Where Sea Meets Sky

Inwardly, I groan. Loudly. But I smile at my mom. “That’s fine, we’re used to it.” To get off the subject I look at my auntie Jolinda hovering behind my mother. “Hey, Auntie Jo!” I say, holding my arms out for the big hug I know is coming.

Auntie Jolinda isn’t hot in the way that Josh was asking about. She’s from my father’s side, as are most of my aunts and uncles, so she’s got dark, sturdy looks, as we all do. But she’s round-faced and has the prettiest greenstone-colored eyes and has a way of making you feel loved.

She pulls me into an embrace. “Gemma,” she says happily. Like my mom, she’s quiet and conserves her words but she doesn’t have to say much to get a feeling across.

She strokes my cheek fondly and then lights up at the sight of Josh. I have to bite my lip from laughing as she goes for him. Thankfully she only hugs him hard and doesn’t grab his butt, but I’ll have to keep an eye on her after a few glasses of wine. Not that I can blame the woman. Josh has the best ass to pinch.

“I thought Nick was with you, Gemma,” my mother says suddenly.

Amber, Josh, and I exchange the subtlest of glances before I put an appeasing smile on for her. “He went back to Sydney early,” I say, which for all I know could be true.

To my surprise, she doesn’t look disappointed. “No worries,” she says, “that’s one less person to eat Uncle Jeremy’s famous kumara slices.”

“Oh, kumara,” Josh says excitedly. Of all the Kiwi things he’s picked up on this trip, eating kumara—a type of sweet potato—and dipping it into sour cream and sweet chili sauce has become his favorite. That, and doing me, I guess.

We go back to Mr. Orange and haul our packs into the house and up the stairs to my old room. As usual, the house is immaculate but it still has this rustic, homey vibe. It’s very much a Kiwi farmhouse, with wainscoting and rugged brown boards in all the right places and smooth finished wood in others.

“This is an awesome house,” Amber says. “My parents’ house is so boring and stucco. Total subdivision banality.”

I lead them down to my room. It’s quite large and has enough space for my queen bed and an air mattress or two on the floor. One wall is entirely devoted to sports medals and ribbons. Football, field hockey, women’s rugby, netball, tennis—I’ve done them all.

Josh marvels at them, mouthing the names and dates of the competitions. “Wow, Gemma, you really like to whack balls around, don’t you.”

“I like them better in my mouth,” I answer smartly. It brings out another annoyed groan from Amber.

“Seriously. You. Guys.”

I stick my tongue out at her and place my backpack by the bed, opening my window. The view here is always beautiful. My room looks out onto the back vineyard and a dirt road that runs along the property all the way to the beach. I can see the holiday baches and Norfolk pines that line the bright blue ocean.

“Your view growing up was a lot better than mine,” Josh says behind me, pushing my hair over my shoulder and kissing my neck. I close my eyes and melt into his touch.

“Hey, can we take a tour of the vineyards or something?” Amber asks.

I turn around and eye her. “Sure, but don’t you have, like, Napa Valley by you?”

She ties her curly hair back into a braid. “It’s not exactly nearby,” she says. “Besides, I’ve been in the bus all day. I’d like some fresh air before I stuff myself with what smells like amazing cooking.”

I nod and bring them outside. I lead them down a path lined with cabbage trees as it winds over to the vines. I can see Jez, his blue ball cap poking up way in the distance.

There isn’t much for me to point out. We’re a boutique winery and we’re not open for tastings or anything touristy yet, so it’s just the vines for acres and acres. We grow three types of grapes and would like to do more than pinot noir in the red department but the land doesn’t quite get hot enough, except on the south end of the small rise near the edge of the property. But my parents started it back when my father was a struggling artist and, throughout the years, either the winery kept the art afloat or the art kept the winery afloat.

The money that my father left behind, thanks to what my mother calls carefully selected stocks, has kept this place going, and the winery even flourishes, depending on the year. It’s a good life. There was a moment there after his death when I thought my mom was going to pack it up, but with Auntie Jolinda’s help and Jez staying on as winemaker, it’s still going strong.

I only wish I liked winemaking—or, really, wine in general—enough to want to be a part of it. Give me a brewery any day.

When we get to the crest of the low hill and can see over the vines to Hawkes Bay, Port of Napier, and the rolling hills on the other side of Highway 2, Amber decides she’s had enough.

“Want us to come with you?” I ask and she shakes her head and says she wants to use the washroom. We watch her blond head pass along the vines as she goes back to the house. I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s leaving on purpose. Seeing as we don’t have a lot of privacy here, I could kiss her for it. Sometimes she really is the best cousin ever.

I start wondering what I should buy her for Christmas—hell, what I should buy Josh—when I feel his arms slip around my stomach, embracing me from behind. In the distance I can see plumes of dust rising from the long driveway, meaning Uncle Jeremy and his eight- and eleven-year-old kids will be here any moment. But out on this hill, surrounded by undulating green, it feels like we have eternity. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">