Page 4

CHAPTER THREE

Six weeks later

Madigan

I dropped my glasses on my workbench and pinched the bridge of my nose. It took a minute to refocus my eyes after a day of intensely close work securing a spine, but once the studio finally settled into view, I downed the dregs of my cold coffee and checked the antique grandfather clock standing beside the door to the interior of the house.

My house.

My home. My sanctuary.

It was 3:00 p.m. Almost time to call it a day.

The delight in having my own studio attached to my home never got old. When I’d first seen the gorgeous two-hectare property ten years earlier, I’d fallen in love with the clean lines and open feel of the modern house sitting at its heart. The single-storey white structure had an airy barn conversion feel but with all the benefits of contemporary living. Loads of glass drenched the interior in natural light, and although it didn’t have a view, most of the land was covered in native bush, giving it a sense of seclusion that was worth far more to someone like me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the outside world, but most days it could just go fuck right off.

I’d converted the huge four-car garage into my studio, which was accessed through an interior hall that ran alongside it. Three airy bedrooms, plus a bathroom and laundry ran off the same hall. Beyond the bedrooms sat an airy open-plan living space with huge raked ceilings, a tiled fireplace that soared six metres, and a black-and-white cook’s kitchen to die for. Natural stone tiles made up the kitchen and dining floors, while bleached wood covered the remainder of the living area. The entire house was decorated in a soft palette of greys, creams, and sandy browns, which I’d tried to balance with some colourful artwork.

I loved every centimetre of the place, but I especially loved having a studio set up to my specifications. After covering the windows to stop ultraviolet damage, I’d barred them for security and then added a ton of specialised lighting along with fume hoods, ventilation, climate control, an alarm system, a wash-up area, a secure safe for valuable items, storage facilities for chemicals, workbenches, seating, and space for all the equipment I’d collected over the years. The laundry list was long, but when it was finally ready, I cried with pleasure.

My own studio.

Nothing had ever felt better.

Slipping my glasses back on my nose, I went back to work. Ten minutes later, I pulled the linen thread through the final hole and finished with a double kettle stitch.

Done.

I stretched my back and glanced over to where Gazza was swaying to whatever awful music was playing through his headphones as he worked on a first-edition copy of Moby Dick. I balled some Japanese tissue paper and threw it his way. It hit him on the nose, and he startled and looked up from his mission of gluing layers of fabric paper and leather to the book’s spine.

Gazza shook his head. “You are such a child.” He slipped the headphones from his ears and reached for his water. “What do you want, oh great one?”

I grinned. “Just letting you know I’m clocking off when I’m done sewing this section. I’m gonna take a run to check on Shirley.”

Gazza frowned. “That’s three times this week. You didn’t visit as often when she was living alone in her own home.”

I set about removing my book from the sewing frame—unpinning the tapes from the crossbeam and removing the boards from underneath. “Last time I looked, I was the boss,” I reminded him. “I’ll just glue the endpaper and start rounding and backing tomorrow. Easy.”

Gazza rolled his eyes, not intimidated one jot by my grumpy response. “Last time I looked, you never left early. I thought Shirley was doing well. I’ve been imagining her hiring buses for outings to the local pub and driving the staff crazy.”

I glanced his way. With a Pakeha father, whom he spoke little about, and a Samoan mother he clearly adored, Gazza was an achingly beautiful young man with bronze features, a trendy asymmetric haircut that sported a variety of colours, depending on his mood, and intriguing tawny eyes above a white goofy grin that always made me smile. He eyed me quizzically, the intricate vine tattoo that climbed his throat standing in stark contrast to the white tee that hung in a lacklustre fashion from his narrow shoulders.

“You’re not wrong,” I admitted. “I’ll pull back on the visits soon. I just don’t want her to feel like she’s been dumped there.”

“It was her decision,” Gazza pointed out. “She did all the organising and then told you once it was settled and you couldn’t argue with her.”

I frowned at the sharp outline of his clavicle visible through the thin cotton. He’s lost weight again. “You’re looking a bit skinny.” I called it out bluntly because that’s how we rolled.

Gazza snorted. “Yes, Dad . And you’re changing the subject.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He sighed. “Fine. I’ve lost a couple of kilos if you must know. It’s this new insulin. It’s better in some ways, but it’s fucking with my metabolism and I can’t seem to eat enough to hold my weight. If it makes you any happier, I was about to make an appointment with my endocrinologist.”

I eyeballed him. “See that you do.”

He gave me a mocking salute and went back to his work.

