Chapter Eighteen
Juliette
I wait for Henry to start speaking. I’m still in shock. I can’t believe he’s choosing to tell me something that he didn’t tell Shaz. I have no idea what he’s going to say. I can see him picking through his words as if he’s choosing a chocolate out of a box—not that he eats chocolate. He’s always been like this—thoughtful, reticent, preferring to keep things to himself. That he’s chosen to confide in me touches my soul deeply.
“I guess the first thing I need to do is explain about my childhood,” Henry says slowly. “My parents’ relationship was not a good one. My father drank a lot, and he and Mum used to argue about it. Occasionally—not often, but I do remember it happening—he’d be violent. He’d hit her, and he beat both Philip and me a couple of times. Mum would get really upset, and then he’d regret it in the morning and be ravaged by guilt and self-loathing.”
I didn’t know any of this. I listen with wide eyes at this glimpse into his past.
“When he died,” he continues, “Mum told us he’d been drunk, and he’d drowned in a boating accident. She was resentful that he’d left her alone with three kids, and she refused to talk about it any further. As a result, I was a very angry young man. I got into a lot of trouble, and eventually I ended up going to Greenfield.”
My eyebrows rise even more. It’s a school for adolescents with problems, and I’m genuinely shocked that the rich, successful Henry comes from a background like that. “Oh, I didn’t know.”
“That’s a story for another time,” he tells me. “But anyway, Greenfield turned things around for me. I worked my socks off, ended up going to uni, met you and the guys, started Kia Kaha, and began to feel better about myself. So I decided to find out about my father. Mum still refuses to talk about him, so I had to do my own research. All I knew was that he’d drowned in a boating accident, so I decided to start with the coroner’s report. The immediate family of the person who died is allowed to ask for the medical reports, the post-mortem report, the coroner’s findings, witness statements, all that sort of thing.”
He stops to have a mouthful of coffee, then continues. “The first thing I discovered which came as a shock to me was that his body was never recovered.”
That surprises me. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I realized then that when we had the tangi, there was no coffin, it was just a memorial service. I feel dumb now that I didn’t make the connection at the time, but I was only twelve, and nobody would talk to me about what had happened, so I just didn’t think about it.”
I think about that young lad, and how miserable and confused he must have been. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s not the half of it,” he says. “The police report relied on the statement given by Dad’s brother, David, or Rawiri as he’s known.” It’s the Māori version of David. “I vaguely remembered him,” Henry continues. “He came to visit us in Christchurch a couple of times when I was younger, and I recall him being at the tangi, but Mum was upset and angry and refused to talk to him, and he left early, so I didn’t get to talk to him, and I haven’t seen him since. Anyway, I read that Dad was out fishing with Rawiri on the day he died.”
I’m genuinely shocked that his mother hasn’t told him the details of his father’s death. “He saw it happen?”
Henry nods. “Rawiri’s statement said the sea was choppy but not too bad, so they decided to go out, but about an hour into their trip, a storm blew up. They struggled to control the boat, and eventually Dad was swept overboard. Rawiri spent thirty minutes trying to find him, but Dad wasn’t wearing a life jacket, and he just disappeared. Eventually Rawiri returned to the mainland and called the police. The coastguard spent several days looking for him, but his body never turned up.”
“Oh, how awful.”
“There was an investigation, but it didn’t uncover anything suspicious. The coroner eventually ruled that the cause of Dad’s death was accidental drowning, and the case was closed. Anyway, Dad’s death certificate gave the place of his birth as Bluff.” It’s a town on the southernmost tip of the South Island. “I didn’t know he came from there, but I did some investigating and found out that although Dad’s parents had both passed away, Rawiri still lived there.”
He has another mouthful of coffee. “So, I decided I’d go and see him. I thought he might like to meet his nephew, and that maybe he’d be able to tell me a bit about him. I didn’t want to do it over the phone, so I flew down there and knocked on his door one morning.”
“That must have been a shock for him.”
He gives a short, humorless laugh. “You have no idea. When he opened the door, his face was a picture, completely stunned. I explained quickly that I was his nephew and just wanted to talk. It was clear he didn’t want to. He tried to make all sorts of excuses. Normally I’d have backed off, but something made me persist, some sixth sense that told me it was strange that he didn’t want to speak to me. I thought he would’ve been thrilled to meet his brother’s son. But he looked terrified. It took me about half an hour to convince him to invite me in, but eventually he did, and we went into his living room. He sat there with his head in his hands, obviously upset. I tried to get him to talk, but he wouldn’t. In the end, I asked why he’d looked so shocked when he opened the door, and he said I was the spitting image of my dad. I asked if he thought Dad had come back from the dead to haunt him.” He sips his coffee. “He said no. Because my dad wasn’t dead.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“Yeah. You can imagine my reaction. He said the two of them had faked his death.”
