Page 20 of Midnight Enemy

I still think she’s batshit crazy. But her words warmed me through, and she fascinates me more than any woman I’ve met in a long time. Maybe ever.

Chapter Five

Scarlett

We walk up the steep path to the top of the waterfall and turn to look at the Waiora. It’s a beautiful view from up here. The river tumbles over the rocks in a sheet of sparkling silver. The rainbow after which the commune is named arcs across the pool, its seven shades shimmering in the sunlight. The pool itself is wide and deep, and luckily has no rocks beneath the surface near the waterfall, which means it’s a relatively safe test for young people’s courage as they leap into its depths.

The far side—my side—of the pool is covered in thick bush. There are Ponga or Silver Ferns; Nikau palms, which is New Zealand’s only native palm; Manuka trees with small white flowers, which is what the bees draw from to make their special honey; Kawakawa with its heart-shaped leaves that have many medicinal uses; Rengarenga or rock lilies; Makomako or Wineberry, which are small trees with reddish leaves and edible berries; and New Zealand Jasmine, which fills the air with a delicate fragrance. The small, cleared area near the middle is where I bring people to meditate and bathe in the healing waters.

Orson’s side of the pool is more cultivated, with a gravel path, neatly trimmed plants, a small gazebo, several benches, a rubbish bin, and a display board that tells the visitor a little about the history of the Waiora and its spiritual properties.

“Terrific view,” Orson says.

“Mmm.” I’m distracted by his closeness. He’s next to me, not touching me, but his arm is only millimeters from mine, and I can feel the heat from his skin. I turn my head a little, looking down at where he’s rolled up his shirt sleeves. His skin is tanned, which surprises me considering he must spend all day in the office. His hands are big, with clean, neat nails. He’s wearing a large watch, one of those expensiveones that does everything but tell the time. He could probably run NASA from it. He has a scattering of brown hairs on his arms. Does he have the same amount of hair elsewhere?

I lift my gaze and discover him looking at me.

We keep doing this. He does something to my brain. His eyes are like superglue. I look into them, and I get stuck in them—I can’t look away.

I think about when I took him down, and how easily he flipped me over onto my back. I’d never have admitted it, but that impressed me. The feeling of him on top of me, pinning me down as he gazed into my eyes, will remain with me for a long time.

He looks away and runs his tongue over his top teeth. Then he says, “Right. So this is what I was thinking.”

He proceeds to run through the plans he has for the Waiora. I listen silently, half resentful, half intrigued. He wants to secure the stepping stones above the waterfall, and maybe also install a footbridge further up to give everyone a safe crossing. The river here is mostly shallow where it flows over the stones, but after heavy rain it can become precarious, and a bridge would definitely be a useful addition.

On his side of the river, he wants to create a more formal swimming area, with changing rooms, easy access in and out of the pool including a shallow ramp for disabled people, and seating for those who just want to enjoy the view. He insists it would be done respectfully, and that I would be able to okay the plans before he begins building.

He then turns to the commune’s side of the Waiora. “I understand that you want to keep it natural,” he says. “So I’m having my architect design some new ideas that incorporate more rustic designs. Natural is good but it doesn’t provide for longevity. The bank is already eroding on the left side, and again it’s not safe, especially for kids who are going to be climbing out after jumping in. The architect is working with an engineer to explore reinforcing the bank from there to there, with steps and a slope so people with disabilities can use the pool.”

“I guess that would be an advantage.”

“And I know you hold classes down here. I thought it would be nice for you to have private spaces for people to sit and meditate or talk or whatever you do. I think it would be best if they were made from wood, and then my architect could have a Maori artist carve patterns or stories in them.”

“I’m not great at visualizing,” I admit.

“That’s okay. The architect will provide sketches. She’s pretty good.”

“She?”

His lips curve up. “Yeah.”

“She an ex-girlfriend?”

He gives me a baffled look. “No, of course not. Why would you say that?”

“Dunno. You seem like the kind of guy who would have slept with half the population of Auckland.”

“I told you, I’m a serial monogamist.”

“Serial as in one a day, every day?”

His glance this time is sarcastic. “No. As it happens, I don’t believe in sleeping around, which is another area where I suspect we differ.”

I glare at him. “We don’t all sleep in one huge bed at the commune.”

“I’m not saying I don’t see the attraction.”

I give up. “I accept that the developments you’re proposing are interesting. But it still concerns me that you would own the land. If you changed your mind and decided to turn it into a nightclub, there wouldn’t be much we could do about it.”

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