The Lifeguards(55)

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 matter who gets 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.”

“Yeah,” said Colum.

The golf club cost in the high six figures to join, but anyone (who’d been recommended by their “home club”) could play. The caveat? You could play only once in your life, unless you became a Miro Miro member. Whitney toured the clubhouse (with Miro Miro’s millennial credo framed on the wall: NO ASSHOLES ALLOWED), and visited a few homes under construction. They were designed simply, elegantly. With brass fixtures, restaurant-quality kitchens, and deep marble tubs, the so-called cottages were exquisite.

Whitney loved the pizza oven on wheels, the fire pit made of swamp kauri logs where members could watch the sunset with cans of beer, and the low-key clubhouse, but wasn’t sure how her clients would do with the preppy golfer vibe. She had never met a Google employee who wore chinos. They were not young men (or women—there had to be women working at Google, Whitney assumed, but she’d never met one) who ironed or owned a pants steamer. Jules would love Miro Miro, though.

After an exquisite lunch of fresh fish tacos and gazpacho, Whitney and Colum boarded the helicopter back to Auckland, then strolled to Colum’s car. He put the convertible top down for the short drive to Whitney’s hotel. Colum said he’d pick her up again in the morning, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before driving away.

Whitney felt giddy as she entered the resort. From the lobby, you could peer through enormous wall-to-ceiling windows to the large lake. Whitney scanned the beach for her family and saw only Roma, who appeared to be sitting on top of a young man whose hands were in her hair. Whitney put her shoulders back, all her newfound serenity gone in an instant. Where the hell was Jules?