the stars and realized, with a warm rush of affection, that Cameron had kept the promise he’d made to me in Ohakune. I’d finally seen the Southern Cross.
The somber purple flowers surrounding the boulder were enclosed by a knee-high hedge interspersed with short granite columns. A girl sat on the grass with her back to one of the columns, reading a ragged paperback copy of The Return of the King, the third book in Tolkien’s trilogy. She wore blue jeans, sneakers, and a black tank top. A greenstone pendant carved in the shape of a koru—an opening fern frond—hung around her neck. A dark-blue hooded sweatshirt and a canvas book bag lay by her side.
I recognized her immediately. The spiky hair, the tattoos, and the piercings did nothing to diminish Bree’s dark beauty. Angelo had been right, I thought. A girl like that could shave her head and still be a knockout.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly. I didn’t want to startle her.
Bree raised her heart-shaped face. Her slight build made her look younger than eighteen, but when I gazed into her liquid brown eyes I saw someone who had forgotten, or who had never known, how to be young.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your reading,” I said.
“No worries.” She sat up and closed the book. “Do you want to take a picture of the memorial? I’ll get out of your way.”
“I’m not interested in the memorial,” I said, motioning for her to remain seated. “My name is Lori Shepherd and I came here to speak with you.”
Bree’s eyes narrowed slightly, and I tightened my grip on my day pack, but to my relief she seemed curious rather than hostile.
“How did you know I’d be here?” she asked.
“I’ve been to the Southern Lakes Gallery,” I replied. “Gary Whiterider told me where to find you.”
“Are you an American?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “but I live in England.”
Bree slipped the book into her bag and leaned back against the granite column. “Why would an American living in England want to speak with me?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, “but there are a few things you need to know before I tell it.” I dropped my day pack on the ground and sat beside it, facing her. “I visited your flat in Auckland a few days ago. While I was there, a nurse from North Shore Hospital stopped by. She was the nurse who looked after your father while he was in the critical care unit.”
“Is he dead?” she asked, without a flicker of emotion.
I nodded, murmuring, “I’m sorry.”
Bree sighed softly and bowed her head. “Did he ask for me before he died?”
“Yes,” I said. “The nurse told me that he asked for you repeatedly. When it became apparent that you weren’t going to show up, he asked her to give you a message. He wanted you to know that he was sorry.”
“Again,” Bree murmured with a bitter laugh.
“The nurse would appreciate it if you’d call her as soon as possible,” I continued. “She has your father’s personal effects and she needs to know what you want to do with his . . . remains.” I took Bridgette Burkhoffer’s business card from my pack and handed it to Bree. “You can use my cell phone to call her, if you like.”
Bree studied the card, then shook her head.
“I can’t afford a funeral,” she said.
“Not a problem,” I told her. “I’ll cover the expenses.”
Bree frowned at me. “Why would you pay for my father’s funeral? ”
“I’m a friend of the family,” I said.
“What kind of friend?” she asked, her face hardening.