pricked her, and reality nudged her back as she stared at the spot on her thumb now beading with the tiniest drop of blood.
Hissing, she popped the tip of her finger in her mouth, and the contact burned.
Joanne flitted back just as quickly as she’d left, her fist clutching something small. “Here.” The kind brunette pressed a hard, cold object into Eva’s hand.
A key. “What’s this?”
“That opens the back door. You are welcome here anytime, my dear. Day or night.”
“But . . . you don’t even know me.”
“I know enough. We are kindred spirits, as they say.” Joanne cupped Eva’s cheek gently, as a mother or kind aunt might. “Whenever you need a break from life, from the sadness, from the memories, you may come here and enjoy the flowers—nature’s promise to you that life will one day bloom again.”
14
Where in the world were Marc and Eva? Had they forgotten about the reporter?
Angela bustled around the kitchen, shoving dirty lunch plates and cups into the dishwasher, starting a cycle, and snatching a rag to wipe down the table. A reporter had called Eva a week or so after getting her information from the organization putting on the ultra-marathon. They wanted Simon King to do a feature article on them in their quarterly magazine, Worldwide Runners. So they’d set up an interview today—in two minutes, to be exact—and Marc and Eva hadn’t returned from a morning bike ride in the countryside surrounding Wanaka.
Marc had arrived late the night before. He planned to stay about three weeks to train and run the full marathon with the women on January 9 in preparation for the ultra-marathon in March.
It had been Eva’s idea to meet here for the interview in the first place. She’d thought being at the house would make the interview cozier and a lot quieter than any public place. This morning Angela had asked Sherry to take the kids into town for some ice cream so they wouldn’t be a distraction.
Her nerves tingled. Why was she so on edge? It was just a little interview.
The doorbell rang just as she was putting on a pot of coffee. She’d meant to change clothes before the interview, but her yoga pants and Wanaka T-shirt would have to do. After peeking in the hallway mirror to ensure her hair wasn’t a total disaster, Angela opened the door.
“Hello.” The brown-haired man standing on the front porch smiled, his straight teeth gleaming at her. He was on the tall-but-not-too-tall side, with an athletic build, but not overly muscled. With brown slacks, a white button-up shirt rolled to mid-arm, and a messenger bag slung across his chest, he looked professional and casual all at once. He seemed not much older than her—perhaps around forty. “I’m Simon.”
“Angela Jamison.” She shook his hand. “Come on in.” Moving aside to allow him entry, she then closed the door and led the way to the kitchen. “I apologize, but my sister-in-law and our other teammate haven’t returned from a bike ride yet. I’m sure they’ll be here soon. Would you like some coffee while we wait?”
“That’d be great, thanks.” Simon pointed to the modern black table for six, his accent confirming he was a New Zealander. “Are we doing the interview here?”
“If that’s all right.” Angela reached for two oversized mugs and poured some java, setting one in front of Simon, who’d pulled a notebook, pen, and small recorder from his bag. “Here you go. Cream, sugar?”
“Black is perfect.” He took a sip, the high temperature of the liquid not even fazing him.
Angela slid into the seat across from Simon, her own mug cradled between her hands. “Do you have fun plans for Christmas and New Year’s?”
“Yeah, but I’ve still got loads to do. My kids are excited, though. I’m knackered just thinking about it.”
She joined his laughter. “I can relate.”
“You have kids?”
“Three.” She drummed her fingers along the edge of the mug, waiting a few moments before speaking again. “I’m not sure why Eva arranged to do this right before Christmas. I’m sure it could have waited until after the holidays.”
“It was my fault. My editor wants the piece as soon as possible, and I was flat tack all last week.”
She stared at him blankly. The local slang still left her flummoxed half the time.
“Sorry. Just means I was busy.” There was that smile again, those extremely white teeth. Against his tan skin, his grin was dazzling. Little laugh lines crinkled around his eyes and mouth, proof that he spent