Their lovemaking was passionate and frenzied. Logan stripped his wife naked without even bothering with the front curtains facing the soccer pitch. Guilt and confusion made him desperate for her. Hana exploited her advantage, making him suffer for the injustice of their argument, but it only served to make them both unsatisfied and edgy. “I love you. Please don’t doubt me?” Logan whispered into the dull light of the cloudy afternoon, pulling her body into his.
Hana narrowed her eyes and pressed her hips against him, enjoying his obvious discomfort. “Then stop making me feel like an outsider.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“But you manage to.”
“Forgive me, please?”
“No.” The smug smile left Hana’s face as her husband flipped her onto her back on the mattress and pressed his strong body onto hers. His grey eyes glittered dangerously and she sighed with resignation. Logan clasped her wrists above her head and kissed her neck, moving his lips sensuously down her body until she groaned with pleasure.
“I know I deserve this,” he moaned, unlocking her legs which were deliberately clasped at the ankles. “But I think you’ve made me suffer enough.”
The day disappeared into late afternoon but neither of them took any notice, busying themselves with mending the broken bridges in their fragile marriage.
“Logan?” Hana said quietly later, wondering if he was still awake. “Can I tell you something and you not get mad at me?”
She heard her husband exhale before rolling over onto his side, anticipating some confessed disaster and knowing he couldn’t react. Hana lay on her front, her elbows bent and her chin in her hands. Logan pulled his pillow underneath his neck and ran a warm hand down Hana’s naked spine, causing her to shiver and wonder if she would be better off engaging him in something other than a declaration of guilt. His dark wavy hair flopped over his eyes and moved with every flick of his eyelashes.
“Sometimes you look so much like Phoenix, or probably she looks the image of you,” Hana said, studying Logan’s face and biting her lower lip.
“Come on, woman, what have you done?” Logan pressed, running his finger down the side of her mouth and smirking as Hana closed her eyes.
Hana groaned. “It’s too difficult having a conversation with you when you’re naked and gorgeous. I wish I hadn’t started this, especially if you’re going to shout.” Hana pouted, knowing it would ruin the intimacy they just shared if he got angry.
“Just get on with it.” Logan’s fingers moved down the side of her bare hip and his interest in conversation waned.
“How long have you got?” Hana asked. “I don’t want to get into it if you have to rush off to class half way through. That’s how misunderstandings happen.”
“Bloody hell, Hana! How long do I need? Have you mortgaged the farm or something?” Logan asked, beginning to sound irritated.
“I’ve got myself into a bit of a financial mess,” Hana admitted, seeing the spark of alarm flit across her husband’s eyes. She tried to reassure him, failing miserably. “Not terrible, not gambling or buying expensive shoes or anything. But I went to see someone about the box of family taonga from your grandma. He was so excited and I sort of left it with him to repair. He’s a Māori restorer and used to manage the artifacts at the marae in Ngaruawahia. I asked for a quote but the cost keeps going up and he’s such a lovely man, I’ll feel guilty taking it away from him. Bodie seems to want Culver’s Cottage but isn’t in a position to buy yet and I’ve no idea what’s happening with the house on Achilles Rise. I worked out I could pay the first instalment from my current account but after that, I’m pretty much stuffed.” Hana gave an exaggerated sigh and pressed her face into her arms, her voice sad. “I wanted to make it all beautiful again and then tell you my idea but I’ve bankrupted myself instead.”
Logan exhaled and rolled onto his back, putting his arms behind his head, a slight smile playing on his lips. “That’s about a million miles away from what I thought you were going to say.”
“Oh,” Hana replied, still not sure if he was cross with her or not. “What did you think I was going to say?”
“I have absolutely no idea. But definitely not that.”
Hana pushed her face into his armpit, feeling the dark hair tickle her nose. She smelled his deodorant and the scent that represented Logan Du Rose, warm sunshine and hay. She inhaled deeply, not yet ready to take his good humour for granted. Logan wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled her in close for a smouldering kiss, before pulling Hana’s body into his, a look of satisfaction on his face. “You’re one hell of a woman, you know that?” he crooned, running his lips along her soft neck. “I know I don’t deserve you.”
“No, you don’t.” Hana smirked and pulled away so she could look Logan in the eyes. “You told me I could deal with the treasures and then you decided I couldn’t. I’m not sure what to do now.”
Logan’s face softened and his eyes turned the colour of grit, his pupils black and growing with desire. “Right now, you need to kiss me,” he said, his voice husky. His lips on Hana’s silenced her pique for the moment as he pushed her underneath him and ran his hand down her inner thigh.
