by Daphne Clair
When she had undressed she picked up her hairbrush from the dressing-table, and glancing in the mirror, noticed that her eyes were very green.
Chameleon eyes, David had called them. Murky green to her, they had fascinated him, because they changed colour with her mood. Pure green when she was angry, dark hazel when she was absorbed, storm-grey—so David had said—when he kissed her.
The locket he had given her gleamed between her breasts, and she touched it lovingly, caressing the intertwined initials on its gold surface. Her eyes turned unnoticed from sea-green to a dark, mysterious grey . as she fingered the skin-warmed trinket.
CHAPTER THREE
Stacey accompanied Alex and Fergus when they attacked the problem of the old apple tree. They had promised to provide her with a suitable branch for her book display, and she wanted to be sure that she got just the right one for it.
Before the work began, she carefully inspected the tree from all angles, the two men waiting patiently for her verdict. Finally she chose one she felt would be suitable, and they promised to remove it intact.
It was the first to be severed, and Alex helped her to lower it gently to the ground so that it remained undamaged, and lifted it away to a safe part of the lawn before they started on the rest of the branches which had to come down.
Stacey stood looking at the severed branch, confirming to herself that it would be just right for her purpose. It was well-shaped and sturdy, although much of the wood was old, and there were buds peeping forth on some of the twigs which would add to the spring atmosphere of the display.
'Will it do?' Alex asked, as he helped Fergus free another branch and pull it down to the ground.
'Mmm, it will be just fine,' she said, strolling over to the tree. 'Can I help?'
'You could use that smaller saw over there'—he nodded to the implement, lying handy—'and trim some of the twigs off so that we can stack the branches more neatly. Later I'll saw them into firewood.'
She watched him swing up into the tree, and point out to Fergus which branch should be next for execution. Then she dragged the branch clear and began sawing as he had instructed. When they had finished, the tree looked considerably smaller and tidier, but still retained enough branches and enough shape to reassure Fergus and Stacey that it would recover. Alex daubed the wounds where they had sawn with paint to seal them from disease and pests, and they all three tidied up the remaining branches and stacked the cut wood neatly behind the garage to serve as firewood, making a bonfire of the scrappy twigs left over.
Mrs Penrose, who had been watching with approval from her back porch, approached the fence and invited them all to come over and have some afternoon tea with her, promising scones and chocolate cake as a reward for their labours.
'That's an offer I can't refuse,' Fergus declared, easily vaulting over the fence. 'Come on, you two! Mrs Penrose makes scones that are out of this world, Alex.'
Stacey glanced down at her jeans and tee-shirt, shrugged and followed her brother with less speed but more elegance, realising that Alex, tucking his shirt back into his own jeans—having discarded it earlier— was waiting to offer assistance. He made no comment when she did without it, merely watching her with what might have been approval before easily swinging over the fence himself.
They stayed for an hour, drinking tea and eating the delicious baking the old lady had prepared for them, and letting her know their appreciation. Mrs Penrose presided like an old-world hostess, serving tea in dainty flowered china cups from a matching teapot that she said her mother had brought out from England as a young woman 'Just after the war—the First World War, that is.'
Fascinated, Stacey longed to ask her about her early days, and her family roots, for both the old lady's parents had come from England; her father had served in the 1914-18 war.
Stacey tried a tentative question, and her interest was rewarded. Mrs Penrose was not only willing to talk about her own childhood and youth, but she had remembered clearly a great deal of what her own parents had passed on to her about theirs, as part of England's well-to-do upper class before the two world wars.
Transported into another world, Stacey listened with fascination, until she realised that the old lady was tiring a little, and remembered that Mrs Penrose liked to have a small nap in the afternoons. It was one reason why she had objected to the overshadowing presence of the apple tree near her bedroom window. Today she had baked, and entertained, and had not had her nap. She was nearly eighty and must be feeling tired.
They made her stay seated while the three of them washed up the dishes, and then she walked out to the garden with them to see them on their way.
'Your roses need priming,' Alex observed as they passed a bed of the thorny beauties. 'Do you have someone to do your gardening for you, Mrs Penrose?'
