Chapter Twenty-Three
Scarlett
I’ve just finished my last yoga class of the day, and I’m on my way out of the retreat to go home to change when to my astonishment I see a silver Aston Martin pulling up out the front of the main office.
Orson wasn’t supposed to arrive until six. Have I gotten the time wrong? I check my watch—no, it’s only three thirty. I cross over to him, my heart racing as he gets out. He’s not dressed for the theater; he’s in a navy pin-striped business suit—one of his British-cut military-style ones that’s beautifully tailored, so I know he bought it in Savile Row. He must have come straight from the office. I’m suddenly conscious that I’m wearing leggings, and my light-gray tee has a dark V of sweat between my breasts.
To my surprise, though, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he looks serious as he says, “Hey.”
My stomach flutters. “What are you doing here?” It sounds accusatory, so I soften it with a smile.
He doesn’t smile back, though. Instead, he hesitates. Then he says, “Kingi called me.”
I check on Kingi from time to time, asking him if there’s anything I can get him, but he always says no, and has seemed happy enough being up to his ears in documents and folders.
“He asked you to come in?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
“Not sure yet. Will you take me to see him?” Something about his manner seems official and reserved. He doesn’t offer me his hand or come and give me a kiss.
Puzzled, I lead the way into the office building. The woman on reception checks him in and gives him a visitor sticker. Then I take him through to the finance offices at the back .
My father used to work in the biggest office, and George worked in the one next door. He’s yet to move into the main one, maybe out of respect for me and Ana, but I’m sure he will eventually, as it has a pleasant view of the vineyards. Today, Kingi is sitting behind the desk, looking at the computer screen and tapping on the keyboard while he talks to George, who’s sitting in another chair in front of the desk.
George looks across as we enter. His face is pale, and he looks terrified.
“Hey,” Orson says, nodding at Kingi. He then goes over to George and offers his hand. George looks at it as if he doesn’t want to, then shakes it out of politeness.
“What’s going on?” I ask while Orson brings two more chairs over in front of the desk.
Kingi doesn’t answer. Orson gestures at one of the chairs, and I lower onto it and perch on the edge, my spine stiff. Finally, Kingi looks over at me. He’s also in a suit, but he’s ditched the jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, revealing the tattoo on his left arm. His long hair looks as if he’s spent time running a hand through it. He also seems serious.
“Guys,” I say, “you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
Kingi glances at Orson, who nods. Kingi squares the folders on his desk, thinking, before he finally looks at me. “I’ve carried out a pretty thorough investigation of the commune’s books. I haven’t finished the audit; that will take about another week. But I think I have a good take now on the finance situation here, and on why the commune is struggling.”
“Okay.” Part of me wonders why they aren’t presenting his findings to the Elders. Why are they telling me?
“As you know,” Kingi continues, “Kahukura is a commune rather than an intentional community. This means that its members’ income and resources are shared.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“It’s a relatively complicated system. There are several different entities here: there’s the vineyard, the retreat, and the commune as a whole, and the money is set up to flow between all of these.”
“Okay.”
“George and your father looked after the finances between them while your father was alive.”
“Yes, I know. ”
“I’m just trying to explain but it’s quite confusing, and—”
“Kingi,” I say, “spit it out.”
He hesitates. Glances at Orson. Then says, “I found something.”
“Something?”
“A discrepancy.”
“What kind of discrepancy?”
Orson leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands linked. “There are funds missing,” he says gently.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I close it and wait for one of them to explain. When they don’t say anything, I finally find my voice. “How much?”
Orson looks at Kingi, who says, “One hundred and twenty-three thousand, four hundred and sixty-two dollars.”
My jaw drops. “ What ?”
“The money has been transferred from the vineyard and general commune funds,” Kingi states. “Not from the retreat. That’s important for you to know.”
I’m shocked and baffled. What’s he trying to say? I look at Orson, who’s watching me, frowning. “I don’t understand,” I say, switching my glare to Kingi. “Are you saying that someone has taken money from the commune? I don’t believe it.” I’m starting to grow angry. “We’ve all worked hard to make Kahukura a success. Nobody here would steal from the others. You’re wrong. You have to be. You’ve missed something, a deposit, or a transfer somewhere.”
“It’s not one transfer,” Kingi says. “It’s over fifty smaller ones conducted over a period of a few months so they’re harder to spot.”
I’m shaking a little now. “You’ve… you’ve mixed up the figures, or misunderstood, or—”
I stop as George lets out a long groan and puts his face in his hands. I stare at him, shock making me speechless.
“It was me,” he says. “I’m sorry, Scarlett. I’m so sorry.”
