“So, let’s eat!” she said, sweeping grandly past him and leading the way to the formal dining room. A long teak table, set for two in the intimacy of one corner, was illuminated by three beautiful chandeliers. “I presume the head of the table is your spot?” she said. She would have said more to emphasize her new mood, but he was giving her a strange look.
“It has taken you an astoundingly short time to find your way around my house,” he said.
Janet had made a very dangerous mistake by leading her host to a room she had supposedly never seen. But she was far better at subterfuge than she expected when she said, “It’s a knack I’ve always had,” tossing off his observation as less than it was. “Most women have it. It comes with the territory.” She walked to the table, not surprised when Ashanti was there to pull out her chair. Christopher hesitated, finally joining her.
They were served hotchpotch of curly kale, a hearty Dutch stew of cabbage, potatoes, sausage, salt, butter, pepper and chicken stock. The stew was anything but pedestrian, served as it was from a large Delft soup tureen into matching soup bowls and accompanied by a 1947 South African Cabernet Sauvignon from the Groot Constantia vineyards outside Cape Town. The wineglasses were Baccarat.
“You say you’re going to Great Zimbabwe?” Christopher asked when they paused in their small talk about the food. Janet had told him her travel plans earlier, using them as her excuse for avoiding this very meal.
“I guess it’s Great Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe, isn’t it?” she said, and recalled her earlier confusion at the apparent redundancy. Great Zimbabwe was once only a group of impressive archaeological ruins on a high plateau in Rhodesia, she knew. When Rhodesia became officially independent from Britain in 1980, Zimbabwe also became the name of the new country, and Great Zimbabwe now also referred to the game reserve surrounding those ruins.
“The camera crew and I are going to spend some time with a government group,” Janet continued. She didn’t mention elephants. Christopher’s promise to show her the Ivory Room was more of a bonus for her than he imagined. “We’ll stop off in Salisbury first.”
His right hand realigned the lush blond hair that tumbled almost to his golden eyes. She longed for the fluid movement of those silky strands through her fingertips.
“I was at the Great Zimbabwe ruins not long ago,” Christopher said, putting Janet on her guard. He eyed her over the elaborate place settings, his eyes luminous and hypnotic. “There was a government team there, then,” he added. “An encampment of soldiers, too, for that matter.”
“Soldiers?” Janet asked nervously. Soldiers hinted of more unexpected dangers.
“There’s a heavy poaching problem in the area,” Christopher said. “The troops have been sent in to stop it.” He, no more than Janet, mentioned elephants, but he sure1y knew which animals concerned the Great Zimbabwe research group. He knew how interested Janet was to see his Ivory Room.
He was taking her attempt at revenge too lightly—not that he seemed to recognize it as revenge. Her motivations probably didn’t matter to him—he was that confident she wasn’t a threat. He had not only let her crew leave with the tapes but had hinted at giving her more ammunition by showing her what was in the basement.
She was at a decided disadvantage. Her memories were interfering, while he thought her nothing more than a busybody television hostess. She would tell him who she was. If nothing else, that would assure him of her determination.
But she caught herself in time. She couldn’t let more tender emotions take control. Her best chance for success was in getting the tapes to the States, editing them to emphasize the now extinct animals tacked so proudly on the Van Hoon walls. There would be footage shot at Great Zimbabwe about elephant herds endangered not only by encroaching civilization but by people like the Van Hoons who had encouraged the poaching epidemic in their eagerness to stockpile ivory.
She couldn’t spoil her plans because she wanted Christopher to laugh as he once laughed, or because she wanted the sparkle back in his eyes instead of the glaring suspicion and distrust she saw there. She was a fool if she let those wants make her act rashly. There was no bringing back the past. Too much water had passed under the bridge. Christopher had probably not forgotten or forgiven the daughter of a man his father hired, used, and fired. And that was her fault. She had left him, had refused to answer his letters, not vice versa.
She had been only thirteen, after all, and needed desperately to blame someone. She had blamed him—herself, too. She and Christopher had chalked up too much happiness, and her father was the forfeit. Years later, of course, she realized the extent to which big business and politics were linked—business and politics concerning gold and Vincent Van Hoon’s desire to control it—neither of which had anything to do with two adolescents enjoying each other’s company. By then, though, it was too late to go back. It was too late to go back now.
“Koeksisters,” Christopher said, startling her out of her reverie. Most of the dishes were cleared. She looked at him, embarrassed and confused.
“Are you all right?” he asked, sounding and looking genuinely concerned. Perhaps he was afraid she was suffering a delayed reaction from heatstroke.
“I’m fine,” she said. It was a lie. She wasn’t fine. She was hoarding memories as if they were priceless treasures. But revealing them to Christopher risked exposing them as nothing more than cheap imitations. “You were saying something about your sisters.” He didn’t have sisters. She knew that. She knew all about him. He neither knew nor cared about her.
“Koeksisters,” he repeated, watching her more closely. “It translates ‘cake sisters,’” he said, no doubt encouraged by the focusing of her eyes. “Braided dough, deep fried, and then chilled in syrup of water, sugar, cream of tartar, ginger, cinnamon and glycerine.”
“Oh?” She laughed, picking up her fork and stabbing the pastry with apparent relish. “Delicious!”
They were served a chilled South African Riesling from a vineyard outside of Stellenbosch.
“South African wines were at their best in the nineteenth century,” Christopher said. “They enjoyed a vogue in England and France that no other non-European wines have matched, not even your superb American vintages. However, something happened to that quality that has wine experts guessing—rather like Falernian, the most celebrated of ancient Roman wines. Praised by Pliny and Horace as being ‘immortal,’ Falernian was uncorked to rave reviews for centuries. Today, those same hillsides are yielding wine that, while good, is by no means extraordinary and definitely not immortal.” He pushed back his chair, and Ashanti appeared to assist Janet with hers. “But I promised you more than supper and wine trivia didn’t I?” Christopher said. He started to take her arm, disappointing her, perversely, when he didn’t follow through.
They walked through several rooms, each emphasizing the house’s largeness. The Van Hoons had come a long way since Petre Van Hoon arrived from the Netherlands with his few personal possessions. The founder of the Van Hoon dynasty had lived in a mud shelter like the local natives. This house, with its silk-covered walls, gilded cornices, antique furniture and crystal chandeliers completely overshadowed those humbler beginnings, the opulence further widening the gap between Janet and Christopher. These Chinese porcelains, Japanese bronzes, Persian rugs, and Louis Quinze pieces could attract the wealthiest and most beautiful of women.
The Ivory Room was in the basement, reached by a curving flight of stairs behind a Gobelin tapestry. The narrowness of the stairs brought Janet and Christopher into constant contact, but neither made the move to descend single file. Janet reached the bottom feeling breathless, and not just because of the exercise.
“It’s only a bit farther,” he said. His smile flashed white in the dim lighting. It was a perfect spot for him to take advantage, but he didn’t. Janet was disappointed, since she had decided how to handle it: not with fighting but with a bored acceptance—up to a point.
They