For as long as Gazza had been my apprentice, the cheerful, achingly handsome, thirty-five-year-old had been lean to the point of just plain skinny. After the first six months, I’d been worried enough to raise the issue only to find he was a brittle diabetic who struggled to maintain his weight. It didn’t help that he was singularly focused when it came to his work and would forget to eat if the complicated series of alarms on his phone didn’t remind him. He was pretty diligent about sticking to his eating program, and his transdermal glucose monitor alerted him if he went hypo or hyper. According to Gazza, the real time monitoring system had changed his life.

I transferred the book to my workbench and set about gluing the endpaper in place. Then I placed it between weighted boards, pulled off my dustcoat, and began tidying my workspace.

When I was done, I wandered over to Gazza’s bench. “How’s it going?” I studied the book he was working on. “Need any help?”

Gazza shook his head. “Not right now. I’ll let you know.”

I nodded, content with the answer. Gazza was the best apprentice I’d ever had, even if it wasn’t really the right term. Following in my footsteps, he’d travelled to the UK for his training and was top of his class. But education wasn’t nearly enough to set you up for a career as a book conservator. It was a world where word-of-mouth accolades meant far more than a piece of paper. Theoretical knowledge and skilled workmanship didn’t always go hand in hand. Years of working alongside reputable experts was needed to achieve any sort of legitimacy.

Museums and collectors weren’t about to entrust their valuable books and documents to anyone based on qualifications alone. Respect as a conservator came from who you’d worked with and what books and documents you’d been exposed to. It took years to build a reputation, and Gazza had only been with me for two. A couple more and he’d move on to broaden his experience—a day I wasn’t looking forward to.

He graciously sat back so I could take a closer look.

I nodded, impressed. “This looks pretty damn perfect.”

Gazza shot me a broad grin, clearly pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I patted his shoulder. “You’ve got real talent.”

He visibly preened. “Thanks.” Reaching for my wrist, he pulled my arm closer to examine the four-centimetre line of sutures above my wrist. He grunted, seemingly satisfied. “How’re they feeling?”

“Sore, if you must know.” I pulled my arm free only to have him stand and cup my ears instead, pulling me forward to inspect a second line of sutures that ran vertically down the middle of my forehead to the bridge of my nose. There was a third line on my right shoulder.

He poked gently at the clear film. “They look clean enough.”

“Ow.” I shoved him away and straightened up. “Why thank you, Nurse Hart. Your approval makes me feel so much better.”

He chuckled. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

“Not you,” I grumbled. “Besides, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

Gazza cocked his head. “See, now if that was true, then you wouldn’t have any skin cancers in the first place. Slip. Slop. Slap. Remember?”

I groaned. “In my generation, that meant slip off your shirt, slop on some oil to make sure you baked your skin to crackling, and slap the closest bare butt on the beach I used to cruise in my misspent youth in the hope I might get blown or laid because I wasn’t yet out. In the olden days,” I said with no small amount of sarcasm, “we believed tanned skin was healthy, not to mention sexy, sunscreen was for wimps, and the only fake tan available made you look like a pumpkin. By the time the message changed, it was too late for most of us.”

Gazza circled a finger my direction. “There’s an awful lot to unpack in those statements. If only we had more time, starting with you cruising in any way, shape, or form? I’m not sure I’ll recover.”

I grinned. “What happens on the cruising beach stays on the cruising beach.”

He waggled his brows. “I do love a good challenge.”

I chuckled, but when his gaze rose to my forehead again, I found myself dragging a lock of hair over the offending wound.

His eyes snapped back to mine. “Don’t worry. The doc did a good job. And with your uneven skin tone, you’ll hardly notice it’s even there once it’s healed.”

I huffed out a laugh. “Pretty sure there was an insult in there somewhere, but I’m too tired to look. Besides, I need to go. Remember to check your blood sugar and eat something before you hit the road. Drive safely.”

It was something I’d been saying a lot since learning about Nick’s husband.

Gazza groaned. “Yes, Dad.” But he couldn’t hide the pleased smile that crept over his face.

“Stop dadding me. Makes me feel old.” I made my way across the studio toward the interior of the house. “It would be a pain in my arse to have to replace you is all.”

Behind me, Gazza chuckled. “Yeah, that’d be right. But if it’s okay with you, I might leave early as well. I have a date tonight.”

A rare enough phenomenon to stop me in my tracks. “A date ?” I spun around. “ Really ?”

Gazza rolled his eyes. “Jesus. Don’t look so surprised. I do date, you know.”

“Which century are we talking about?”

Another eye-roll. “Shut up. Ben’s . . . nice.”

“Oh... nice.” I drew out both vowels and then sashayed my way back to Gazza’s bench, batting my lashes. “Sounds irresistible. Tell me more.”

