“You may not be aware of it,” I said, “but you’ve surrounded yourself with hope.” I pointed at her book bag. “Tolkien threaded strands of hope through all of his stories.” I motioned toward her neck. “The pendant you’re wearing is a koru, a symbol of new life and new beginnings.” I jutted my chin toward the Scott Memorial. “You didn’t come here to dwell on death. You’re sitting with your back to the boulder, facing trees arrayed in the rainbow colors of spring.” I fixed her with a level gaze. “I don’t deny that you’ve been through hell, Bree, but it’s not in your nature to give in to despair. Your spirit is too strong.”
“And look where my strength has gotten me,” she retorted. “No car, no home, no friends, and no future. I don’t know where to go from here.”
“If I might make a suggestion?” I said, with a tentative smile. “You may be impervious to the cold, but my bum is numb and I’m starving. Why don’t we pick up Cameron and have a hot meal, preferably in front of a roaring fire? It’s getting dark, anyway, so unless you have a flashlight, you won’t be able to read the letter.”
“What letter?” she asked.
“Didn’t I tell you about your great-grandaunts’ letter?” I hit myself in the forehead. “My brain must be frostbitten. Let’s go somewhere warm before I lose consciousness. You can read the letter there.”
Bree kept still for a moment, curled in upon herself like a frightened child. She closed her eyes and released an exhausted sigh, then unfolded like an opening fern frond, got to her feet, and walked with me through the blossoming trees to Cameron.
Eighteen
We ate at the Bathhouse Restaurant because it was close at hand, open on Sunday evening, and heated. The elegant decor, the excellent service, the creative menu, and the unmatched views of Lake Wakatipu were pleasant bonuses. Had we been in England, or even the United States, I might have hesitated to enter such a sophisticated establishment in grass-stained trousers and a wrinkled rain jacket, but New Zealand’s restaurateurs had a refreshing come-as-you-are attitude toward attire that put me at ease.
Another advantage to the Coronation Bathhouse was that it, unlike many eateries in youth-oriented Queenstown, did not feature a live band. The muted atmosphere allowed Bree to concentrate on her great-grandaunts’ letter while Cameron and I ordered a sumptuous dinner for our party of three.
When she finished reading the letter, Bree asked to borrow my cell phone and stepped away from the table to make a call. She returned a short time later, handed the phone back to me, and maintained a preoccupied silence throughout the meal. How she could refrain from cooing ecstatically over the braised pork dumplings, the kumara and feta gnocchi, and the manuka honey sorbet was beyond me, but she didn’t make a sound until the Valrhona chocolate cake arrived at our table.
“The lawyer didn’t tell them that the money came from Aubrey,” she said.
“Lawyer?” I managed, through a mouthful of chocolaty goodness. I pondered her words for a moment, then asked, “Are you referring to Fortescue Makepeace?”
She nodded. “Mr. Makepeace’s grandfather agreed never to mention Aubrey’s name again after Aubrey was disinherited, so he couldn’t tell Ruth and Louise about the trust fund Aubrey set up for them. His son and his grandson were bound by the same agreement. The Fortescues managed the fund for nearly a century without ever telling Ruth and Louise where the money came from. My great-grandaunts believed all along that their father had made canny investments for them.” She gave a shaky laugh. “How could anyone be so naive?”
“Don’t judge them by today’s standards,” Cameron advised. “When Ruth and Louise were growing up, women weren’t expected to deal with financial matters. Money was a vulgar subject best left to the menfolk.”
“It sounds as if they know about the trust fund now,” I said. “What happened? Did Fortescue Makepeace break his vow of silence and tell them the truth?”
“No,” said Bree. “He told the truth to someone named Nell Harris, who told it to Ruth and Louise.”
“Why did he spill the beans to Nell?” I asked.
“Because she helped Ruth and Louise to draft a new will.” Bree gazed at me wonderingly. “My great-grandaunts have left everything to me. Everything. Not just the income from the trust, but everything they own—the house and all of its contents, the land, the car—”
“I wouldn’t get too jazzed about the car,” I cautioned. “It might have been a top-of-the-line model when it was first produced, but it’s a museum piece now.” I saw that Bree was trembling and added bracingly, “Of course they’re leaving everything to you. They’ve spent most of their lives being honorary aunts. If you hadn’t come along, they would never have known what it’s like to be real aunts. I’d say you’re just about the best thing that’s ever happened to them.”
Bree clasped her hands together, as if to steady herself. “They want to meet me. They say there’s an open-ended ticket waiting for me at the airport in Auckland.”
“Excellent,” I said, toasting her with a forkful of cake. “You can fly back with me.”
“Lori,” Cameron said oppressively, “you’re forgetting that Bree has unfinished business here in New Zealand.”