I thought he was going to say the two men had had a fight, and Rawiri was somehow responsible for his dad’s death. I did not expect this.
“It all came pouring out,” Henry says. “He hadn’t told anyone for sixteen years, and I think once he started, he couldn’t stop. He said Dad called him one day and he was deeply depressed. It was after one of his drinking bouts, and he’d had a huge argument with Mum. He was unhappy, and he said he wanted out. Rawiri tried to convince him to just leave, but Dad told him if he did that he’d have to continue paying child maintenance, and he couldn’t afford it, and he was thinking of taking his own life. So they came up with a plan. They’d go out in their boat and fake Dad’s death, and then Dad would be free to start a new life without anything to hold him back.”
“That’s awful,” I whisper.
“Rawiri had had sixteen years to think about it,” he continues. “He was scoured hollow with grief and guilt. He said it was the only way he could think of to stop Dad killing himself, but when he went to the tangi, he saw what it had done to Mum and us kids, and he felt terrible. He said he’d thought about coming to tell us many times, but one reason he hadn’t was because he was still in touch with Dad.”
My jaw drops. “He’s still alive?”
“Oh, very much,” Henry says. “He lives in Tauranga.” It’s a city in the North Island. “With his second wife.” He sips his coffee, waiting for my reaction.
“Wait,” I say. “So… if your mum thought he was dead, it would mean they didn’t get a divorce?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh shit! So legally they’re still married to one another?”
“Yep.”
“So they’re both committing bigamy?”
“Yep.”
“Holy fuck.”
“Yeah,” he says with feeling.
We sit in silence for a moment as that sinks in. Jesus, what a predicament.
There’s a knock at the door, and Henry says, “Breakfast, I think.”
Just in case it’s James or someone else we know, I run into the bathroom, but it is breakfast, and when I come out, I’m met with the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked croissants.
Henry adds a pot of the chopped fresh fruit to one of the bowls of muesli, pours over the milk, then sits back to eat it. I take one of the croissants, some butter, and jam, tear off a piece, and eat it slowly as my brain processes what he’s told me.
“Bigamy is against the law, right?” I ask him.
He nods. “It carries a prison sentence of seven years.”
“Wow. For all of them or just him?”
“It’s complicated. Apparently it’s thought to represent a threat to public morality, and to compromise the institution of marriage. If the spouse of the second marriage—Dad’s second wife, in this case—was aware that he was still married, then they would both probably get two years. If she didn’t know, and especially as more than seven years have passed, a judge would most likely find her innocent. The same for my mum and Teariki, although Dad would get the whole seven years.”
He has a few spoonfuls of muesli while I eat my croissant, thinking.
“So, what did you do?” I ask eventually.
“I went to see him.”
My eyes widen again. “What happened?”
“I went to his house and knocked on the door, but he wasn’t there. He lives right near the beach, so I walked down to the sand, and then I saw him. He was with his wife and two of his kids. Apparently he has four now by her. Rawiri said he’d stopped drinking. He has a steady job. He looked happy.”
“So what did you do?”
He stirs the muesli with his spoon. “I didn’t do anything. I watched him for half an hour. Then I walked away, flew home, and didn’t tell anyone.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About two and a half years.”
That shocks me. I’d assumed this had all happened recently. “Christ, Henry. Why didn’t you tell Shaz?”
“My marriage was falling apart by that point. I was unhappy and lonely. I didn’t talk to her enough at the best of times, and I wasn’t going to start confiding in her when things were bad between us.”
That’s why he’s telling me—because he feels guilty he didn’t tell her. Māori men are often quiet and shy, and if you add to that his troubled youth and his anger and resentment toward his father for dying and leaving him, he’s obviously grown up reluctant to talk about his feelings.
I try to imagine how that must make him feel. That his father didn’t love him enough to stay. That he was so unhappy with his first family that he faked his own death to get away from them. God, what must that do to a man?
I put down my plate, get up, and go over to his armchair. He places his bowl on the table as I approach, then sighs as I sit on his lap, loop my arms around his neck, and give him a hug.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I say, resting my lips on the top of his hair.
He doesn’t say anything.
“It wasn’t you, Henry,” I say, stroking his hair. “Your father didn’t leave because of you.”
He still doesn’t speak, but I know that’s what he’s thinking.
“He obviously suffered from depression, and maybe he was caught in a cycle of poverty and misery where he couldn’t see a way out.” I kiss his hair, thinking about my own predicament, and how sometimes it’s so hard to separate yourself from a situation, even if you’re unhappy.
His father would have known that if he asked for a divorce, he would have had to pay child maintenance for Henry’s mum and their three children. He would have been tied to them, even though he knew he was making the family unhappy. As a poor man, he would have found it almost impossible to find a well-paid job he enjoyed, to escape on regular vacations, or even to indulge in expensive hobbies to take his mind off it. Alcohol would have become a crutch, and he would have seen his wife’s and children’s misery on a daily basis, and known he was the cause of it. In his father’s eyes, he was helping his family by leaving.