His eyes widened in dismay. “For the love of God, stop that. You look like Blanche Devereaux from the Golden Girls , and not in a good way. Although I have to admit, the hair is close.”

I snorted. “I’m impressed you even know who that is.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “The Golden Girls don’t just belong to you old-time gays. It’s a cult classic.”

I snorted. “I’m only fifty-five, so watch your mouth. And also, it’s only a cult classic because of us.”

His lips twitched. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t be too smug about the fact, considering you were also responsible for the lamentable popularity of crop tops and jorts.”

I almost choked. “I’ll have you know that predated me by a long stretch, and I’ve never worn a crop top or jorts in my life.”

He arched a brow and my cheeks blew hot.

“Okay, maybe once,” I flustered. “But it was to a Pride parade, and in my defence, I was very, very drunk.”

Gazza grinned. “Calm down. I actually have a couple of both in my closet.”

My brows popped. “You do? I thought you were into painfully cutting-edge clothes made by some fringe sustainable designer so abhorred by the idea of being successful that they only sell by word of mouth on the dark web.”

Gazza stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “I’m not even going there.”

I waved a hand, indicating his current set of clothes. “I rest my case.” Over the white T-shirt, he wore a long billowy tunic-y thing sewn together from scraps of mismatched material, ranging from what looked like grandma’s floral cushion covers to some kind of hazardous cream tulle explosion. Black nail polish and mechanics boots completed the ensemble. It should’ve been a disaster. But instead of looking like the remains of a toddler’s birthday cake failure, it somehow managed to look hip and cool.

Gazza looked down at his outfit and grinned. “Awesome, right?”

Not the word I’d use, but then I wasn’t thirty and hot enough to melt the walls in every nightclub in Auckland. No one would give a shit what Gazza wore. They’d be too busy staring at the gorgeous man himself. A wallflower, he definitely wasn’t.

To avoid the risk of my admittedly pedestrian wardrobe being raised for discussion, I changed the subject. “So, who is he then, this Ben date man?”

Gazza waggled his brows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

I waited him out. He would never have mentioned it at all if he didn’t want me to know.

He lasted all of five seconds before a huge grin split his face. “Fine then. If you’re going to force it out of me, I met Ben at the monthly dinner of the diabetic support group I go to. He’s quiet, I suppose, but there’s a presence about him. It was his first time attending, so I went over to introduce myself and we got talking. It was easy, you know, like we’d known each other forever.”

As it turned out, I did know. An image of Nick popped into my mind, but I booted it back where it belonged. The man was going through the worst life crisis imaginable and there I was drooling over him. Well, I wasn’t only drooling, I was also talking to him and being supportive and all that shit, but... yeah... there was definitely low-level drooling happening as well. Not something I was proud of, considering his situation.

Gazza’s voice broke through my musings and I realised he was still talking.

“—very close to his family. It’s one of lots of things we have in common. He’s actually back living with his mum temporarily while he saves for a house. Anyway, when the dinner was over, Ben suggested we meet for coffee and talk some more, and I said yes. That’s it. No big deal.”

Except we both knew it was a very big deal. In the two years Gazza had worked for me, he’d never once mentioned any kind of dating, let alone a guy he might actually be interested in. I’d thought it was odd, considering we chatted openly about most everything else, and I knew that his large social group spent a lot of their weekends partying. It left me curious about the elephant in the room, but Gazza was entitled to his privacy and it was none of my business.

All of which pointed to the fact that this Ben, whoever he was, had to be something special. I suppressed the urge to grill my apprentice for every detail and simply clapped him on the shoulder. “I hope it goes well for you. You deserve the best.”

Gazza smiled almost shyly and his olive cheeks coloured, both of which took me by surprise. The young man was nothing if not supremely confident most of the time. “Thanks, Madigan. That means a lot coming from you.”

There was something in his expression that if I was better at all that peopling stuff I might’ve been able to decode. But I wasn’t, so I didn’t. Instead, I did what all socially awkward people do; I deflected. “Just don’t wear those pornographic leather trousers of yours on the first serious date. Make ’em work for it, yeah?”

Gazza laughed, which broke the strange spell between us. “This from a man who dates less than I do,” he pointed out, a little unnecessarily if you asked me. “And they’re not leather, they’re leather- look . Besides, they show off all my... assets.” He waggled his brows, and the Gazza I was more familiar with was back in the house.

I shuddered. “I’d rather not hear about men looking at your leather-covered assets. In fact, I want zero conversation about your assets at all, thank you very much. And just so we’re clear, I don’t need to date. Been there, done that, definitely allergic.”

