Together they explored the demolished Central Business District and talked at length about the big earthquakes. Hank confessed that he still had trouble sleeping all these years later. Erin had felt a few quakes since the bike fiasco and had come to regard them as part of Christchurch. They happened, and she moved past them.
Erin reveled in Christchurch’s freedom and fresh air. And, many nights in the wop wops, she reveled in Hank.
The third or fourth time they had sex, Erin paused the kissing to again ask: “Is this good for you?”
“I wish you’d stop that,” Hank said.
Erin recoiled.
“Don’t get me wrong—I like it. I like everything. But you’re always asking if I’m okay or happy or feeling good. What do you like?”
“It’s all fun.”
“What’s all fun?”
“I like being with you, out in the world or in here, naked.”
“And when we’re naked, what do you like best?”
“Making you feel good.”
Hank rubbed his eyes. “But why?”
“It makes me feel good?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Giving me pleasure makes you feel good? Well giving you pleasure would make me feel good. Take something for yourself here, Erin. What can we do to make you feel good?”
“I do feel good.”
Hank shook his head. “Nah. This is a team sport. I want you to get as much of your own pleasure as I do.”
Flustered, Erin said, “I don’t know how to do that.”
Running his hand up her thigh, Hank smiled. “So let’s figure it out.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Hank played tour guide anywhere Erin wanted to visit, so Saturday morning he drove her to Akaroa.
During the twisting ninety-minute roller-coaster ride, Erin kept her eyes on the shifting horizon and kept her breakfast in her stomach.
Hank parked a few feet from the bay. “Morning tea?”
“Coffee.”
Holding hands, they walked to a tiny café overlooking a small, black beach where children teased seashells from the sand and dodged tiny waves lapping at the shore.
Akaroa was a volcanic crater filled with seawater surrounded by mountain.
The bay was large enough to seem majestic but not so large that Erin couldn’t swim across with a bit of effort.
“Well, this is gorgeous,” Erin said.
“You’re thinking about swimming, yeah?”
“Considering it.”
“Bring your togs?”
She eyed him. “Swimsuit?”
“That’s the one!”
“Not today. Maybe next time.” Erin gazed at the mountains across the water. “This reminds me of my favorite place in the world. My grandparents’ cottage was similar. No mountains, but lots of wild blueberries and strawberries. I lived in the water. I kind of dove in the first day, then swam and floated my way through June, July, and August.”
Hank smiled. “Sounds like my parents’ bach. On Taharoa. You’d like it: swimming, take the boats out, lie about in swim tubes.”
“Is there a dock?” she asked.
“Small one, eh.”
“Rafts?”
“It’s not white water!”
“No, like an inflatable canvas thing you lie on in the water.”
“Air mats?”
“Probably?”
“Yes. We have air mats.”
“Sounds like a dream.”
His face turned serious. “Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, I leave on a tiki tour up to the North Island. Come with me.”
“I’m sorry, a tiki tour?”
“Like, meandering. I don’t really have a plan. Probably camp roadside. Taharoa’s a bit of a hike.”
“Do you do that a lot? Just wander aimlessly?”
He smiled. “I do.”
“I’d be happy to wander aimlessly with you, but my flight’s booked for the twenty-third.”
“Tell you what,” Hank said. “Next time you’re here, we’ll go.”
“Deal.”
Oh, how she hoped there would be a next time.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Erin had wanted to visit Akaroa to buy souvenirs for her parents and Lalitha but was cynical when Hank directed her to a craft fair.
In New Zealand, craft fairs weren’t stay-at-home moms knitting afghans and crocheting pot holders; here, artists sold gorgeous art. One woman displayed hand-smocked dresses that looked machine made. A glass-blower sold mouth-blown chess sets.
A husband-wife team designed jewelry delicate enough for boutiques. Erin chose earrings and two necklaces for her mother and a bracelet for Lalitha.
For her father, she found a single pair of 100-percent wool socks and a pair that was half possum. Mitchell was just the sort of guy who might delight in the novelty of possum in his socks. The guy who returned Erin’s change was American.
“It’s my wife’s shop. She’s kiwi. I’m from Ohio.”
“Chicago,” Erin said.
His wife, clearly kiwi, butted in. “Ah, Chicago. Winter in Chicago was piss awful. I haven’t thought about that in yonks.”
Her husband said, “We met in Chicago ten years ago when she was on O.E.”
Hank said, “That’s her overseas experience. Most kiwis get away for a year or two, then come back.”
“I know the feeling,” Erin said. “Okay, so tell me, what is with the possum here?”
The American shrugged. “It’s what we’ve got. Use wool. Use possum. New Zealand doesn’t have a cotton industry, so you either import super expensive stuff or buy what kiwis can make here.”
“Practical, though, isn’t it? Clothes fade on the line, so you’re going to have to buy new. And manufacturers don’t have three hundred million people to sell to. So, there’s low end and high end. Nothing in the middle. No Gap. No Banana Republic.”
Erin loved the word banana on a kiwi tongue. “So glad I ran into you. I have been wondering about the possum for months.”
“Cheers,” they said in unison.
Erin circled the remaining artists. She hadn’t planned to buy for anyone else, but a thick crocheted tea cozy shaped like an owl would be perfect for Lalitha’s tea-obsessed parents. Erin would forever be apologizing for the carpet stains that lingered in Lalitha’s mom’s observatory.
“Thirty-seven and twenty,” the artist said.
Erin would miss kiwi’s accents. Sea-vin. Tweentee!
She accepted her change and told Hank she
