“She and Tom had just bought their own place and the renovations pretty much consumed her -life—-we’d talk about paint, about wallpaper, about rugs, even about the best tapware for the kitchen.” Anahera’s lips curved. “A family of her own and Tom, that’s all Josie’s ever wanted.”

“Is that what shaped your perception of Jemima?”

“No. Like I said, Josie was cheerfully obsessed with Tom and their new -home—-they’d only been married a couple of months then.” Less than a year later, Josie’s obsession had switched to her first pregnancy.

It had been raining the day she woke Anahera up with the news, her joy incandescent. Anahera had been alone, Edward on one of his business -trips—-even with all his success as a playwright, he’d continued to put in time at the family firm. The devoted son. Upright and steadfast. That day, Anahera had lain in her bed watching the rain create trails down the windows, and she’d listened to her friend bubble on about the new life growing in her womb.

Afterward, she’d gone to the bathroom and thrown up until her throat was raw.

“Josie and Tom got married less than a year after Vincent and Jemima.” One a large society wedding, the other a cozy local affair, yet Vincent and Josie had shared many guests. Josie had been ecstatic when Vincent chartered a plane to fly his Golden Cove friends up to Auckland for his fancy do.

“I think if Josie hadn’t been so involved in planning her own wedding when Jemima first came to Golden Cove, she’d probably have made an effort to draw her out, take the initiative in starting a friendship.” That was how Anahera and Josie had first become friends. Josie had literally run over to Anahera while Anahera was in the supermarket with her mother, and taken her hand.

They’d been three years old at the time.

“When Josie mentioned Jemima being standoffish,” Anahera continued, “I figured maybe Jemima didn’t feel comfortable coming into town because everyone was friends with Vincent and they all knew one another. I felt that way in London for a while.”

Marrying Edward had meant integrating into a -tight--knit -public--school community. Most had been nice -people—-though their definition of comfort was Anahera’s definition of total -luxury—-but she’d never forgotten they were Edward’s friends first, hers a distant second.

Will continued to watch her. “When did that sympathy change? When did you start to think of her as a, what, ‘lady of the manor’ type?”

Taking another sip of her coffee, Anahera let the deep, rich flavor seep into her tongue as she wound back time. “I think,” she said slowly, “it was the pictures Vincent posted. There never seemed to be -any… normal ones. You know, just hanging out in jeans and tees, throwing a ball around with the kids, or having a sunburned nose at the beach. I’ve only ever seen photos of her in formal gowns or evening dresses.”

“Always?” Will pushed. “Not even in hiking gear? She’s a keen tramper.”

Chewing on the inside of her lip, Anahera tried to think of a single nonglamorous image of Jemima, and couldn’t.

Surely that couldn’t be right.

She put down her coffee and went into the bedroom, to return with her old laptop. Opening it up, she used her phone to create a hot spot, then logged into her social media account and clicked her way to Vincent’s.

30

There it was, the evidence showcased in glittering dresses and sparkling diamonds. All of them with Jemima perfectly posed and made up. The ideal woman to hang on a man’s arm and act as his hostess, or to stand supportively behind her politician husband, but one with no real personal drive outside of her defined role in life.

An intelligent doll.

“I can’t believe I never consciously noticed this before.” In her defense, she’d had no real reason to ever think about Jemima. If the other woman did cross her mind, it had been as an adjunct of Vincent.

Having come to stand at her side, one hand on the back of her chair, Will reached out to tap an image. “Vincent puts up normal photos of himself. Could be he’s just one of those men who likes to show off a beautiful wife.”

The heat of Will’s body brushed against her. For a furious instant, she wanted to tell him to get back, wanted to push him away. She had no need for men in her life. Her aloneness had been brutally earned, was craved.

Gritting her teeth, she wrenched the betraying impulse under control and forced her attention to the photos: Vincent playing with his kids, coming home from a bike ride through the countryside, and that infamous one of him caked in mud after a charity soccer match that had taken place on a -rain--soaked field.

He looked real, human.

“You didn’t connect with Jemima online?” Will asked.

“I really only joined to keep up with close friends.” Pausing, she thought about it. “Though, I am friends with Keira, but she sent me the request and I just accepted it.” The girl who’d once told her about her dead brother had been Nikau’s wife at the time. “I don’t know if Jemima even has a profile. Vincent hasn’t tagged her in any of these photos.”

She did a search to make sure. “No profile. At least nothing that comes up.”

Will released the back of her chair, rose to his full height. “Doesn’t that strike you as strange? She’s a woman with a certain public image to maintain. I’d think she’d want control over that.”