His smile folded and his eyes locked on mine. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you don’t care.”

My eyes flicked to his. “Not everyone is made for a life partner, Gazza.”

“Of course not,” he snapped. “But actually deciding whether that matters is important, not just exiting the game. If it doesn’t matter, that’s great. But, and I might be wrong, I think in your case, it does matter. You just don’t want it to.”

His insight shocked me silent. As much as I wanted to dismiss his appraisal out of hand, I couldn’t. It wasn’t that I thought Gazza was shallow, he wasn’t, but I hadn’t expected him to see through me quite so easily. I’d given him no cause to suspect I wasn’t anything but content with my solitary existence. Hell, I wasn’t sure that I’d even admitted it to myself.

He flushed. “I’m sorry, that was none of my?—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupted. “But as I’m sure you know, there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely.” A classic response that sounded trite even to me.

“You’re right.” Gazza held my gaze, all trace of apology gone. “There is a difference.” The inference being that he still thought me lonely and not alone.

My mouth sprang open to protest but nothing came out.

Like his question had been answered, Gazza continued in a softer tone, “I know I’m way out of bounds here, so feel free to tell me to fuck off, but the only reason I’m saying any of this is because you’re one of the best men I know, and it kills me that you don’t have someone telling you that every day of your life because that’s what you deserve.”

I made a point of looking around the studio. “Have I crossed into some alternate dimension where you’re my therapist now, not my employee?”

Gazza rightfully ignored me. “Don’t fob me off with a joke because I think you need to hear this.”

I braced myself.

“I’ve known you two years,” he began. “And one thing I’ve learned is that any guy would be lucky to have you. If you were a bit younger or I was way, way older, I might even make a play for you myself.”

His words froze me in place and panic squeezed my chest. “I . . . um . . . oh . . . look . . . I don’t . . . you’re too?—”

Gazza roared with laughter. “Oh my god, you should see your face. I’m not interested in you, Madigan. Have you lost your freaking mind? It was an example. You’re my boss, for a start, not to mention a whole music generation older than I am.”

“Two, probably,” I corrected. “And both of them better.” I narrowed my gaze, my cheeks heating. “But I’m hardly decrepit, just so you know.”

“I know.” But he was struggling not to smile. “I’m just not into... older men. They’re not my style. I was simply making a point.”

“A point which I clearly missed in the mortifying moment which followed,” I pointed out.

Gazza swallowed another smile. “All I really meant to say was that I used to date. A. Lot. But working for you has totally killed my love life.”

“I... what?” A frown cut across my brow.

“You’ve become my muse, Madigan.”

“Your... muse?” I shook my head in confusion. “What in the hell does that mean?”

Gazza chuckled at whatever he saw on my face—horror most likely. “It’s really quite simple. Whenever I meet a new guy, I compare them with you.” He shrugged. “Not many make the grade.”

I blinked, trying to make sense of his words. “You compare them to me?”

“ Yes ,” he said, somewhat impatiently.

“But—” I screwed my eyes shut, then opened them again. “That makes zero sense. I’m a dating disaster, remember? Blunt and anti-social.”

He snorted. “That’s a bit extreme. You’re a university lecturer. You can’t be that bad.”

I cocked my head. “Don’t bet on it. That’s me in control. It’s nothing like a relationship. The last guy I dated called me—” I hesitated. “—well, to be fair, he actually didn’t call me much at all after I accompanied him to an award night and spilled red wine down the front of his boss’s white shirt. I apologised profusely, but his boss was a total prick and hurled abuse at me. I called him an arsehole in return and Daniel was... well, livid, not to put too a fine point on it. He thought I should’ve grovelled in apology, but it wasn’t my fault his boss was a complete tosser. Needless to say, that was the last I heard from Daniel.”

“Oh my god.” Gazza’s shoulders shook with laughter. “You see, that right there is what I mean. You’re real, Madigan. No pretence or fronts. And you’re a good guy in all the ways that count. A little dense about romance and men maybe. A little scared about being hurt again—I’m running on instinct here, so don’t shoot me. You’re completely unaware of your appeal, and you’re a whole lot stubborn about not putting yourself out there.” He shrugged. “But essentially you’re a good guy.”

“Gee, thanks.” My tone dripped with sarcasm.

Gazza’s eyes gleamed. “You’re exactly the kind of man my mother swore existed and I never believed her. But now I know she was right. I want a good guy of my own to grow old with. In short, I want my own Madigan. And that single realisation fucked up my entire dating regime.”

“Your own...” I drifted off, groaning. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Gazza grinned. “Why? You don’t think I deserve a good man?”

