Chapter Four #2
“She wasn’t ‘passed over’,” Orson states sharply. “The person who got the position was better qualified.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Helen says. “That’s not what this is. Marama is a talented artist, and Lumen is including her in a prominent event. You should be happy for her.”
“Some of the items look really interesting,” Leo says brightly. “I was thinking of going. One woman is offering violin lessons, and I’ve always wanted to—”
“I can’t imagine any man wanting to step inside that club,” Richard says, cutting Leo off mid-sentence, as if he hadn’t spoken.
“You’ll have to leave your testicles at the door.
Or not have a pair to begin with.” He gives a pointed, amused glance to both Charles and Leo, and Michael and Vince laugh.
I look at Charles, who’s glaring at his father, but is too timid to challenge him, and at Leo, whose face has flushed from embarrassment.
“This might not be my house,” I say to Leo, “but I’d like to apologize for how you’ve been treated here today.”
Leo blinks and Charles mouths, “Thank you.” Richard inhales, outraged, but I ignore him.
I pick up my car keys from the table. “Thank you for inviting me,” I say to my daughter, “but I think it’s best if I return to the office.”
She heaves a big sigh. “Dad…”
I nod at Orson, who just gives a lopsided smile, and I lift Scarlett’s hand and kiss her fingers. I go over to my grandson, bend, and kiss his head. Then I take the path around the house and head for my Bentley.
I sit behind the wheel, trying to regulate my breathing. Helen and Michael live on the other side of Waiheke Island from Midnight. I was planning to spend the evening in my house in Herne Bay, which means crossing to the mainland on the ferry.
But I know from experience that if I go home now, I’m just going to stew all evening. I’m furious that Genevieve has got her claws into Marama, and just as angry that Marama hasn’t seen through her, and has instead been blinded by Genevieve’s promise of glory.
I start the engine, head along the drive out of their property, and then take the road to Rangi Davis’s house.
Rangi owns a large property on a decent section of land on the north side of Waiheke.
Marama has been staying there since she returned from her travels across Europe.
I hope she’s home. Rangi will probably be there, too.
I wonder if she’s told him about the auction?
I can’t imagine him being best pleased either, despite the fact that he doesn’t know Genevieve the way I do.
I glower continually for the fifteen minutes it takes me to get to their property.
By the time I take the turnoff for the house, my stomach is like a bag of snakes, and I can taste acid in my mouth.
My doctor has warned me that if I don’t handle my stress better, I’m going to end up with a stomach ulcer, and at the moment I believe him.
The drive curves around gently rolling farmland, crests a hill, and then descends toward Rangi’s property on the coast. The front of the house faces the drive, but the back has a magnificent view over the Pacific, and sprawls on one level across several wings.
My tires scrunch on the gravel as I pull up.
To my annoyance, Marama’s parents, Rangi and Huia, are just exiting the front door, heading for his car that’s sitting on the drive. They both look over and pause in front of their car as I pull up. I turn off the engine and get out, wishing I’d been five minutes later.
Rangi is taller than me, well over six feet, with broad shoulders like Kingi.
He used to wear his dark hair long like his son, but now it’s cropped short and almost entirely gray.
His ancestors were among the first to settle in this area many hundreds of years ago, and his iwi —his tribe—is regarded as the tangata whenua , the people of the land.
His family led the region’s dairy industry for generations and grew wealthy from it, but it was Rangi’s sharp financial and business acumen that quadrupled that fortune.
Within his iwi , he holds the status of a rangatira —a leader whose mana stems not only from whakapapa , or genealogy, but also from decades of service to his whānau or family and the wider community.
Huia is an older version of her daughter, beautiful, exotic, and with the same smooth light-brown skin—she’s just curvier, with fine lines at the edges of her eyes and gray in her hair.
“Kia ora, Spencer,” she says, coming over to kiss my cheek.
“Kia ora. You look extra beautiful today.”
She rolls her eyes, but smiles. “You’re such a smooth talker, but thank you.”
