Instead, Salvatore did his job. “I’m looking for Robert Fontenot,” he said, flashing his badge. He watched the three mothers’ faces as their elation changed to fear. Above them, fireworks cracked open the sky.
-7-
Whitney
AFTER THE BROWNSON SIBLINGpinching incident, the flight from Texas to New Zealand had been uneventful. (Air New Zealand had added the direct flight in recent years, as “High Net Worth Individuals,” or “HNWIs,” moved to Austin. From Auckland, many HNWIs took private helicopters or jets to their New Zealand compounds.)
Upon landing at Auckland Airport, Whitney and her family made their way sleepily through customs and into a van provided by the resort. When they arrived at Castaway Bay, they headed straight for their “Family Suite.” Jules and Whitney would share the master bedroom, and Roma and Xavier would sleep in an adjoining bedroom’s two twin beds. Whitney changed into clean pajamas and fell dead asleep, waking with a jolt when her piercing phone alarm rang.
The resort had provided manuka honey soap and shampoo, but Whitney always brought her own toiletries. She dressed as quietly as possible in a sapphire-blue pantsuit and low sandals (she’d heard the ultra luxury properties she was going to visit prided themselves on seeming “rustic,” whichusually meant she’d have a hard time walking in heels. Whitney’s clients wanted to feel as if they were ranch owners in the Wild West, while Whitney’s grandmother had considered never seeing or walking upon dirt the height of glamour).
She finished applying her Dior Rouge lipstick and almost tripped on a pile of blankets by the king bed, crouching down to find Xavier fast asleep. She shook him. “What are you doing on the floor, honey?” said Whitney.
He rolled away. “I’m not staying with her,” he murmured.
Whitney sighed. “At least get in the bed with Daddy,” she said. Xavier rolled back toward Whitney. She ran her fingers along his cheekbone. “My little cinnamon bun,” she said, smiling. He opened his eyes and smiled, too. She rose, and he dragged his blankets into the king bed and fell back asleep.
Something was going to have to give. The situation with Xavier and Roma was untenable. Whitney was a problem solver, so her brain whirred with possible solutions as she made her way to the lobby, where a handsome Irish guy in a golf shirt and white chinos was waiting for her. “Mrs. Brownson?” he said.
“Yes, hello,” said Whitney.
“Colum Murphy,” said the man, holding out a hand and grinning.
Whitney took his hand.
“Quick coffee?” said Colum.
“You read my mind,” said Whitney, perching on one of the clear Lucite stools and taking a look around the lobby. “This is lovely,” she said.
“Wait till you see Miro Miro,” said Colum. Whitney and Jules planned to trade off during this trip, one of them checking out remote properties their Austin HNWIs might want to purchase while the other stayed with the kids at the lakefront resort.
“Miro Miro, the most amazing property in the world,” said Whitney, raising an eyebrow. “So they say.”
Colum shrugged. “They’re right,” he said. “The Kiwis used to complain about being far away from everything,” he said, “but nowadays that’s the selling point.”
“So true,” said Whitney.
“You don’t need a bunker here,” said Colum. “Far enough from the White House to live above land.”
“The White House?” said Whitney. She’d heard most of the doomsday scenarios, but getting away from the White House in specific was a new one.
“Metaphorically,” said Colum in a low voice.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Whitney.
“You can make your own rules here,” said Colum, “no matterwhogets elected.”
Whitney nodded. Was he talking about money laundering? Her clients did hate the federal government, that was for sure.Far enough away from the White House to live above land,she thought. That was a good one: menacing yet vague.
After a coffee (and one for the road) Whitney and Colum drove in Colum’s Mercedes to the heliport and boarded a Miro Miro helicopter. Whitney had been in helicopters before, but whether it was Colum’s lime aftershave, jet lag, or the gorgeous New Zealand coastline spreading below her, she felt elated. The entire country was the length of Maine to Florida, with a population of around five million people. But from the sky, it looked like an uninhabited paradise.
They rose above the harbor and headed north. As they flew up the coast, Whitney gazed at the forests and fields, the glimmering sea. The weather was simply perfect: mid-seventies, with watery sunlight. (In truth, Whitney preferred the almost harsh, egg-yolky Texas sun, but she couldn’t afford an escape compound anyway. Not yet.)
The aircraft landed on a putting green. Whitney disembarked, scanning the distant ocean and blue mountains, the sandy, pine-forested terrain. Waves roared in her ears. Miro Miro (named for an almost extinct Northland bird) was three thousand acres of dunes and forest with seven miles of coastline. Only 150 modern homes would be built here. It almost felt like the moon, but glamorous.
“It’s something, eh?” said Colum.
“I just got here,” said Whitney, “and I don’t ever want to leave.”