I stare at the top of his head. He has a kind of tonsure, a bald spot in the middle of a ring of gray hair. I hadn’t realized that.
“It was you?” I say eventually. “You’ve been taking money from the commune?” I look at Kingi, who’s sitting with his elbows on the desk, hands clasped, his mouth resting on them, then at Orson, whose expression is undecipherable.
I look back at George. He’s now lifted his head, and he’s staring at the floor with glassy eyes .
“Why?” I whisper.
I’m not stupid, and whatever Orson thinks, I’m not completely naive. People steal for many reasons. Some do it for mental health reasons, some for the thrill, others are attention seeking, but mostly they don’t have the resources to get what they need or desire because of financial hardship.
As far as I know, George doesn’t have a psychological disorder. He’s not a thrill seeker—he’s told me he would never bungee jump or skydive and hates going on rides at theme parks. I can’t see he’s doing it for attention. It can only be because there’s something he wants or needs, and due to the fact that we don’t have our own finances, he’s felt the urge to take from the commune.
I could sort of understand it if he’d taken fifty bucks or a few hundred or even a few thousand for some luxury item he’d missed, like Scotch or jewelry for his wife or… I don’t know… a piece of technology. But a hundred and twenty-three thousand?
“I was going to leave the commune,” George says. “And I needed money to do that, for a deposit on a house.”
My heart bangs on my ribs. “You were going to leave?” My voice is small enough to fit in a snail shell. Since my father’s death, George has been like a rock for me. The thought that he has been considering leaving me is a huge shock.
His eyes meet mine, shining with tears. His shoulders are hunched and he looks in pain, as if he’s drunk a beaker of acid and it’s eating away at his insides.
“What about Jeannie?” I ask. His wife is amazing, and I always thought she adored the commune. They couldn’t have kids, and she loves helping out at the school.
He winces as if he’s bitten on a sore tooth. Then he says, “Her too.”
It makes sense, I guess. “But don’t you get to withdraw your initial investment anyway if you leave?” I ask, confused. I’m sure there’s some clause in the agreement everyone signs when they come to Kahukura. George and Jeannie were among the founders of the commune with my parents, and I know they had a house in Auckland that they sold to come here, and they would have put that money into the commune.
“A percentage of it,” he says, “and it wouldn’t be enough in today’s market. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry,” I snap. “I don’t believe this. You wouldn’t do that, not to the commune. ”
“People do strange things when they’re in trouble,” he says, and Orson and Kingi exchange glances.
The back of my neck prickles. There’s something they’re not telling me. I can feel it. My brain works furiously. If he was going to leave, what’s stopped him? Why hasn’t he taken the money and run? Could it have been the fact that knowing Ana and I would be alone made him think twice?
That raises a question in my mind. “Did Dad know?”
I can tell immediately by George’s face that I’ve guessed correctly. My lips part as realization settles in. “You talked to him about it on the day he died.” It’s a statement, not a question. I know immediately that I’m right.
“Yes,” George says. He brushes his hand over his face. “He’d discovered the discrepancies, and he broached the topic with me. I denied it at first, and tried to think of other reasons the funds could have gone missing, but he knew I was lying.”
“Oh God,” I whisper. “The shock gave him the heart attack.”
He puts his face in his hands again.
Tears well in my eyes in seconds and spill over my lashes, as fast as a tsunami hitting the shore. “You as good as killed him,” I say, the words falling from my lips as if I’m hurling stones at him.
“I know.” He’s shaking. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop it! Stop saying that!”
Orson gets suddenly to his feet. “Nope,” he says. He puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head, and states again, “Nope.”
“Orson…” Kingi also stands. “Don’t.”
The two of them stare at each other. Orson’s chest heaves, but he doesn’t say anything.
George lowers his hands and looks at them. “You should leave,” he says to Orson.
Orson just shakes his head.
“Go,” Kingi says. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Nope,” Orson says a third time. He doesn’t look at me, but he squares his shoulders as if bracing himself for a fight.
I get slowly to my feet. “What is it?”
Finally, he looks at me. He thinks for a moment, his blue eyes blazing. Then he says, “Blue pill or red pill?”
Oh shit. He’s asking whether I want to stay ignorant, or whether I want to know the truth. He’s leaving the decision up to me .
I tremble. Do I want to know? I love my life. I’m happy living in my own small world. Being naive and innocent.
But that’s the very definition of cowardly, surely? To refuse to listen to the truth, and wanting to stay oblivious? I’m a better person than that, surely? Orson, like Neo in the Matrix, chose to embrace reality, and I have to do the same.
Besides, how bad can it be?
I swallow hard. “I want to know.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” I’m shaking now.
He looks at George. “Tell her.”
