‘Here? You’ve had a busy day—’
‘I have to have dinner anyway.’
After a moment he said, ‘All right. Use my fish, and you can put yours in the freezer.’
She let him get the table ready, and while she prepared the meal he sat on the sofa and looked through a pile of library books she’d left on the coffee table—a book on contemporary Maori art, a romantic novel, a thriller and a biography of the painter Raphael.
‘You have an eclectic taste,’ he commented.
‘I like variety.’
‘Mm. So I see.’
In a very short time she’d served them fillets dribbled with lemon-and-parsley butter and accompanied by new potatoes and a fresh salad.
‘That was very good.’ Jas pushed away his plate.
‘There’s nothing like fish straight from the sea. Do you want a pudding? I can open a can of peaches—’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘Coffee, then.’ Blythe got up to clear the plates.
When she put the cups on the coffee table he moved to the sofa beside her. The cup she’d given him was a hexagon, in alternating bands of green china and shining gold. He turned it interestedly, examining the pattern.
‘That was my grandmother’s,’ she said.
‘Tell me about her.’
She looked at him sceptically.
‘I never knew my grandparents,’ he said. ‘Was she like you? Do you take after her?’
‘Well…she was very independent…’
‘A family trait. And…?’
Beginning hesitantly, she soon launched into family memories, watching his face for signs of boredom. He slipped in occasional questions, and listened with an expression of alert curiosity, like a tourist in a foreign land, curious about the local way of life.
At last she said, ‘It’s a shame you didn’t know your grandparents. They must have died early?’
‘My mother’s parents did, and I think my father just lost touch with his.’
‘That’s sad. Do you have brothers and sisters?’
He put down his cup. ‘I had two half-brothers,’ he said rather curtly. ‘I haven’t seen them in years.’
‘Why?’ Her eyes rounded with sympathy.
‘We didn’t like each other much.’ He picked up the Raphael biography and started leafing through it. ‘You’re interested in Raphael’s work?’
Reluctantly, Blythe dropped the subject of his family. ‘Art history was my best subject at school.’
‘Why didn’t you go to university?’
‘I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, and I was offered a job at the nursery where I’d worked in the school holidays. I’d enjoyed that, so I took it.’
Jas paused at a page, and Blythe leaned forward a little to see what had captured his attention. The illustration was a round design divided symmetrically into panels painted with different designs. She read the caption aloud. ‘“The Cupola of the Chigi chapel.”’
‘It’s an intriguing pattern.’
Blythe shifted closer to see, her shoulder brushing against his. ‘It must have taken ages,’ she murmured. ‘And think what a crick in the neck he’d have had!’
Jas’s laughter stirred her hair, and she turned to smile at him.
His face was only inches from hers, the laughter in his eyes making them softer, darker, and his mouth curved, creasing his cheeks. For once he looked relaxed and happy, but almost immediately his head went back, his eyes leaving hers and returning to the book in his hands.
He closed it with a snap, and replaced it carefully on the table. Then he stood up. ‘Time I left,’ he said, although it was still quite early. ‘Many thanks for the dinner and coffee. Can I help with the dishes?’ He glanced down at the dressing on his hand. ‘I could dry.’
Blythe shook her head. ‘There’s not much. Don’t worry about it.’ If he wanted to go she wasn’t going to make excuses to hold him. She followed him to the door, and watched him descend the steps to the road, and then he lifted a hand and walked away.
* * *
Blythe couldn’t have said Jas was an intrusive neighbour. In turn she tried to respect his preference for privacy. Sometimes over the next few weeks they found themselves on the beach together and ended up strolling side by side. He watched her pick hare’s-tails and dry grasses and gather up the spiny heads of spinifex blowing along the sand, and helped her sift through the sea-wrack left by the tide, hunting for its hidden treasures. Occasionally he arrived at her door with a piece of driftwood or a bit of sea-worn glass that he thought she might like for her notions.
She had less time for them now. The bigger sunflowers in the open ground were ready for picking, and she had to watch for the right moment, just before the flowers burst from their buds, to harvest them and get them to her markets in Auckland.
One overcast and rain-misted day, Jas knocked on her door.
He held a bundle of envelopes and a large parcel. The clouds had parted on a sliver of blue behind him, but his hair was hazed with tiny droplets of moisture. ‘Your mail,’ he said. ‘Doug said you might want the parcel.’
‘Oh, thanks!’ A paintbrush in one hand, Blythe took the envelopes from him and stepped back. ‘That’ll be some craft books I ordered. Come in.’
She thought he was going to refuse, but he looked at the paintbrush she held and stepped inside.
‘Where do you want this?’
‘On the table,’ she said, hastily clearing a space among paints and flowerpots.
He put down the carton and straightened, glancing at the pots she’d decorated with brightly hued patterns—dots, stripes and wavy lines, even bows.
‘What do you think?’ she asked him.
‘Very colourful.’
‘I thought plain green pots were a bit boring. The next batch of dwarfs I’m going to slip into these. D’you think they’ll sell?’
‘I’m not qualified to say.’
‘Well, put it this way—would you buy one? With a sunflower in it?’
He picked up one of the pots by the rim, away from the wet paint. She had painted a bright yellow floppy bow on it, with red polka dots. ‘I might have…once. Yes.’ His voice had deepened, and the skin over his cheekbones seemed to tauten as he swallowed. ‘I’m sure they’ll sell.’
Blythe put her paintbrush down, reaching across beside him to place it in a jar of water, giving him a little time.
When he replaced the pot and lifted his head she looked at him searchingly but his face gave nothing away.
Then he smiled, a tiny movement of his firm lips. ‘You’ve got a bit of paint on your cheek.’
‘Damn, where?’ She picked up a paint-stained cloth.
Jas took it from her and gently rubbed at her skin.
Their eyes met and she gazed at him curiously, seeing her own trustingly upturned face reflected in the dark centres as he looked back at her. His hand had stilled and she was conscious of his thumb resting against her cheekbone.
His eyelids lowered, his narrowed gaze lingering on the soft, involuntary parting of her lips before he stepped back. ‘There.’ He put the cloth down.