“What? No. Of course I think you deserve—” I caught sight of the wicked gleam in his eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

Gazza’s expression sobered. “To be honest, it wasn’t just you. I’ve had my fair share of duds over the years and I’m over it. So now, when I meet someone, I ask myself is this guy Madigan material? Does he have that kind of potential? If not, I might use him for a fuck, but that’s about it. No dating. No wasting my time.”

I dragged my hand down my face and stared at him. “ Madigan material? Are you on something?”

Gazza laughed. “No. And I’m not asking your opinion. I was just letting you know that you have a lot to offer, and you shouldn’t give up dating because of a few bad experiences.”

I eyed him with suspicion. “Have you been talking with Shirley?”

Gazza’s eyes danced. “I wish. But no. Just think about it, that’s all I’m saying. And like you said, you’re not decrepit. You must have at least ten good years left in you, right?”

I landed a kick to his shin and he squealed.

“Ow!” He hopped about on one foot. “What was that for?”

“For being a millennial punk. Now I really need to leave or I won’t have enough time to visit before Shirley goes to dinner. And can we please pretend this whole conversation never happened? I’d feel much more comfortable that way.”

“You wish,” Gazza said far too happily. “But go on, leave. Unless you want to continue our discussion now?”

“Hell no.” I stared at him a moment longer until a small, cryptic smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth. Something had just shifted in our relationship. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what, but it smelled a lot like genuine friendship. Not the boss/employee camaraderie I was used to but something deeper. Twenty years my junior and Gazza had just handed my emotional arse to me on a platter. Gotta respect that, especially since he wasn’t wrong.

“Go!” he repeated, shooing me with his hands.

And so I did, and the sound of his chuckling followed me into the house.

In just under thirty minutes, I was breezing through the automatic doors of Golden Oaks and into reception. Spotting Nick through the glass wall opposite, I slowed. Something about the set of his body—slumped on a bench in the pretty courtyard garden, his face in his hands. My gaze shot to Jerry, sitting behind the desk, and her face said it all.

“Davis is gone,” I said, statement more than question.

She nodded and came around the desk to join me. “He passed a couple of hours ago. We’ve been expecting it all day.” She followed my gaze through the window. “He’s been sitting like that pretty much ever since.” The aching sadness in her tone was unexpected. “They were all there when it happened.”

“Maggie too?” I checked. Davis’s ex-wife had come the minute Davis had taken a turn for the worse the week before, sharing the vigil with Lizzie and Nick as Davis slowly declined. Their close relationship was surprising but also reassuring.

Jerry nodded. “She left about ten minutes ago.”

Then it hit me. Davis had been dead two whole hours? They’d been expecting it all day? I checked my phone for any messages from Nick but there was nothing. I ignored the sting of that. So what if we’d talked at length several times a week, whenever we bumped into each other over the last month and a half; that didn’t make me friend and confidant material. It just made me... ridiculous.

“And what about Samuel?” I asked, knowing Nick’s brother-in-law, head of the Auckland police maritime unit, had been extremely close with his brother.

Jerry’s gaze flicked toward the hall. “He and Lizzie are still in with Davis. They’re terribly cut up. Wait here a minute.”

She left and I studied Nick’s profile through the glass as I waited, my heart breaking for him. However much a person might hope for a loved one to be at peace, when the moment actually came, it still had to be devastating.

Jerry reappeared with two coffees in her hands. “Take these and see if you can get him to talk.”

I gave her my best eye-roll but took the coffees anyway. “I’m far more likely to get a punch in the face.”

She snorted and patted my arm. “Try. Lizzie says you have the touch with him.”

I jolted at her words. “Lizzie said what? Christ. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve crossed a line somewhere.”

“She doesn’t,” Jerry reassured. “To be honest, I think she’s relieved that he’s been talking to anyone.”

I huffed. “To imply Nick talks with me is being generous. Nick doesn’t really talk about Davis other than general updates, or about anything personal. Mostly we chat about inconsequential stuff—rugby, restaurants, the news, books, his cat, things like that.”

“That’s a lot more than others have managed to get out of him recently, believe me. So go see if you can work some of that magic.” She gave me a gentle push. “I’ll keep the first-aid box handy.”

I resisted her efforts, still staring at Nick through the glass. He hadn’t moved a muscle. “Fine,” I relented. “I’ll try. Can you tell Shirley I might be a little while?”

Jerry nodded. “I’ll have her dinner sent to her room and you can join her when you’re done.” She followed my gaze back to Nick. “God, it rips your heart out, doesn’t it?”

It absolutely did.