“Kia ora,” Rangi says. “Sorry, we were just on our way out. Do you need something?”
“No. I was actually hoping to catch Marama. Is she in?”
“She’s painting on the deck,” Huia says.
“Everything all right?” Rangi asks. He looks surprised that I want to see his daughter, but not shocked. I push away a twinge of guilt. It’s perfectly acceptable that I’ve called in. It’s not as if I’m here for romantic reasons.
I’m not sure if she’s told him about the auction, though, so, I say, “I just want to talk about her exhibition at Midnight, ask her how many paintings she’s thinking of showing and how she wants them displayed, you know, that kind of thing…” I stop, aware I’m waffling.
I never waffle, and Rangi’s lips quirk up, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he says, “Well, go ahead, you can go around the side. We’re off to a party.”
“Have fun.”
He hates parties, and he gives me a wry look before heading for the car.
I walk away, frowning at my verbal diarrhea, and take the path leading around the house. A gardener is in the process of pruning the rose bushes there. He’s in his sixties, dressed in coveralls and wearing a cap. He raises a hand as I pass and says, “Afternoon, Mr. Cavendish.”
“Joe… how long have we known each other? Twenty years? For Christ’s sake, call me Spencer.”
“Yes sir.” He smiles.
“I’m just looking for Marama. I understand she’s on the deck?”
“Yes, sir. She’s painting.”
“Thank you.” I leave him to his work and continue walking around the house.
The living room and bedrooms all have sliding doors onto the back deck that stretches the whole length of the property, facing the sea.
At one end the deck extends around a large hot tub that’s partially sunk in the ground.
The rest of the deck bears several tables and chairs, and various potted plants.
Marama is sitting about halfway along, at one of the tables.
I stop and look at the scene. She’s leaning back in a chair with her feet propped on another one, and a sketchpad is resting on her lap.
On the table is a small palette of paints, a jar of water, and a mug with a tab on a string that suggests it’s some kind of fruit tea.
She’s wearing cutdown jeans and a warm orange T-shirt that compliments her light-brown skin. It drapes gently over her generous breasts. Her feet are bare. Man, she’s gorgeous.
She’s pinned her hair up in a scruffy bun, but tendrils tumble around her face, and as I watch she tucks one behind her ear.
I climb the deck and walk up to her. “Afternoon.”
Her head snaps around and her eyes widen as she sees me. She lowers her feet to the floor and sits up hurriedly.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. My smile fades at the tone of her voice. She’s not pleased to see me. “Dad’s out.”
“I came to see you.”
She stares at her sketchbook. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Then you can just listen. I’ve seen the program for the Empowerment Auction.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, and we study each other for a moment.
“Oh?” she says eventually.
“You can’t do it,” I announce flatly.
Her eyebrows slowly lift. “I beg your pardon?”
“Putting yourself up for sale? Don’t you realize how demeaning that is? You’ve heard of Thomas Hardy?”
She flushes. “This isn’t The Mayor of Casterbridge, and I’m not being sold by my husband. It’s not the artists who are up for sale. People would be bidding for the privilege of our time and talent.”
“Don’t parrot Genevieve Beaumont at me,” I snap. “You need to open your eyes. This whole thing is performative and degrading.”
“It’s going to raise money for women-led artistic endeavors,” she says, and it’s as if I can see Genevieve’s mouth moving.
“Do you really think that rich and powerful businesswomen are going to be the ones bidding on this auction? No, it’ll be men who are going to try to outbid each other to spend time with you. If you don’t see how that cheapens you, well, I don’t know what to say.”
Slowly, she washes her brush, then puts down her sketchpad and gets to her feet.
“You know why I went to Lumen? Because Kingi told me that the Midnight Circle had agreed to exhibit my work—in the Morepork room! It’s not on the way to anywhere, Spencer.
