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Not that I’m against watching someone like Scarlett Stone dancing naked under the moonlight…
She’s still glaring at me. I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sure the work you do is useful…”
“You throw apologies around like they’re tennis balls, but you don’t mean them,” she says heatedly. “We had a mother turn up yesterday with her thirteen-year-old daughter. The woman’s husband beat her so badly he injured her arm, and he sexually abused his daughter. The two of them are physically and emotionally scarred, and absolutely terrified.”
I blink, thrown by her passionate retort, as well as what she’s saying.
“The Women’s Refuge sends women like this to us,” she continues, “so they can spend some time recovering in a place that’s an escape from the harsh world they’re used to. I’m in charge of the healing program at the retreat. Yes, we hold yoga and meditation classes, but that’s so we can teach them techniques to control their fear and anxiety, which help to lower blood pressure, and I also teach self-defense. We are all vegetarian, but that’s because a vegetarian diet has lower levels of saturated fat and cholesterol, and more fiber, potassium, and vitamin C than other eating patterns, and we’re trying to help them heal. We want them to feel better about themselves, and to be able to return to the real world feeling more confident and in control. So I’d appreciate it if you aren’t facetious and stop mocking what I do.”
When she finishes, her cheeks are flushed again, and her eyes are blazing. Fuck me, she’s beautiful.
Shame spreads through me. I’ve insulted her twice now, and that would be unforgivable even if she wasn’t obviously doing worthwhile work. Why has my father never told me what they do at Kahukura? Does he know? I can’t believe he doesn’t, but he’s always spoken about Blake Stone with derision, and calls the commune a ‘crystals-and-kumbaya retreat.’ I’ve felt vaguely exasperated at the thought of having a cult-like settlement next to the Midnight Club, and I have to admit that part of the reason I wanted to develop the Waiora was so we could keep our half separate from the ‘tree-hugging, granola-munching patchouli brigade’, as Dad has called them in the past.
Now, I’m disgusted with myself for insulting the valuable work she does. She would have no idea that the Midnight Circle—the consortium of rich men and women who run the group of Midnight Clubs, of which I am a part—meets regularly to decide which charities we should spend the profits from the clubs on. Although we’re ruthless in business, I’m proud that we’re all driven by altruism, compassion, and a desire to change lives.
And now look at me—insulting this beautiful young woman and the honorable work she does.
I fucking hate myself sometimes.
I look down at the plan on the table, and see us through her eyes for the first time—as a faceless corporation taking over a smaller but well-meaning establishment, like a huge new supermarket putting the local Farmers’ Market with its organic fruit and vegetables out of business.
I’m not prepared to give up on my idea. But I’m not going to achieve anything by acting like this. What’s the fable about the wind and the sun trying to remove the traveler’s cloak? Proving that gentleness is more powerful than force?
Thoughtfully, I reach out, pick up the plan, and roll it back up. Then I throw it like a dart so it lands in Jack’s rubbish bin.
I turn toward Scarlett, lean forward with my elbows on my knees and my hands clasped, and look into her startled eyes. “I’m truly sorry,” I say, injecting as much feeling as I can into my words. “I’ve been extremely rude and thoughtless.”
She narrows her eyes. “So walking in and throwing money at me didn’t work, and now you’re going to try to win me around with charm? I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Cavendish.”
“Call me Orson, please. And no, I’m not trying to charm you, I’m attempting to be sincere.”
“You’re trying to tell me you’ve changed your mind about developing the site?” She gives a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t believe you. Why do you have to change anything? Why can’t things just stay the way they are?”
“Because progress is good, when it’s done the right way.”
“You just want to commercialize something that’s sacred to me.”
“No, I want to preserve it and make it safe. And I have an idea.”
Jack’s eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t say anything, trusting that I know what I’m doing.
I continue, “My suggestion is that the Midnight Club still purchases the Waiora for fifteen million dollars, but afterward we place the land into a stewardship trust co-managed by the Midnight Club, Kahukura, and local iwi. The Club would retain certain rights to protect our investment, but we would ensure that the trust allows for regulated access for everyone, including the general public, as well as safe walking paths, a secure bridge, and some level of maintenance. We would be free to make respectful developments to our side of the site, but because we would own the land, we’d also agree to pay for any improvements you felt appropriate for your side, like the nooks we mentioned. Those developments would be up to you. If you wanted to keep it as it is, that would be your decision.”
Silence falls again in the room. Scarlett is breathing fast, but she’s not immediately refusing.
“How do I know that ‘respectful development’ won’t alter the spiritual nature of the Waiora?” she asks.
“You’d have to trust me.”
She snorts.
My lips curve up. “Look, let’s be honest. We would gain legal access, control development, and strengthen the resort’s appeal without steamrolling local interests. We might even score some good PR for preserving a sacred site. But the trust would make sure the Waiora was protected from over-commercialization, and that it remains sacred and stays under shared guardianship.”
She looks at Jack and says, “Did you know about this?”
“No,” he says. “But Orson has a head for business and finance, and you can trust him. With the fifteen million he’s offering? I have to say, it’s a win-win for the commune, and it’s a very generous offer.”
She studies her notepad, but she doesn’t write anything down.