George gets up. We’re all standing now. George’s expression slowly morphs into pure fury. “Get out,” he says to Orson. “This is none of your business.”
Kingi walks around the table. “He’s right. You need to go.”
“I’m not going,” Orson states. “She’s an adult, and she needs to know. Tell her.”
“Tell me what?” I stamp my foot like a toddler. “If one of you doesn’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to scream, I swear!”
They ignore me, though. George and Orson continue to glare at each other, while Kingi hovers, clearly unsure what to do.
“Tell her,” Orson says again.
“This is none of your business,” George snaps.
“Tell her!” Orson yells.
“I don’t want this,” George replies, his voice also rising. “This is my choice.”
“If you don’t fucking tell her, I will!”
Without warning, George swings at him. Orson—twenty-five years younger and forty pounds lighter—steps back, and George’s fist misses his chin by half an inch. George yells and lunges at him, Orson crashes into the desk, sending papers flying, and the two men grapple at one another.
I burst into tears.
“For fuck’s sake.” Kingi lifts George off Orson as if he’s a rag doll and sets him aside. Orson springs to his feet and moves forward, but Kingi positions himself between them and says, “Stop it! You’ve made Scarlett cry.”
Immediately, both men look at me, and I press a hand over my mouth, trying unsuccessfully to stop sobbing .
“Baby,” Orson says. He glares at George then. “Look what you’ve done.”
“I haven’t done anything—this is your fault.”
“Guys!” Kingi yells. He blows out a long breath and gives George a pitying look. “Come on. I understand why you didn’t want her to know, but it’s pointless. Just tell her, for fuck’s sake.”
George looks at me, and his expression is filled with such pain that it physically hurts me.
“Scarlett,” he says. “Sweetheart…” He shakes his head, unable to speak, too overcome with emotion.
I give Orson a pleading glance.
“It was your father,” he says. “Who took the money. I’m so sorry.”
I blink. “What?”
George sinks back into his chair. Silence falls in the room.
Orson flicks back the sides of his jacket and slides his hands into his trouser pockets. “Your father was the one who siphoned off the funds. I’m guessing he was trying to find the money to pay for your mother’s treatment, but he wasn’t able to get enough in time.”
“After she died,” Kingi says, “he started to transfer it back into the accounts, disguising it as donations, but once I knew what to look for it was easy to find.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, trembling. “Dad wouldn’t do something like that. He wouldn’t steal from the commune.”
Orson and Kingi don’t react, though. Kingi’s face creases with pity, and Orson just frowns. They truly believe it.
It can’t be true, though. Dad would never have done anything like that. The whole ethos of the commune is that everything is shared so nobody has to go without. He would never have stolen money.
And yet I would never have thought that George would have either…
I force myself to confront the truth. Mum was dying. The treatment that was most likely to cure her cost a little more than the missing amount. Dad had turned down Spencer’s generous offer. What if he took the money out of desperation? Oh God…
I stare at George. “Aren’t you angry that they’re saying this? Tell them that Dad wouldn’t do it!”
George sends me a look that’s heavy with sorrow.
“George was going to take the blame,” Orson says. “Even though it would almost certainly have meant going to prison. ”
My jaw drops for the umpteenth time. “That’s why you were upset when the Elders agreed to the audit.”
“I didn’t want you to know,” George says miserably. He glares at Orson. “It was my choice. You had no right to tell her. Kingi said you loved her. He said you’d want to protect her.”
“I do,” Orson says, shocking me. “But not at the expense of an innocent man going to prison.” He looks at me then. “I thought you should know the truth.”
I’m still sobbing, and I’m finding it hard to catch my breath. My heart is racing, I feel dizzy, and I have an odd sensation in my hands, which spasm, the fingers curling toward the palm. I sway, and the room spins.
“Catch her,” someone says.
“Did she faint?”
“Jesus, is she okay?”
“Put this behind her.”
“She’s hyperventilating. That’s all.”
“Sit here, honey. You’re okay.” Orson’s voice wraps around me like a blanket. “Lower your head. That’s it. Now remember how you taught me to breathe properly? From the belly, not the chest. Here, breathe with me.” He takes my hand and puts it on his body, where his diaphragm would be.
I feel his belly rise and fall and attempt to breathe with him.
“You’ll be okay,” he murmurs. One of his hands is resting over mine. With the other, he reaches out and strokes my head. “It’s just the shock. You’ll be fine.”
I breathe with him, I don’t know for how long, but eventually my sobs slow, and I start breathing regularly again. The world stops spinning, my fingers unfurl, and I become aware of my surroundings again. Orson has dropped to his haunches before me, and as I raise my head, I look into his eyes.