I’d rather it be displayed in the bathrooms—at least it would get more eyes on it there. ”
She has a point about the Morepork room, but I frown. “Did Kingi tell you that we want another exhibition later in the year in the lobby?”
She blinks. “No.”
“We can’t do it in April, that’s all.”
“Yeah, because you’re exhibiting Jason Ridgeway. A guy who’s five years younger than I am and nowhere near as well known. But of course he’s a white man, so it’s not surprising he was chosen.”
I glare at her. Now she sounds like Helen. “Ridgeway won the Northland Fine Arts Competition last year. It’s nothing to do with his gender or the color of his skin.”
“Oh, really.”
“No. We agreed to showcase his work before you came back from Europe. So grow up and stop throwing a childish tantrum when you don’t have all the facts.”
Her amber eyes flare with fury. “That’s the second time you’ve accused me of acting like a child. I’m thirty next month, and I’d appreciate it if you stopped talking down to me.”
I don’t say anything. She’s right, but I’m not in the mood to apologize.
She puts her hands on her hips and lifts her chin. She looks absolutely amazing, and despite being mad at her, I wish I could pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless.
“The fact is,” she says, “Lumen has offered me a rare opportunity for exposure, and I’m going to grab it with both hands.”
“Don’t limit yourself to your gender and race,” I tell her with feeling. “You’re bigger than that.”
“I don’t know what you mean! You have no idea how hard it can be to get visibility when you’re both a woman and Māori!”
“It’s true, I don’t. I’m a privileged white male, I know.
But I wasn’t born rich. I’ve had to fight for what I’ve achieved every step of the way.
” How can I make her understand? “Lumen isn’t the beacon of truth and honesty that it seems. Genevieve wants to raise herself by stepping on men and crushing them under her four-inch stiletto heels.
Is that what you want, too? Do you feel the need to punish half of society just because we have one Y chromosome? ”
“I don’t agree. I don’t think it is about crushing men. It’s about lifting women. You make Genevieve sound selfish and cruel, but she’s open and accepting of all sorts of people. She told me that Victoria Brown prefers going there because she feels more accepting than she does at Huxley’s.”
I give a short, humorless laugh. “That’s pure fiction. I’m pretty sure Victoria can’t stand Genevieve. Ask her yourself.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
We glare at each other. My stomach knots. This isn’t going well, and I’m beginning to realize how foolish I was to try to convince her she’s making a mistake. “Genevieve Beaumont is not what you think,” I say carefully.
She gives me an impatient look. “So you keep implying. Do you want to tell me what you mean by that? What happened between you two? Did you make a move on her, and she rejected you? Is that why you’re being vindictive—is it because she humiliated you?”
I stiffen. “No.”
She lifts her chin. “I think she did. I think she turned you down, and it infuriated you. And you know what else? I don’t think you’re angry with me because you think the auction is demeaning. I think the idea of anyone bidding to be alone with me infuriates you. I think you’re jealous.”
A silence falls between us.
I can’t deny it, because she’s right. And I’m furious with myself for it.
She’s standing there, eyes blazing, the wind tugging her hair, her nipples poking through her T-shirt like buttons, and I want her more than I think I’ve ever wanted a woman in my life. I want to push her up against the window, take her face in my hands, and kiss her senseless.
But I can’t have her. Rangi would kill me.
Kingi would skin me alive. Orson would never speak to me again.
The Midnight Circle would throw me out. My business colleagues would mock the cool, calm, and collected Spencer Cavendish for giving in to his emotions, and I’d lose all respect in the community.
And I couldn’t keep her anyway, because she’s young, and she’ll want a family, and she needs someone her own age who can love her the way she deserves. And I’m not capable of that emotion.
“You can think what you like,” I tell her, making my voice hard.
“But if you go through with the auction, you’ll realize it’s not what you think, and you’ll regret it.
” I step down from the deck, then turn briefly.
“Oh, and by the way, you washed your paintbrush in your tea. I just thought I’d point that out.
” Leaving her cursing, I stride away, back to my car.