Free Aunt Dimity Down Under by Nancy Atherton

dressed casually, in khaki trousers and a loose-fitting white cotton shirt, but his clothes weren’t cheap. If he worked outdoors, I thought, it was by choice, not by necessity.
    “Kia ora,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine.
    “Excuse me?” I said blankly.
    “Kia ora,” he repeated. “It’s a Maori phrase. A literal translation would be: ‘I wish you good health,’ but people use it for all sorts of things nowadays: hello, good-bye, good luck, cheers, welcome. In this instance, it means: Welcome to New Zealand, Lori! I welcomed you at the airport, but I don’t think it registered.”
    “Sorry about that,” I said, ducking my head sheepishly.
    “I’ve seen worse.” He pulled a shiny blue cell phone and a charger out of his pocket and handed them to me. “I meant to give these to you at the airport, but I forgot. You can use the phone to call England. My number’s already programmed into it.”
    “Thanks.” I slipped his gifts into my shoulder bag and smiled up at him. “For everything, I mean. It’s lucky for me that that you and my husband are such good friends.”
    “Bill’s the best,” said Cameron. “I’d walk through fire for him.”
    “I hope helping me will be less painful,” I said.
    “I’m sure it will,” he said, laughing. He motioned toward the lobby’s glass doors. “I had them bring the car around. If you’re ready, we can be on our way.”
    “Do you know where we’re going? ” I inquired.
    He nodded. “Bill gave me the address. It’s right here, in Takapuna. That’s why I booked our rooms in the Spencer.”
    “Takapuna?” I said, frowning. “I thought we were in Auckland.”
    “Not quite. Technically, we’re in a suburb of North Shore City.” Cameron raised his hand and pointed to his right. “Auckland’s over there, across Waitemata Harbor.”
    “Kia ora, Takapuna, Waitemata . . .” I sighed. “Just when I’m getting used to your accent, you ambush me with words I can hardly pronounce. I’m a stranger in a strange land, Cameron. I thought New Zealand would be more . . . English.”
    “New Zealand is many things,” he said. “I wish you could stay long enough to see all of it, but Bill told me you were in a hurry to get home.”
    “I am.” I patted the black leather document case in my shoulder bag. “But first I have to deliver a letter. Let’s go.”
    I put on my sunglasses as we stepped out of the lobby. The sun shone brightly in a flawless blue sky, and the air was soft, moist, and scented with salt and seaweed—a reminder of how close we were to the ocean. Across the street from the Spencer, a large but tasteful sign marked the entrance to the Takapuna Lawn Bowling Club. The sign seemed to combine the Englishness I’d expected with the touch of “otherness” I’d found.
    “What a lovely day,” I said, remembering the frigid monsoon that had drenched me in Upper Deeping.
    “Enjoy it while you can,” Cameron cautioned. “It’s early spring in the Southern Hemisphere. The weather can—and will—change on a dime. Here we are,” he added, unlocking the doors of a spotless silver Ford Falcon. “It’s a rental. My own vehicle isn’t quite as clean.”
    As we took our respective places in the car, I noted that the steering wheel was on the right-hand side—just like in England. I opened the window to enjoy the balmy breezes while we waited for a group of chattering passengers to board a minivan parked directly in front of us. Undismayed by the delay, Cameron turned to reach for something in the backseat and, much to my surprise, presented me with a colorful cookie tin.
    “Anzac biscuits,” he said. “Baked by my wife, Donna. ‘Anzac’ stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. Legend has it that the biscuits were invented during the First World War by women who wanted to send nutritious and durable treats to their men fighting overseas. It’s Donna’s way of welcoming foreign visitors.”
    “Your wife is very