But from Henry’s point of view, his father didn’t love him enough to stay. He’s happier with his new family. And that has to hurt.
Why hasn’t he told anyone? Surely he must be tempted to punish his father by revealing what he’s done? It has to be a huge weight to bear alone.
But I know the answer, even as it springs into my mind. It would ruin his mother’s marriage and his father’s second marriage, and crush his siblings and his new half-siblings, who would be devastated to know what their father had done. Having to carry the burden of it rather than destroy all those lives would be a small price for Henry. He wouldn’t even consider making himself feel better by offloading the information if it meant harming someone else.
He shifts awkwardly beneath me. His hands are resting on the arms of the chair, and he’s not hugging me. He’s regretting his confession.
I slide a hand under his chin and lift it so I can look at him. “I’m so glad you told me,” I say.
His eyes harden, and his body stiffens. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says. “I don’t want your pity. I’m not Cam.”
Ooh, ouch. That stings. I know he despises Cam. Not the fact that he was abused, because Henry is a kind man who would always help those in need. But I’d guessed he dislikes how Cam treats me and takes advantage of me, and now he’s confirmed it openly.
I don’t blame Cam for being the way he is because he’s been through a lot. But when it comes down to it, forgetting about his abuse, at heart he is a weak man who often takes the easy option, and who expects other people to sort out his problems.
Henry is a strong man with weaknesses. There’s a huge difference. He’s very proud, and he doesn’t expect—and probably wouldn’t accept—help from anyone. He’s a self-made man who’s come from a troubled background, and who’s worked extremely hard to get where he is. He has no time for people, especially men, who prey on others’ weaknesses, who lack self-discipline, and who expect others to solve their problems for them. I have no doubt that he thinks Cam is gaslighting me and trying to guilt me into staying, and he’s probably right.
I’m going to have to get used to dealing with Henry in a different way. He won’t want me to sort out his issues. He’s not the sort of guy to tell his girl everything that’s going on in his head. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s keeping secrets, just that he doesn’t want to burden those close to him. He’s jealous and possessive, and a little traditional and old-fashioned in how he thinks men should treat women. I don’t think he hates Cam, but he definitely doesn’t like him very much. So if I’m expecting him to be forgiving toward my previous relationship, I’m going to be very disappointed.
Actually, I’m amazed he let me go back to Cam after our night together. I’m surprised he didn’t chain me to the bed and refuse to let me out of his sight.
Ooh. Mmm.
My lips curve up. He sees my smile and glares at me, and that just makes me smile more.
I get up, turn and lift a leg over him to straddle him, then sit back on his lap. Slowly, I slide down his thighs until our bodies are flush. He gives me a suspicious look.
I pick his hands up in mine. Then I move mine behind my back, bringing his with them, as if he’s restraining me.
“Want to tell me off, Daddy?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.
He lifts an eyebrow, and his eyes flash. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No.” I dip my head until my lips brush his. “Just acknowledging how it’s going to be.”
His glare vanishes and his eyes blaze. He tightens his arms, and I fall forward onto his chest with a laugh.
“You’re mine,” he says fiercely. “You hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Not his.”
“No.”
“I don’t want you going back to him again.”
My smile fades. He might be old-fashioned and traditional, but I’m a modern woman, and I don’t like being told what to do. My relationship with Cam is ninety percent done, but there are things we need to talk about, and I’m going to have to see him again.
But Henry has opened up to me today. He’s revealed how out of control he is in so much of his personal life. He’s learned that his father ran away because he didn’t want to be with his first family. His relationship with his brother is damaged almost beyond repair, and he can’t help his nephew. He couldn’t give his wife a baby, which stretched his marriage like a rubber band until it eventually snapped.
And he knows he can’t force me to leave Cam, and he’s having to wait for me to sort myself out. It must be killing him.
“All right,” I say softly, looking into his eyes.
His hands grip mine, so hard it hurts. “Do you mean that?”
I don’t flinch. “You’re going to have to trust me. Unless you want to bite me again?”
He blinks and then loosens his grip. Pulling my hands around to the front, he lifts my wrists to his mouth and kisses them. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
I kiss his fingers.
He watches me, unfurls my hands, and kisses the palm. Then he puts his arms around me.
I lean on his chest, snuggling into his neck. Cam is not a good cuddler. Henry’s terrific at it. Mmm… this is nice. And it’s not just a quick hug either; Henry sighs, but shows no signs of wanting to release me.
“I should go and get ready,” I tell him after a few minutes. “Gaby and I are going shopping.”
“It’s not even nine yet.”
“I have to get ready.”
“Five more minutes.” He tightens his arms. He’s not letting me go.
I smile and stay where I am.