He smiles, cups my face, and brushes my tears away with his thumbs. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Jesus, I’m not surprised you felt faint after a shock like that.” He kisses my forehead. “I’m so sorry. Did I do the right thing by telling you?” His brows draw together.
I remember then—my father stole a vast amount of money from the commune. He stole from his friends—from people we considered family. I feel as if someone has stuck a dagger in my throat and dragged it all the way down through my body to my stomach. I would give anything to un-know that knowledge.
But then I look at George, at the misery on his face, and my heart goes out to him. He was prepared to go to prison for my father, and to protect Ana and me. The thought makes me want to bawl my eyes out.
I rise and walk away from him, and he slowly pushes himself up. I stop a few steps away, fold my arms, and turn and face the three men. Orson is frowning; George looks devastated; Kingi’s expression shows concern and pity.
“So what’s the situation?” I ask, lifting my chin. “How much did Dad pay back, and what is left owing?”
“Don’t worry about that now,” Orson says.
“I’m not a child.”
“I know.” He gives me a steady look. “Kingi will complete the audit and then deliver a report.”
“To the Elders?”
All three of them exchange glances. “We haven’t decided that yet,” Orson says.
“Are you going to call the police?”
Again, he says, “We haven’t decided.”
I nod. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I need to get some fresh air.” I turn and walk out of the room.
I’ve just reached the main office when Orson catches up with me. He slides a hand beneath my arm to stop me, but I move it away, and the woman on reception glances at us. She’s obviously heard the yelling and commotion, and she saw him take my arm. We deal with women who’ve suffered trauma every day, and all of us here are very sensitive to men being physical in that way.
“Everything all right?” she asks me cautiously.
I nod stiffly. “I’m fine.”
“You want me to call Lee?” Our maintenance guy and a couple of his friends double in the commune as security on the rare occasions that the women at the retreat have male relatives turn up looking for them.
Orson looks startled, and I say hastily, “No, thank you.” I gesture with my head for him to follow me outdoors .
We go out into the late summer sun, and it’s only then that I realize how cold I am. The warmth of the sun’s rays penetrates my tee, and I rub my arms with my hands, feeling goosebumps.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t have caught your arm like that.”
“It’s all right.”
“Honey, let’s go somewhere quiet and talk.”
“I just need some time on my own,” I whisper.
“Please…”
“I can’t.” I’m shaking with the effort of holding in my emotion. “I need to go home.” I turn and walk away.
I stride out, heading for my house, and I assume he’s stayed at the office until he suddenly appears at my side, matching my pace.
“Go away,” I tell him.
“We need to talk.”
“I just want to be alone.”
“We’re a couple, sweetheart, and that means we talk to each other about what’s bothering or upsetting us.”
“We’re not a couple,” I snap. “We’ve fucked a few times, that’s all.”
If I hope to have shocked him into leaving me alone, I’m about to be disappointed. “Bullshit,” he says. “I love you.”
I stop as we reach my house, and I unlock the door. Then I turn to glare at him as he moves forward as if to follow me in. “Go away. You don’t love me. You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough to love what I see.”
“Stop it. You don’t love me.”
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
“See, want, take? That’s what this is. You want me, so you’ve decided you’re going to have me. But don’t my feelings factor into this equation?”
His lips twist. “Of course.”
“I like you, Orson, but I don’t want any part of your lifestyle. Or your world, which values money and belongings above people.”
“Jesus, come on…”
I’m so upset that my words flow like water out of a broken pipe. “You think money can buy anything, including affection and love. You think throwing money at me—taking me to nice places, eating good food, buying me expensive jewelry—will make me fall in love with you, but you’re wrong.”
“That’s not what I think at all… ”
“Look what money did to my father.” Tears well in my eyes again. “It’s like acid. It eats away at all the decency in a person. He was a good man, and he opened this commune and the retreat because he wanted to help people, and to live with others without the burden of money and capitalism weighing us down. He wanted us to be a real community, and rely on and help each other. To be like a family. But then Mum got sick, and he was terrified of losing her. The real world doesn’t care about who gets the treatment, though does it? As long as the drug company gets its money. Your mum got her treatment because you could afford it, but my family couldn’t.”
He looks away, across the green. I feel a twinge of guilt deep inside—it’s not his fault that he has money. If we were rich, Dad would have gotten the treatment without a second thought. But I’ve gone too far to stop now.
“He would never have done it if it wasn’t for Mum,” I say.
Orson looks back at me. He hesitates. Then he says, “Blue pill or red pill?”
I start shaking. “What do you mean?” Surely there’s nothing more?
But he says, “Do you want to know everything?”
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
He nods. “It wasn’t the first time.”
I blink. “What?”
“It wasn’t the first time he’d stolen money.”