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I scowl as I head across the green toward the main office, dying a little inside at the memory of what transpired in the gazebo. I was such an idiot. I assumed that because I ride a bike and use tampons I wasn’t going to bleed, and I’d hoped he wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t had sex before. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I groan silently at the thought of how I squealed, how quickly he shot back, and the shocked look on his face as he saw the blood. The poor guy. It wasn’t his fault. No young guy is going to turn down a girl when she offers herself on a plate to him like that.
No, it’s my fault that I feel embarrassed and humiliated, not his. It was actually rather sweet that he refused to continue. I think. Maybe he was just so turned off by the whole virgin thing that it killed any desire he had. My spirits sink even lower, and tears prick my eyes. But I cried enough last night; I’m not going to give in to self-pity again. I lift my chin, push open the door to the office, and go inside.
Various people take turns manning the desk here. I fill in from time to time. You have to answer the phone, take messages, watch over the library and computers, accept deliveries, and generally help out with the day-to-day running of the business of the commune and the retreat.
Today Lou is on the desk, but she’s not alone; Ana’s here too with a couple of her young friends, as well as Richard, the leader of the Elders, and George.
They’re all looking at something sitting on the table in the corner. As I walk in, they part and stop talking.
“Hello,” Ana says with a mischievous grin.
I don’t reply, because the object on the table has rendered me speechless. It’s a bouquet of red roses. Oh my God, how many are there? There must be three dozen at least, and they’re absolutely beautiful, half open and half in bud, glistening with water droplets. They’re wrapped in cellophane, and I think they’ve come in the vase because I don’t think it belongs to the commune—it’s round and glass and painted with more red roses.
“They came with a card,” Lou says, passing it to me.
I take it. The front bears one word—my name, Scarlett, and above it someone has hand-drawn a fancy red heart. My face heating, I open the envelope and take out the card. Like the envelope, the card also bears one word: Orson. Inside the O, someone has drawn another red heart.
Richard takes the card out of my hand, and the others look at it. At the commune there’s little privacy, and we’re used to sharing everything. I don’t have any secrets from Ana or any of the others. But for maybe the first time in my life, I hate the fact that they’ve all seen what suddenly feels like a very private message.
“Ooh,” Ana says. “Orson!”
“Orson Cavendish?” Richard asks. “What’s he doing sending you flowers?”
“Hmm,” George says, eyes gleaming.
“Is it a business gesture or a personal thing?” Lou asks.
“No kisses,” says one of the other girls. “Business?”
“You don’t send roses for business,” the other girl says. “Or put a heart on the card.”
“He wants to buy the Waiora,” Richard tells them, frowning. “That’s all. He’s trying to flatter you.”
“That's not it,” Ana says impatiently. “He likes her. It was written all over his face when he came here.”
I blush even more. “That’s not true.”
“You can’t go out with him,” one of the girls says. “He’s a capitalist pig who’s only interested in money.”
“He’s not,” Ana protests, “you obviously didn’t see him the other day. He’s gorgeous, and he’s really nice.”
“Don’t let his looks distract you from the fact that he’s here for business,” Richard warns. “He’s well known in the city for being ruthless and cutthroat. He’s not the sort of guy who’d send flowers without having a seven-point plan in place.”
I swallow hard, thinking about how tenderly he kissed me, and how he held me when I cried. Was it all a ploy to get around me? Surely not? But then he himself saidyou’re the naivest person I’ve ever met.
“Can I talk to you for a moment?” George asks me. He exchanges a look with Richard before gesturing with his head for me to follow him into the library.
After taking the card from Richard, I follow George, and he closes the door behind him. The library is empty this early in the day, with most of the women in the retreat busy with exercise classes or workshops. I stand in front of the shelf of gardening books and look at George awkwardly. He worked closely with my father, and I know Dad trusted him implicitly, but Orson’s comment about it not being a great idea to have one person in charge of a company’s finances has sown a seed of doubt deep inside me.
Who should I trust more, though? A guy I’ve grown up with, who’s part of the commune, who my dad loved and trusted, and who’s been nothing but supportive of me and my family? Or a ruthless businessman who’s only interested in acquiring my land, and who’d no doubt resort to any sneaky tactic to get what he wanted?
Except I don’t believe Orson is like that. I think he sent me the flowers because he likes me, and he was sorry that he hurt me, and he regrets what happened and how it ended.
Or am I being naive again?
“I think we can use this,” George says.
I blink. “Use what?”