Jay measured her words. Chewed them. Let them sink in. There was no option but to listen to a woman like Wren. Jay had never encountered a woman—or a man for that matter—like her. She commanded attention, showed no fear and seemed ready for a fight.
She also wasn’t as obtuse or superficial as an uneducated observer first might think. Not by a long shot.
“No,” Jay finally said. “I am not going to New Zealand.” He looked to Karson. “We are.”
Stella
I was frozen, still standing stationary, holding my glass of wine. I was sure that wasn’t what I was meant to do when faced with a man holding a gun. Run, fight, blind him with the aforementioned wine … any or all of these might have worked. Not just standing there like some dumb horror movie heroine. Then again, he wasn’t pointing the gun at me, it was pointed down at the sand, held casually in his arms like it was a French baguette.
He was smiling with friendly eyes, but then again, I’d heard that Ted Bundy had friendly eyes. He was also wearing camo. An orange, long sleeved camo top and tan cargo style pants. They clashed terribly.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said, voice thick with the trademark New Zealand twang. “I’m shooting rabbits along the fence line.” He moved his gun to one hand so he could point with the other, toward the rolling and rugged farmland that bordered the beach.
I did not follow his hand. I thought it best to keep my eye on the man with the gun if I wasn’t going to run from him or blind him with wine.
“I’ve already got twenty this evening,” he shared proudly, grinning wide to reveal gleaming, straight white teeth.
I felt guilty for expecting them to be yellowed and crooked with at least one missing. The rest of him was scruffy, unkempt, a beard that seriously needed a trim, salt and pepper hair and a weather-beaten face with rosy cheeks. He wasn’t tall or muscled, not overly imposing—well, unless you counted the gun, then he was slightly more imposing.
“Saw you walking and wanted to come to warn you not to get a fright if ya heard a coupla shots here and there,” he continued, seemingly not bothered by the fact I had yet to speak.
“That’s much appreciated,” I nodded slowly, my mouth dry.
“You’re the Yank stayin’ at Janet’s place?” he asked.
I nodded again, unsure if I should be telling the man with the gun where I was staying. Alone. Unarmed.
“I’ll be sure to steer clear, don’t want to hit you with a rogue bullet while you’re out enjoying your brew.” He nodded to the wine in my hand, chuckling, deep and throaty. “Imagine that, come from the land of mass shootings and gun violence to little ol’ New Zealand and get hit with a bullet meant for a rabbit.”
I swallowed, pasting on a tight smile. “Imagine that.”
The sound of the waves was the only thing punctuating the silence for a while.
“Better get goin’,” the man finally said, tipping an imaginary hat.
I didn’t speak, only nodded again and waved lamely. I watched him trudge from the sand back up into the farmland until he disappeared, my heart thundering in my chest.
It hadn’t beat so loud and fast for a long time.
Not since him.
Janet arrived at my door within a few minutes of me getting back. The walk took twice as long since I kept stopping and turning, making sure that I wasn’t being followed, or squinting into the fields, hoping I wasn’t in anyone’s crosshairs.
I let out a little yelp when she knocked at the door, I was wound that tight.
“Heard Stanley gave you a bit of a scare,” Janet chirped when I was brave enough to open the door. Her hair was a mess of red ringlets, her eyes magnified by the large, round, purple rimmed spectacles she was wearing. Janet rarely wore makeup, apart from a smear of bright lipstick. Today it was pink. Her skin was tanned and creased from the sun, yet somehow still smooth and youthful.
She was wearing paint splattered overalls with a long-sleeved band tee underneath, a collection of gold and silver necklaces and bright purple Chuck Taylors.
“Stanley?” I repeated, stepping back to let her inside.
She went straight to the kitchen, grabbing the kettle and taking it to the sink to fill it.
“Yes, Stanley, the man with the 22 you encountered earlier?” she clarified over the sound of the water.
“His name is Stanley?” I asked, frowning and moving to sit at the breakfast bar.
“Sure is,” she replied, switching on the kettle. “Why do you sound surprised?”
I shrugged, sitting on a barstool, relieved for her company. “Not what I expected a man like him to be called.”
She laughed throatily. “Stanley is never what anyone expects.” She grabbed two mugs from where they were hanging on hooks beside the kettle. She took two teabags out of the cannister, putting them in, her jewelry clanging as she moved.