“What’s your idea?” he asked as he soaped her slender back in the shower, running his large hands over her spine and up onto her shoulders. Phoenix started to make disturbed noises in the monitor and both parents stopped to listen. The little girl snuffled and then drifted back off to sleep.
“I thought we could make a museum of all the artifacts up at the hotel. There’s an empty room behind Leslie’s office, right next to reception and if we did it properly, we could charge a couple of dollars for guests to look round. I thought I might use this time while Phoenix is small to document your family’s history and then write a pamphlet. I could visit with the kaumātua up at the township and ask him for his memories and then there’s Leslie - she knows heaps about your family. The man who’s repairing the things in the first box knew Rueben from his childhood and...”
Logan became quiet at the mention of his father and his hands on Hana’s back stilled. She turned and seized the shower gel from him and put some into her hand, running her fingers over his broad chest and feeling the hard muscle beneath her palms. Logan’s eyes had a faraway, absent look and Hana felt annoyed at herself for pushing the point. She wrapped her arms around his torso hard, forcing herself into his space so he almost overbalanced and had to grab onto her to right himself.
The sense of exhaustion and isolation descended on Hana’s head, bringing with it a painful loneliness. Logan had shut her out again. Hana let go and took a step back. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice strangled.
When Logan said nothing, she left the shower cubicle and snatched up a towel, drying herself in the bedroom alone and feeling pretty stink about everything. She dressed in comfy track pants and an old fleece in an attempt to manufacture comfort of a different kind. Then she depressed herself further by wondering if Logan had come home early because he had a night duty, fed up of her own dire company yet again. Or maybe he came to tell her their marriage was over and she just distracted him. It was foolish to end up in bed with him when the issues were far from resolved.
Logan took ages in the bathroom and the baby stayed asleep, although not deeply. Hana stood in her bedroom doorway wondering whether to wake her up, but deciding against it. Phoenix had inherited her mother’s bad temper when woken unexpectedly and Hana was reluctant to endure anyone else’s grizzling alongside the sound of her own. Alone in the kitchen, she began to monotonously rustle up an evening meal.
Even that was harder than she thought it would be and acted as another reprimand. “If you spent more time doing what you were supposed to, like food shopping, home-making and bringing up your daughter instead of meddling in things that don’t concern you, perhaps you’d be more like the woman in Proverbs 31,” Hana grumbled at her reflection in the kitchen window. She sighed and leaned over the sink, peering into the bowl of half peeled potatoes. “I hate the Proverbs 31 woman!” she announced.
Pastors always trotted her out on Mothers’ Day to make wives feel inferior. The woman was held up as a model wife and whilst Hana didn’t feel capable of hand sewing all Logan’s work shirts, she could at least have shopped. Then again, didn’t the Proverbs 31 woman grow her own vegetables and herds? “I’m a bit stuffed all round then,” Hana groaned.
The potatoes looked lonely in the microwave, spinning around as they boiled. But the pantry revealed nothing to go with them. Feeling completely inept, Hana made Logan a fairly decent looking omelette and shoved in a packet of microwaved noodles at the last minute. When Logan appeared, Hana was relieved to see him in track pants and an old tee shirt frayed around the edges. “You’re not going to work?” she said, her shoulders relaxing and some of the tension leaving her stance.
“Not tonight,” he replied and smiled.
“My friend’s daughter, Charlotte, calls it a ‘nomlette’ I think,” Hana said, setting the plate in front of him. It contained the entire contents of the pantry and fridge and Hana felt wrong footed and nervous. “There’s not much else left. I’ve done mashed potatoes for Phoe and put the last of the ham and cheese in it.”
“This is really nice,” Logan said, pointing his fork at the nomlette. “Can you do this again?”
Hana nodded, turning back to the sink to wash up, trying to be the good little housewife. Logan ate in silence and Hana kept herself busy, trying not to let the roomful of awkwardness settle on her shoulders. “What are you eating?” he asked as she laid his cutlery on the plate.
“I’m not hungry,” she answered, collecting it up before he sat back in his chair. Hana punished herself as she loaded the dishwasher with the dirty crockery, feeling glum. You’re a fool, she told herself. You should never have got so excited about the museum. Or so involved. The pipe dream was planned out in her head. The room housed the glittering artifacts on shelves and in glass cabinets and Hana saw herself showing guests round and telling the Du Rose story. It fizzled to nothing in her mind’s eye. Fool! The hotel belonged solely to her husband and she felt like a trespasser. His hotel. His family. His taonga.
Phoenix woke up chittering for food and Logan fetched her and changed her nappy. Hana dished up a plastic bowl of the mash and let her feed herself with a spoon. It was a messy business but most of it disappeared into the slot in the child’s face, although some of the ham was squished between her increasingly dexterous fingers.
