“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?
“Roma!” cried Whitney, going outside.
Her daughter looked up, and met her gaze steadily, not moving from the young man’s lap. He looked uncomfortable, trying to stand. Roma flipped her hair over her shoulder and nestled back against the boy’s chest.
She was twelve.
Whitney, overcome, marched to their room, where she found Jules and Xavier watching television. “Mom!” said Xavier.
“Hello, darling,” said Jules.
“Roma is making out with some man on the beach!” said Whitney.
Jules looked back at the television.
“Jules!” said Whitney.
“All right,” he said, standing up reluctantly. “I’ll go see…”
“Thank you,” said Whitney, though she suspected he wouldn’t do anything, just stroll to the bar and back and pretend he’d intervened. Neither of them wanted to deal with Roma, who could ruin any vacation, no matter how idyllic. “Thank you, Jules,” she repeated.
Luckily, Roma burst into the room before Jules had to do （or pretend to do） anything. He sat back down. “Hi, sweetie,” he said.
Roma ran into the bathroom in her string bathing suit, sobbing.
Whitney sighed.
“Whitney, could you purchase our daughter a bathing suit with a bottom half?” said Jules.
“I did not buy her that thong!” said Whitney.
Xavier raised his hands and made a goofy grimace, trying （as always） to smooth things over.
Roma slammed out of the bathroom wearing Whitney’s robe, her arms across her chest. Mascara leaked from her eyes. “What’s the matter?” said Whitney.
“The matter? I’ll tell you what’s the matter! Because you embarrassed me, David said we can’t hang out anymore. He said he wasn’t comfortable hanging out with me. Because of you!”
“Sorry, dear,” said Whitney. Her head was throbbing, and she went toward the bathroom, hoping she had Tylenol in her cosmetics case.
“And he was from Australia!” cried Roma. She began crying again. “I hate him!” she said. “And I hate you!”
Whitney went into the bathroom, closed the door, and sat on the toilet seat rubbing her eyes. A bleak feeling rose in her chest. Something bad was coming, she knew. They should change hotels. They should go home. Mothers talked about the hair on the back of their necks standing up when their kid was about to have a meltdown at a party. When a toddler was about to need a nap. Whitney believed in her mother’s intuition.
She pulled out her phone and found another resort closer to the city. She made a reservation for the following day, texted Colum the change in plans, found a restaurant for dinner off-site. Then she splashed water on her face and went back into the bedroom. Roma was asleep in her room, so Whitney told Jules and Xavier about the change in plans. “We’ll move hotels first thing in the morning,” she said.
No one seemed surprised.
Roma seemed calmer at dinner, picking at her fish and chips. They walked back to the resort and did not argue when Xavier made a bed out of pillows on the floor of the master. Whitney took a Xanax and slept well.
She was so deeply asleep that Jules could barely wake her when the police came.
The boy named David, the Australian, was missing. When his family had reported his empty bed, a sweep of the resort was ordered. His bathing suit and shoes were discovered by the side of the water. It was a tragedy, the other guests whispered, as they watched the flashing lights of police cars.