Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
I can see members of staff in their distinct lavender-colored suits showing small groups of visitors around, while at the front on a temporary stage, Genevieve is talking to Marama, clearly about to address the room. To their left, a large canvas stands covered with a cloth.
I glance around and spot Orson and Scarlett not far away, talking to Helen and a couple of others. Orson sees me and gestures with his head for me to go over. I thread through the crowd, nodding at a couple of people I recognize.
“Dad!” Helen stares at me. “Holy shit. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Hello.” I smile at the group, seeing from their astonished expressions that they’re obviously shocked that I’d be here to witness my own demise. I point at the savory ball in Orson’s hand. “Any good?”
“Crab puff,” he says. “Exceptional.”
Scarlett tries not to laugh and lifts a glass of orange juice from a passing waiter. “Here.” She passes it to me, her beautiful dark eyes full of amusement. “Hello.”
“Thank you.” I sip it, then turn with the others as there’s a loud whistle of feedback.
“Ah… even the microphone is excited to hear me,” Genevieve jokes, and the crowd laughs.
“Welcome to Lumen,” she says. “I’m so glad you could all make it for the Open Day today.
Please, avail yourself of all the opportunities to look around, try out the facilities, and talk to the staff and current clients.
” She gestures at the sign above reception.
“As you can see, here at Lumen we’re focused on empowering women.
Illuminating Women, Igniting Change is our policy statement.
With that in mind, I’d like to introduce you to up-and-coming artist, Marama Davis. ”
She gestures at Marama, who moves forward to stand beside her. Wow, she looks amazing today. She’s wearing a long cream boho-style dress, which suits her arty temperament, and her hair is half-pinned up but with attractive curls tumbling around her face and neck.
“Marama is currently creating a series of paintings for an exhibition that will open during Matariki. This is the first in the series, an exceptional piece that suggests themes of…”
Genevieve’s voice trails off as her gaze falls on me.
I can see my presence here has thrown her. Heads start turning as she continues to stare, and murmurs rise as everyone sees whom she’s looking at.
I wait calmly, my gaze fixed on Marama. She’s seen me, and her jaw has dropped. I hold my breath—will her expression show anger or frustration at seeing me?
To my joy, though, as I watch, her whole face lights up, and relief spreads through me. At that moment, I know everything’s going to be all right.
Genevieve glances at Marama, then back at me. I wait for her to say something cutting or sarcastic. But to my surprise, her expression softens.
“Where was I?” she says. “Oh yes, Marama’s paintings.
” She looks at Hariata Pere, who’s in the crowd.
Hariata nods, and Genevieve clears her throat.
“I originally hoped that Marama’s exhibition would show women rising, claiming power, and outshining men.
I do still want Lumen to be primarily focused on helping women achieve their full potential, but I’m not ashamed to admit that Marama has produced something far more worthy.
I’m going to let the artist herself read her personal statement. ”
Marama moves forward and takes the stand.
“Good afternoon,” she says. Her eyes meet mine, and then she looks across the crowd as she reads from a card.
“The moon rises not to conquer the sun, but to bring light in a different way. She does not burn; she reflects. She watches. And when she takes the sky, the world is hushed. Power is not always loud. Beauty is not always soft. This painting explores the moments where we rise—not alone, but in rhythm. Not every ascent is a rebellion. Some are invitations to dance.”
She lowers the card as everyone claps and gives an embarrassed laugh.
“That sounds very pretentious, but it’s my way of showing my belief in balance.
The exhibition is going to be called Maramataka, or the turning of the moon, but this first painting is called Whakatau.
It means to bring into balance or harmony, and it also means to make peace. ”
Her gaze meets mine briefly, and my heart thunders. I’ve seen the headlines, and I thought I knew what to expect—the Wolf of Waiheke, being brought to heel and tamed at her feet—but both her and Genevieve’s words suggest something different.
She turns and nods at Genevieve, who, together with her assistant, removes the cover showing the painting.
The crowd gasps, and my eyebrows slowly rise.
On the left, a Māori goddess stands in a forest glade.
Above her head, the letters of her name—Hina, the goddess of the moon—are woven between the leaves of the kauri trees.
She stands in a shaft of moonlight, her light-brown skin touched with silver.