The awkwardness grew to a steady hum in Hana’s head and feeling depressed, she donned her outdoor gear and volunteered to do some shopping. “See you later,” she called, her voice overly bright, still reaching for the ideal of the ‘perfect Hana’. A bigger part of her rebelled as she left father and daughter cuddled up on the sofa in the living room, watching an English soccer game. “You are so pathetic, Hana McIntyre!” she berated herself, using her maiden name like a hatchet on her own head. “You’re such a pushover!”
Hana slunk around the supermarket on Mill Street, filling her shopping trolley and enjoying the chance to shop without a baby taking up room in the cart. Stocking up on healthy things like vegetables to make baby meals and unhealthy things like chocolate and red wine, she arrived back at The Gatehouse as it grew dark, clanking full carrier bags against the front door as she fumbled with her keys.
Phoenix was in her pyjamas, scooting around the wooden floorboards at a fair whack and squealing to herself in pleasure. Logan wordlessly carried the bulk of the shopping inside in two trips. They unpacked in the kitchen, filling the pantry and fridge while Phoenix sat on the floor and tipped items unhelpfully out of the plastic bags. “Phoe! Careful, baby,” Hana said, scooping up a carton of dishwashing liquid from the floor as it tipped.
Once all the enticingly rustly bags were removed, Phoenix grew bored and crawled off into the hallway. She sat on the front door mat singing to herself and examining its bristly surface with her hands. Logan watched Hana with a sense of growing nervousness, not sure how to begin a conversation and she crashed around in cupboards, avoiding any lame overtures he made. Conflict resolution in marriage was not a Du Rose skill and Logan sat at the table and examined the scars on his hands. “Hana,” he said, blocking her passage past him carrying a tin of beans. “Can we talk?” He reached out his arms and captured her round the waist. “Just stop for a minute, please?”
Hana’s body was rigid, standing next to him like a statue, her eyes staring blindly through the dark window. “What’s the point?” she asked, her voice wooden. “You let me in and then as soon as I blunder somewhere you don’t want me, you expel me like a bad child. I can’t live like this.”
“I know. The stuff about my father...Reuben, it’s still raw. I find it hard to think about, let alone talk about it. I can’t help that.”
“Maybe,” Hana sighed.
“Look, a night alone in the boarding house office made me think about things. I do love you, Hana, that was never in any doubt but you’re right - I did create an illusion and tried to trap you inside it. I’m really sorry for that and I want us to move forward, but on a more equal footing.”
Logan let go, wary of touching her. Hana seemed distant and hurt and he needed her to understand. “I’m not great at communicating how I feel,” he tried, defeat underlying his statement.
“Oh, really?” Hana sidestepped again and Logan saw the warning signs flash behind her green eyes.
“Yes!” Logan snapped. “Yes, I find it hard and you’re being unkind for the sake of it now!”
Hana’s eyes narrowed in anger and her body was rigid and unyielding as she moved again, finding her husband’s tall frame in the way. Logan saw her bring the tins up to chest height and knew she intended to push them into him. He snatched them up, dumping them on the table in one fluid movement and catching her around the waist. “Hana, stop this,” he whispered, soothing and cajoling.
Hana glared up into his face as Logan reached behind her and grasped her forearms, careful to avoid the painful scar on her left wrist. He dragged her unwilling arms forward and pulled them around his waist, where he held onto them behind his back. Then he leaned in and kissed her unwilling lips, feeling her resistance. She was pinned and she knew it. Hana’s dormant redheaded temper stirred. She struggled and stamped her foot and Logan felt a stab of excitement at his wife’s spiritedness, which invited him like an unspoken challenge. “You’ve still got secrets!” she spat. “You’re still freezing me out!”
Logan’s ex-fiancé possessed none of Hana’s charm. Caroline was wily, spiteful and dishonest. She tried to confound Logan Du Rose with mind games and cruelty and so Hana’s simple, honest rage was refreshing and incredibly seductive. “I’m doing my best,” Logan whispered. “I’ll try harder not to be s...”
“Such a lying pig?” Hana retorted and Logan pursed his lips. Enraged by the smirk in his eyes, Hana tried to withdraw her arms from his iron grip, tilting her head away so his next kiss landed on her neck instead of her lips. “This isn’t sorted!” she hissed. “We are not ok!”
A sudden hammering on the front door startled them both and Phoenix let out a wail of instant fear from the doormat. With a look which told his wife they had unfinished business, Logan strode into the hallway and snatched his daughter up in his strong arms. “You’re fine, ya big egg,” he soothed as she nuzzled into him and wrapped her tiny hands around his neck. Hana heard a click as Logan opened the front door and a whoosh of cold air blew in. “You made good time,” Logan said as he greeted the visitor.