Page 121 of Midnight Enemy

I go into the town hall, walk through the lobby, and cross the main hall to the Elders’ meeting room. I hear someone speaking as I approach, then a murmur of voices, so it sounds as if the meeting has started already. It surprises me, as it’s not quite six and someone is always late.

I pause in the doorway—and stare at the table in surprise. The eight elders are there, including George. And so is Kingi and, to my surprise, Orson. My jaw drops—I hadn’t seen the Aston and had no idea he was there.

The center of the table is filled with the remains of a meal—plates with leftover sandwiches and flakes of pastry, as if they’ve all been there for several hours.

“Scarlett,” Richard says, spotting me. “Come in, dear. Take a seat.”

My heart races, but I force my feet to move and walk forward to take the empty chair at the other end of the table to him. Orson sits halfway along the table on my right, next to Kingi. George sits opposite them. Orson meets my gaze, gives a small smile, and winks at me. I don’t respond, though, feeling too panicky and unsure of myself.

I look around the other faces, at the people I know so well, and I’m relieved that there doesn’t appear to be any anger evident. I can see that a couple of the women’s faces are red, as if they’ve been crying. But most of them also smile at me as our eyes meet, including George, who looks better than he did this morning.

“Am I late?” I ask, convinced they told me six p.m.

Richard shakes his head. “No, no. George asked us to come in earlier.” He leans his elbows on the table and his mouth on his hands for a moment, and gradually the others fall quiet. “Scarlett,” he begins, “George has told us about the initial findings of Kingi’s audit. He says he made you aware of this yesterday. Do you understand what has happened?”

I give a stiff nod. “Over a period of time, my father withdrew funds from the commune, the vineyard, and the retreat, probably in the hope of paying for my mother’s cancer treatment.”

To my surprise, he shakes his head. “That’s not quite correct. Yes, he took money from the commune and the vineyard, but he did not take anything from the retreat’s account.”

I frown. “Isn’t that just semantics?”

“No, we don’t believe it is. We actually think it’s very important.” He blows out a long breath. “Obviously, the news has shocked us all. Despite setting up the commune and encouraging us to help one another, Blake was a very private man, and none of us had any idea that the best treatment for your mother’s cancer would have been available privately. My guess is that he didn’t want to admit a desire to pay for private treatment, because that goes against our ethics here. But of course he didn’t want to lose your mother, either, which is why he attempted to find the money himself.”

“He told me he would have paid it back over time and nobody would even have noticed,” George states.

“It’s all very unfortunate,” Richard says. “We’re a family here. We miss them both, and we all understand why he felt driven to help your mum, even if we don’t agree with it.”

I glance at Orson. He’s leaning on the arm of his chair, his fingers resting on his lips, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Kingi has kindly written up his initial findings in a report for us,” Richard continues, putting a hand on a manila folder that lies open on the table in front of him with a few sheets of paper inside.

I clear my throat. “How much money is outstanding?”

Richard tidies the sheets of paper, closes the folder, then looks at me. Finally, he smiles. “Nothing.”

My eyebrows rise. “What do you mean?”

“Orson spent a few hours with Kingi and George this morning,” Richard says, “in order to gain a full understanding of the commune’s financial situation. Then he called an emergency meeting of the Midnight Circle. He put forward a proposal, and all the members of the Circle signed the agreement form on the spot. The proposal includes seventeen and half million dollars for the sale of the Waiora, and a further charity donation to the retreat of seven and a half million dollars. So the proposal is for twenty-five million dollars.”

My jaw drops. His initial offer was for fifteen, which is much more than it was valued at. George pushed him to seventeen and a half. But now he’s offering twenty-five? Fifteen million more than what the Waiora is worth?

I look at Orson. He meets my gaze steadily, not moving.

“The proposal includes a clause that Blake’s remaining debt be wiped,” Richard continues.

My throat tightens. Oh God. Orson…

“Scarlett,” Richard says gently, “we know this has been a huge shock to you. The land that Kahukura is built on belongs to you, and you have every right to close the commune and keep the money from the sale of the Waiora for yourself. The charity donation would go to the retreat, or in the event of its closure, to the Women’s Refuge. But we’re hoping that you will stay, and keep the retreat up and running.”

“We’ve talked a lot about the commune and our way of life,” George says. “Obviously there have been hurt feelings, and some loss of trust because of the events. So we’re putting forward the idea of changing the commune into an intentional community. This would mean that the members have control of their own finances, but that we would continue to work together to run the retreat, to collaborate on tasks and the maintenance of Kahukura, and to share resources. Does that make sense?”

I nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak.

“I would promote David to joint financial director,” George says, naming one of the men in the commune who is an accountant, “and from now on we’ll always have two people looking after the finances.”

“We would like to spend the majority of the money from the sale on improving the site,” Richard says, “repairing buildings, building new ones, and maybe on encouraging some new blood into the community. The donation would be spent entirely on the retreat—on improving the facilities and enlarging the accommodation so we can accept more women and families.”

“But it all depends on you,” George says. He takes the manila folder from Richard, rises, and brings it over to me. He puts it on the table before me, opens the folder, and shows me the contents. “This is the proposal.” He points out the clause about wiping my father’s debt, and the way the money is to be broken down into the sale and the donation. He turns the page to reveal a space for my signature. “You don’t have to sign now,” he says. “You’re welcome to take it to the lawyer yousaw, or someone else to get independent advice. We don’t want you to feel pressured in any way.”

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