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There’s a man over by the fence, in the process of nailing one of the planks back in place where it had slipped. He looks up as we pass. It’s Marc Fitzgerald—the Ark’s estate manager. I glance at him, and my gaze snags as if caught on a nail as I see what he’s wearing. Normally, he dons a suit for work, as he often has meetings with the architects or the building contractors. Today, though, as he’s doing some maintenance, he’s changed into a pair of coveralls. It’s the first of October, so technically not close to summer yet, but up here in the sub-tropical Northland it’s always hot by lunchtime, and he’s peeled off the top part of the coveralls, tying the arms around his waist. He’s bare-chested, and a little sweaty. His skin is gleaming in the sunshine like honed and varnished wood. He has curly hair, like me, but his is dark and normally skims his collar, and he hasn’t shaved in a while. He’s scruffy as. But it doesn’t hide the fact that he’s in fine shape, a perfect specimen of manliness.
I’m pretty sure he’s taken his top off for my benefit. It wouldn’t surprise me if he sprayed himself with water to enhance his shiny muscles. The man is relentless.
Four months ago, during the cyclone that destroyed part of the Ark, he spent the evening with me at the petting farm, looking after the animals. In the midst of the power outage, when the lights went out and we were sitting in the dark in the straw, he asked me out. I said no thank you, I wasn’t interested in a relationship, and assumed that would be the end of it—he’d keep to his side of the Ark, and I’d keep to mine, and never the twain shall meet. I thought that days later I’d see him dating another girl. But he hasn’t. He comes over all the time, and actually we’ve kinda become good friends. Which is why I’m approaching him today with a specific request in mind.
He bends over to pick up a piece of wood, the coveralls clinging to his neat butt. I tear my gaze away before I walk into something, and return Aimee to her teacher.
“Thank you for an amazing afternoon,” the teacher says as Aimee boards the bus. “This is such a cool idea. The talk you gave them about caring for animals was really well done.”
“Thank you,” I reply, taken aback by her praise. “I appreciate you saying that.”
One of the purposes of the petting farm is to teach children of all ages to respect animals. Children are rarely cruel by nature; if they do hurt an animal, it’s usually because they’ve seen someone in their family be violent toward another person or animal. If I can help even one child turn away from that behavioral programming, I’ll consider it a job well done.
I wave goodbye as the bus pulls away, feeling an inner glow. Phew, it’s warm. I have an hour now before there’s another class visit, so it’s time for a cool drink and some lunch.
Turning, I glance over at Marc. His Jack Russell, called—rather unimaginatively—Jack, and who’s almost always by his side, sniffs around in the grass. Marc’s collecting up his tools, but I have a feeling he was watching me. Today, though, I don’t mind, as I wanted to talk to him.
“Warm afternoon, isn’t it?” I say as I walk up to the fence. I poke my fingers through for Jack to lick.
Marc straightens and nods. The hollow at the base of his throat gleams with moisture. “Summer’s on its way.”
I try not to stare at the stubble on his jaw. “I can’t wait. Noah said he’s having a pool put in, did he tell you? We’ll be able to use it during our lunch hour.” I bet Marc looks good in swim shorts.
“Yeah, that’ll be brilliant,” he says. “Swimming is good exercise; it takes your weight off your joints.”
“Your back bothering you?” I know he was wounded when he was in the Army—he served for a while at Scott Base in Antarctica, and he injured his spine when a plane crash-landed. He still walks stiffly, and sometimes I see him arching his back where it’s obviously paining him.
He bends and zips up his tool bag. “Sometimes.” He straightens, the bag in his hands. “Well, I suppose I’d better get back to work.”
I take a deep breath. Am I really going to do this? I’ve been thinking about it for weeks—months, actually, ever since he asked me out. I have no idea what he’s going to say. He might laugh and go back to the Ark and tell everyone, or get angry and ask me what the hell I’m thinking. Neither would surprise me.