'My grandson mows and weeds for me,' she told him. 'But he isn't really a gardener. And neither am I, although I like to potter around. My husband planted the roses when he was alive. Since then, I've just cut off what looked dead or too untidy, but I haven't the knowledge to do the job properly.'
'I'll come over and do those roses for you some time this week,' Alex offered. 'You'll find they'll flower much better after a proper pruning programme.'
As they returned to their own side of the fence, Fergus glanced at the branch still lying there on the -ground, and asked, 'How are you planning to get that to the shop, Stacey?'
'Mr Grace has given me a key for the shop. I thought I could run it down there tomorrow in Mum's car. As it's Sunday I should be able to park easily enough near the shop and leave it there ready to work on it on Monday.'
'That's a fairly small car of your mother's,' Alex said. 'I doubt if you'll get it in.'
'Oh, it's only a small branch,' Stacey said confidently. 'I'll manage.'
But her optimism proved ill-founded. On Sunday afternoon she tried to manoeuvre the branch into her mother's Toyota, with little success. Fergus, who drove a Mini himself, grinned and offered to do some surgery to make the branch fit. But Stacey, after studying it, vetoed that idea. It would ruin the shape, she said decisively. She was standing helplessly looking at it, with Fergus watching her between amusement and sympathy, when Alex strolled out of the house.
'Got a problem?' he enquired, taking in the situation at a glance.
Waiting for him to say, 'I told you so,' Stacey almost pouted with frustration.
But he didn't say it. Instead, he said, 'I'll get my keys. It'll fit in my car all right.'
He drove a quite large hatch-back estate car, which was parked on the lawn beside the garage.
'Come on,' he said, returning in a few minutes, and grabbing the branch. 'You'll have to tell me how to get to the shop, Stacey.'
Fergus wandered away to his own car, which he had been in the process of cleaning, and Stacey, following behind Alex protested feebly,
'You don't have to—I can't ask you to—'
He glanced at her -with a slightly irritated air. 'Who's asking?' he said briefly. 'I offered, didn't I?'
'It's very good of you, but really—I can manage --'
'How?'
'Well, I'm sure Mr Grace would help if I --'
'Asked him?' He opened the back of the car and carefully placed the branch on the tray. It fitted perfectly. 'Why should you, when I'm here?' He closed the hatch with some force and turned to face her. 'You should learn to take a favour gracefully, Stacey.' With slightly exaggerated courtesy, he went to the passenger door and held it open for her. 'Can we go? Or do you want to fetch anything from the house first?'
'No. Thank you.' She sat stiffly in the seat and he closed the door on her and walked round to the driver's side. 'As he settled in his seat and buckled the safety belt she glanced at his profile and realised that he was angry. He swung the car out into the drive and on to the road before she managed to say, 'This is very kind of you. I appreciate it.'
He tossed her a distinctly cool glance and said, 'Should we take the motorway?'
He parked right outside the shop and removed the branch while she opened the front door with her key.
'Where?' he asked, as she stood aside to let him in. She had already cleared a space in the window before she left the shop on Friday night, and She showed him. She had a large bucket standing ready, and several blocks of wood to wedge the branch in place.
'Would you mind putting it in for me?' she asked. 'And if you could hold it while I balance it and see it's securely wedged
'Sure.' He did as she asked, and stood patiently while she fiddled with the blocks. When she asked him to let go it rocked a little, and he said, 'Not enough weight at the bottom. You need something heavy.'
'Books?' she suggested, selecting a couple of heavy-looking volumes at random from the shelves. She wrapped them in a paper to protect the covers and tried the effect of adding them to the wood blocks. It didn't seem to make much difference.
'Here, hold this a minute,' said Alex, relinquishing his grasp on the branch.
She did so, and he went out to the car and returned with four bricks in his hands. With those in the bottom of the container the branch at last held firm.
'Thank you very much,' said Stacey. 'Er—do you usually carry bricks in your car?'
He grinned. 'Not always. As it happened, I've been helping a man carry bricks.'