Her long brown hair tumbles down her back, interlaced with moons that look just like the crescent moon clips Marama wore in her hair that day in the studio.
She’s wearing a cleverly painted almost-transparent gauzy dress so you can’t quite tell if it’s made from cloth or moonlight.
The main thing that stands out to me about the figure, though, is that she’s obviously pregnant, the dress clinging to her swelling figure.
Her hands are outstretched toward the hands of the figure opposite.
It’s a man, not a wolf, and the letters above his head in the trees spell his name, Tāne Mahuta, the god of the forest. His skin is like bark, and his hair and clothes are made from leaves and vines that curl around his body.
Their fingers are just touching, and at the place where they meet, silver flowers bloom.
The man stands in a shaft of sunlight, and he’s bathed in golden light.
His features are mostly occluded by the leaves, although his eyes are a startling blue that stand out in the color palette of rich greens and browns.
It’s the only sign that it might be me. But I know it is, because she’s already painted me as this figure before.
It’s not humiliating at all. He looks powerful but dignified, the perfect match for her quiet, strong beauty.
The crowd erupts into a round of applause, but I continue to stand there, unmoving. I’m so touched, I can hardly breathe. I see Orson glance at me out of the corner of his eye, smiling, but I don’t look at him.
I walk through the crowd, conscious of people turning to look at me as I pass, but I ignore them, keeping my gaze fixed on the stage and the woman who’s now watching me, her eyebrows rising.
People part to let me through, and I approach the steps up to the stage, pause, then climb them. Genevieve moves back, and when I glance at her, her lips curve up, just a tiny bit. I give her a small smile back, then return my gaze to my girl.
“Hello,” I say.
She gives a short laugh and looks at the crowd, then back at me and says bashfully, “Hello.”
“I love the painting,” I tell her. I know the microphone is probably picking up our conversation, but I don’t care—in fact I’m glad everyone is witnessing this moment.
Her smile lights up her face. “I’m so glad.”
“You’re amazing,” I tell her. “So incredibly talented.”
She blushes. “Oh. Thank you.”
“And I’m very much in love with you,” I say.
The crowd gasps, and to one side I see Genevieve press her fingers to her lips, but I keep my gaze fixed on Marama. Her eyes have widened, and now they’re shining with tears.
I gather my courage, slide one hand into my trouser pocket, and bring out the small velvet box.
Slowly, I crack it open and turn it to show her the ring.
It’s not a traditional diamond solitaire.
It’s a large pink tourmaline surrounded by a white-gold band set with diamonds which wraps around the stone like a ribbon and makes it look as if the tourmaline is floating, and it looks like a rose.
I also bought matching earrings, and the set cost several hundred thousand dollars.
I wanted something special to suit her artistic character and creativity, and when I rang a friend who owns a chain of jewelry stores, he knew exactly what I was looking for.
Once I’d confirmed through photos that I liked it, he had it sent over.
I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s the right size, but I’ll get it fitted perfectly… if this goes well.
Cheers are already starting to rise in the crowd, and they only increase as I lower to one knee.
“Marama,” I say, “I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”
Her hand rises to cover her mouth. Her eyes shine.
And then she bursts into tears.
As one, everyone in the crowd goes, “Awwww…”
Ah, shit. Does that mean yes or no?
I get to my feet, give the crowd a wry smile, then put my arms around her. She covers her face with her hands and buries her face in my neck. Ahhh, she’s totally lost it.
“All right, baby,” I murmur, and I bend, slide my arm beneath her legs, and lift her into my arms. I walk carefully down the steps, then nod at Genevieve as she gestures behind her to an open door, and I carry Marama into the office behind the stage.
“Everyone out,” I bark, and the members of staff who were working there hurriedly exchange glances, then head out, closing the door behind them.
“Hey, it’s okay.” I lower into a chair and cradle her on my lap. “Shh, everything’s all right.” I rub her back.
Gradually, her sobs die down. I rest my lips on the top of her head and kiss her hair, wondering what she’s thinking.
It was a huge gamble, proposing without knowing how she’d react, but I hoped she’d see that as me unzipping my fly and showing her I’m prepared to be vulnerable for her.
Now I wonder whether she was upset because she didn’t want to turn me down in front of all those people.
I don’t regret it, though. I needed to show her how I felt.
Just don’t let it be the end… I don’t think I could bear that…