really was astonishing, with the unusual angles to its bays and verandas that gave it the impression of a blunted pentagon. It was iced with ornate ironwork, intricately moulded bargeboards and modillions and, to top it all off, there was a turret, set like a church spire to one side of the main entrance, adding a third storey to the two large rooms with rounded bay windows.
A secret, circular room that begged to be explored.
Especially to a small boy who had gazed at it from over the fence.
The shaft of remembered longing was as shiny as that moment of happiness had been. The filters were like clouds, shifting just enough to allow a bright beam to shine through. Bright enough to burn.
The emotion behind this current project would be overwhelming if he let it surface. Not that his mother was here to see it happen but that only made it more important. This was going to be a memorial to the one woman he’d ever truly loved. To the man she’d loved with all her heart. To the family he’d had for such a heartbreakingly short breath of time.
He swallowed hard.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ Zanna had joined him on the path. ‘The most amazing house in the world.’
A leaf drifted down from one of the trees and landed on Nic’s shoulder. Zanna resisted the urge to reach up brush it off.
‘It’s certainly unusual. Over a hundred years old. Queen Anne style.’
Had she been right in guessing that he was a specialist in old houses? ‘How do you know that?’ she asked. ‘Are you an architect?’
‘Used to be. Plus, I’ve done a lot of study. The style was taken up in the 1880s and stayed popular for a long time. The Marseilles tiles on the roof make it a bit later because they weren’t introduced until about 1901.’
The brief eye contact as he glanced at her was enough to steal Zanna’s breath for a moment. The connection felt weird but gave her hope. He knew about old houses. Would he fall in love with her house and help her fight to save it?
‘I didn’t know about the Queen Anne style until recently,’ she confessed. ‘I had to do some research to apply for the historical protection order. It’s all about the fancy stuff, isn’t it? The turret and shingles and things.’
It didn’t matter if he didn’t admit that consideration for protection was the reason he was here. Zanna was asking the question partly because she wanted him to keep talking. She loved his voice. It reflected the dark, chocolate quality of his eyes. And that faint accent was undeniably sexy.
‘It was also known as free classical,’ he told her. ‘The turret is a bit of a signature. Like those dragon spikes on the roof ridges. It looks like it was designed by an architect with a strong love of fairy-tales.’
‘Or magic?’ Zanna suggested quietly.
He shook his head, dismissing the suggestion, but the huff of his breath was a softer sound than she might have expected. ‘Typical of New Zealand to adopt a style and make it popular only after it was considered passé by the rest of the world.’
‘So you’re not a kiwi, then?’
‘By birth I am. My mother was French. A musician. She came across a kiwi backpacker who’d gone to Paris to trace his own French ancestry. She found him sitting in a park, playing a guitar, and she said she fell in love with him the moment she heard his music.’
Why was he telling her this? Were memories coming at him so hard and fast they had to escape? No. Maybe it was because he’d had more time to process these ones. They’d been spinning and growing in his head and his heart for days. They’d inspired this whole project.
‘She came back here to marry him and I was born the same year. He...died when I was five and I got taken back to France a year or so later.’
Turning points. When life had gone so wrong. He couldn’t fix that, of course. But he could honour the time when it had been perfect. Not that he could share any of that with Zanna. Maybe he’d already said too much.
‘I still have a home there,’ he finished. ‘But I also live in London.’
Zanna’s eyes were wide. ‘I’ve lived here since I was six. My parents got killed in a car accident and my aunt Magda adopted me. I’ve only recently come back, though. I’ve been in London for the last few years.’
The point of connection brought them instantly that little bit closer and Nic was aware of a curl of warmth but then, oddly, it became an emotional seesaw and he felt disappointed. So they’d been living in the same city, oblivious to the existence of each other? What a waste...
Another leaf drifted down. And then another. Zanna looked up, frowning.
‘I’d better get some water onto these trees. It’s odd. I didn’t think the summer’s been dry enough to distress them.’
‘Maybe autumn’s arriving early.’
‘They’re not deciduous. They’re southern ratas. They don’t flower very well more than once every few years but when they do, they’re one of our most spectacular native trees. They have bright red, hairy sort of flowers—like the pohutukawa. The street was named after them. And the house. But they were here first and they’re protected now, which is a good thing.’
‘Why?’
‘The trees are big enough to make it harder to develop the land—if it’s ever sold.’
‘You’re thinking of selling?’ Maybe this mission would end up being easier than expected. Done and dusted within a few days, even. Strange that the prospect gave him another pang of...what was that? Like knowing that he’d lived in the same city as Zanna without knowing about it. Not quite disappointment...more like regret?
Yet he knew perfectly well that the world was full of beautiful women and he’d never had trouble attracting his fair share of them. What was it about Zanna Zelenksy? Her striking colouring? Those eyes? The strong character?
She certainly wasn’t feeling it. Her face stilled and he could see a flash of strong emotion darken her eyes.
‘Not in my lifetime. This is my home. My refuge.’
Refuge? What did she need to run and hide from? Was there a streak of vulnerability in that strength? Yes...maybe that was why his interest had been captured. But Zanna ignored his curious glance and began walking down the path.
‘It’s part of the city’s heritage, too,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘Only the council’s too stupid to recognise it. They’d rather see it pulled down and have some horrible, modern skyscraper take its place.’
It wouldn’t be a skyscraper.
It would be a beautiful, low building that echoed the curve of the river.
The Brabant Academy. A music school and performance centre, funded by the trust that would bring brilliant musicians together to nurture young talent. A serene setting but a place where dreams could be realised. A place of beautiful music. And hope for the future.
Nic followed her along the path. Heritage was often overrated, in his opinion. A smokescreen
