What if she was just setting herself up for rejection again?
A part of her was tempted to get straight back in the rental car and drive flat-out back to Auckland. But she couldn’t run away now. She needed to know, for her own sake.
A walk, she needed a walk to clear her head and put some distance between herself and the car that would tempt her to take the easy way out. Besides, a walk would give her a few more minutes to pull her ragged nerves together. Finding her grandmother’s house wouldn’t be difficult. To the right there weren’t more than twenty houses along the beachfront, and the house photo in the report was quite distinctive. She felt sure she’d recognise it from the waterside just as easily as from the road that ran parallel to the beach.
Holly lifted her bag from the front seat, swiped her keys from the ignition and locked the car. At the edge of the beach she kicked off her runners and, balancing against a large park bench, she slipped off her socks and shoved them into her bag. The sand felt cool and soft beneath her feet and she sank a little in the loose granules before she reached the firmer base where the outgoing tide had left its mark scattered with seaweed and pieces of driftwood.
With the setting sun at her back, she headed off down the beach, peering intently at each of the houses she drew level with. The houses were an eclectic collection in various states of size and repair. At a glance it looked as if the traditional Kiwi baches, or holiday homes as they were becoming more widely known, were being superseded by palatial homes that wouldn’t have looked out of place in some of Auckland’s highly sought-after eastern suburbs. Each one built to face the sea. Holly easily identified her grandmother’s tidy cottage from the photo in the report and fought to stem the rush of adrenaline that flooded her body and propelled her up the sand to the wide grass berm that separated the houses from the beach.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as Holly placed a shaking hand on the front gate and gently pushed it open. This side of the house was built to enjoy the vista of the bay, and wide French doors were flung open. Holly determinedly placed one foot in front of the other until she was standing on the weathered deck and raised her hand to knock firmly on the doorjamb.
Her heart skipped a beat as she heard a noise from inside, but still no one came at her knock. She banged against the door frame again.
“Hello?” An elderly man’s head popped up from the other side of the fence that bordered the property. “If you’re looking for Queenie she’s coming up the beach now.”
“Yes, yes, I am. Thank you.”
“Say, you look familiar. Have I seen you before?”
Holly’s breath caught in her throat. “No, I’ve never been here before.” She swiftly descended the shallow stairs that led off the deck and walked back down to the beach, scanning the shoreline for the figure that was in all probability her only living family.
All at once she felt the earth tilt. The woman walking towards her was older than the photo from the locket that had been printed in the paper, but the likeness was unmistakable.
Queenie Fleming. Her grandmother.
Holly’s shoes dropped unheeded from her hands as she stopped and stared, unable to speak. Unable to even think.
“Hello? Were you looking for me?”
For longer than you can ever know. “Yes, I am.” Holly managed to force the words past lips that quivered as they stretched into a welcoming smile.
As she drew nearer, the woman’s smile became more set and her face, weathered by sun and wind and marked with lines of sorrow, paled as she fixed her gaze on Holly. “Giselle? No, you can’t be …” Her voice trailed away weakly.
A shiver rippled through her—Giselle, her mother. It was all she could do not to throw herself in the other woman’s arms, yet one remaining ounce of caution—a lingering fear of being brushed aside if she identified who she was—held her in place.
“I’m sorry, dear, you startled me. You look such a lot like my late daughter. Don’t worry about a silly old thing like me.” She gathered herself together and gave Holly another smile. “You look worn-out, dear. Long trip? Why don’t you come and have a cuppa with me. I’m Queenie Fleming, but the young ones around here call me Nana, you may as well, too.”
Queenie’s chatter washed over her, and Holly felt herself nod, not even believing it could be so simple. Nana. Her stomach did a little flip. If she’d grown up here she’d have had every right to call her Nana.
“Wait, please?” She put a hand out to the woman’s arm, her fingers curling gently around it ever so briefly before letting go. Her grandmother. It still seemed unreal.