Chapter Ten #2
I giggle, and his lips curve up.
“Tell me about your parents,” I say, trying to distract myself, picking up my paintbrush and beginning to paint. “Peter and Joyce.” I’m referring to his foster parents, and he gives me a smile at the fact that I’ve noticed that he obviously thinks of them as his parents.
I wondered whether he’d tell me he’d rather not discuss them, but to my surprise he begins to talk.
“Dad was very driven,” he says. “His field was farming, not mathematics, but he had a sound business head on his shoulders, and he taught me that discipline and hard work are as important as talent.”
“Did they have their own children?”
“No, they couldn’t have kids. They tried a few cycles of IVF but couldn’t get it to work, and in the end they decided they didn’t want to keep putting themselves through that.
So they started fostering. They fostered half a dozen kids for about six months each time until my brothers and I turned up. ”
“Did you get on with them immediately?”
“No. I was turning into a teenager, and resentful and angry at having to be looked after by someone else. But deep down, I was also relieved to not have to deal with my birth father anymore.”
“Did you miss your birth mother?”
“Not really.” He looks away and doesn’t elaborate.
I sketch for a while, thinking. Then I say, “So what’s Joyce like?”
That brings a smile to his lips. “Kind. Friendly. No-nonsense. She was very good with my brothers.”
“You took longer to warm to her?”
“I just didn’t know how to react to compassion.
My birth mother was never kind, and she never hugged me.
So I was distrusting and stiff and unyielding whenever Joyce came near me.
But she was patient. She left me to Peter, who was more practical and didn’t talk about feelings.
We bonded by going out on the farm and spending time working on fixing fences together.
Going for walks with the dogs. Creating furniture in his workshop. ”
“But you warmed to her eventually?”
“There… was an incident,” he says.
I concentrate on blending the paints to get the right shade for his skin tone. “Oh?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he continues, “My birth parents died in a car crash.”
I pause and look over at him. Jesus. No wonder the poor guy is screwed up. “Oh, I am sorry,” I say softly. “That must have given you very conflicting feelings.”
“Yeah.” He scratches at a mark on the arm of his chair.
Then he sighs. “Peter and Joyce sat me and my brothers down to tell us. My birth father was an alcoholic. He’d gotten drunk, argued with my mother, and gone out to sit in the car.
She came out and got in with him. He drove off—I don’t know why, but just a few hundred yards from the house, he wrapped the car around a tree.
He died instantly, and apparently she was DOA at the hospital. ”
“Aw, that’s awful.”
“My brothers were very upset. But I just went quiet. Peter took me for a walk, but I didn’t really want to talk, and in the end we came back and he let me go to my room.
Later, Joyce came in. I literally couldn’t speak.
I was so knotted up inside that I just lay there on the bed, looking up at the ceiling.
She sat on the side of the bed and said it was okay to feel whatever I was feeling, whether that was grief or anger, or if I was just numb.
And she put a hand on my arm.” His eyes are distant.
“It broke the dam. I looked at her and said I didn’t feel angry.
I felt relieved. And then she hugged me, and I… ” He stops and looks down.
He was about to say he got upset, I think. He’s breathing fast. I get the feeling he doesn’t let himself relive the moment very often.
I paint for a bit and let him gather himself. Eventually I say, “How long was that after you moved in with them?”
“Eight months.”
“What happened after that?”
“It was coming up to Christmas. And on Christmas Eve, the two of them sat us boys down and said they’d decided they wanted to adopt us.
They said the courts were supposed to look for relatives from our biological family, but we didn’t have any.
Mum had a sister who lived in Australia.
We’d never met her, and she had a family of her own, and she wasn’t keen to take on three boys.
And my father had two brothers—one had already died from cancer, and the other hated him and wanted nothing to do with us.
So Peter and Joyce didn’t think they’d have a problem adopting, if that was what we wanted. ”
“What did you say?”
He smiles then, an obviously pleasant memory. “We said yes. It took about six months for it to go through, but things started to improve for me almost immediately. Peter wanted us to take his surname, and I was more than happy with that.”
“So he’s where the name Cavendish comes from?”
“Yeah. Dad didn’t expect me to take over the farming business—my middle brother was far more interested in that.
But he said he knew I’d go far, and he wanted to help me achieve my potential.
He was very good to me. He never pushed me to be touchy feely.
He communicated his affection for me in other ways, and I never fully appreciated that until he’d gone. ”
So he’s lost two fathers. That must have been incredibly hard for him.
It helps me understand, too, his relationship with Orson and Helen.
Orson has said that he’s not super close to his father, but I wonder whether he’s taken it into account that Spencer shows affection the only way he can: by being supportive and encouraging, rather than by hugging and kissing.
He shifts in the chair; I think he needs to stretch his legs again. I check my phone; it’s nearly five thirty.
“I have some of the base colors on my canvas,” I tell him, cleaning my brush, “but it’s a long way from being finished.
It’ll probably take me a couple more hours until I’m happy with the first draft of the painting, and many more hours to finish it.
I can do it from photos, but I’d be happier doing at least the first draft from life. ”
I turn to face him. Am I brave enough? Nothing conquered, nothing gained and all that.
I take a deep breath. “It’s up to you,” I say. “But would you like to stay for dinner? I could cook us something quick, steak and chips or something, and then I could do another couple of hours, try and get the basic painting done today while you’re here.”
He stares at me.
I scratch my nose. “Or not,” I say lamely.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says.
We study each other quietly in the afternoon sunshine.
“Are you busy?” I ask. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Another dinner date?”
“No.”
“So you won’t stay purely because I’m so irresistible?”
His lips curve up, just a little.
“You don’t trust me?” I tip my head to the side, curious. “Or is it yourself you don’t trust?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust myself. I’ve never lost control yet.”
“Is that a challenge?”
He just gives a short laugh, then leans forward, his elbows on his knees.
“You’re stunning, Marama. By far the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in a long while, and maybe ever.
Your youth and joie de vivre give you a radiance that shines from you, and the fact that you’re not aware of it makes it even more enticing.
” His words are given easily, and with confidence; this man is incredibly sure of himself.
“You really are an atua wāhine ,” he continues, “especially here, in your studio. You’re a young, amazing goddess, and all I can think about is lifting you up in my arms, carrying you into your bedroom, stripping you naked, kissing down your body, and burying my tongue inside you. ”
I stare at him. Oh. My. God.
He looks amused at my shock as he leans back. “But you’re out of bounds, and so it’s not going to happen. I have the most willpower of any man I’ve ever met. I’ve spent years honing it. And as much as I want you, I’m not going to give in.”