She looked askance and he took pity on her. 'One of the English teachers mentioned he'd bought a load of second-hand bricks to make a patio for his house, and was looking for a trailer he could borrow to carry them. I offered my car instead. A few bricks fell on to the floor, apparently. They're chipped, and I don't suppose he wants them. If he does, I'll see he gets them back when you've finished with them.'
'You seem to make a habit of helping people.'
'Not specially.' He shrugged. 'It didn't cost me anything.'
That was not quite true, she thought, saying nothing.
He was looking around the shop, reading the titles on some of the books. 'Are you in a hurry to get back?' he asked.
'Not specially, why?' she asked, knowing very well. He had the look of an authentic booklover, not surprising considering his profession and his subject. She could almost see his fingers itching to touch some of the volumes that surrounded them.
Would it be all right if I had a look round, do you think?' he asked. 'Some of these look interesting.'
'Go ahead,' she said. 'I can get a start on my display while you browse.'
'Have you decided on a slogan?' he asked idly, making for the section marked 'New Zealand Books'.
'Simply "Springtime Reading",' she told him. 'You and Fergus put me off the idea of being too clever about it.'
He laughed, picking up a book of coffee table dimensions which she recognised as a collection of Polynesian art with captions by an art historian and an anthropologist who had collaborated to produce a much-talked-about volume.
Stacey went into the workroom-cum-staffroom at the rear of the shop and picked up the cardboard scroll she had lettered in odd moments snatched from other duties that week. Dainty pink blossoms intermingled with the bold but romantically curvy lettering done in gold paint.
Returning to the shop, she took a roll of Sellotape and taped the sign to her 'tree' firmly but invisibly. Then she collected a pile of book jackets which she had picked out as suitable, and began to tape them carefully on to suitable-looking parts of the tree.
She wanted one near the very top, and was having trouble holding it at the correct angle and getting the sticky tape to leave her fingers and adhere to the book cover and the branch when Alex glanced up and saw her.
'You hold it and I'll tape it,' he said, coming up behind her.
It took a few minutes, because he had a bit of trouble with the tape too. She was conscious of the warmth of his body as he stood just behind her, and she instinctively arched forward a little, tensing at his closeness.
'That should do it,' he said evenly, at last, and moved back.
Stacey made to do the same, but her locket swung forward from the neck of her shirt, and caught on a twig. She let out a little cry and, trying to save it, almost lost her balance.
Strong hands gripped her waist from behind and steadied her. Then Alex reached up and freed the locket. She thought he held it for an instant afterwards, perhaps just long enough to read the engraved initials. Then he let her go.
'Thank you,' she said, turning to face him.
His eyes were very dark and quite unreadable.
'You always wear that,' he commented.
'Nearly always,' she corrected him.
'You should get a shorter chain.'
'I prefer this one.' She didn't wear it to show it off. She was surprised he had noticed. Then chain was long so that the locket was usually hidden under her clothes.
'Sorry,' he said shortly. 'None of my business, of course.' He moved away and began to run his finger along a line of books before stopping and taking one down from the shelf.
Stacey picked up another book jacket and the Sellotape and returned to her task.
She worked quickly and in silence. Alex seemed absorbed in the books, so she decided she might as well finish the job. She fetched some, display stands, and picked some books from the shelves to group attractively around the tree. Then she slipped outside to see the effect from the street.
Satisfied, she re-entered the shop, to find that Alex had turned from the bookshelves.
'Finished?' he asked.
'Yes. I hadn't expected to finish it today. Thanks for your help.' She went to stand near him, seeing that he had collected a small pile of books in front of him. 'Have you found anything you are interested in?'
'Yes. If I leave these with you, could you arrange for me to buy them when the shop is open?'
'Take them now, if you like. I'll fix an invoice for you and explain to Mr Grace tomorrow. He won't mind.'
'Thank you.'
She took the books from him and found an invoice book. He-had chosen an anthology of New Zealand short stories, two books by Maori authors, and a beautifully illustrated book of Pacific Island legends.
'Shall I make this out to you or the college?' she asked, pen poised.
'The college, I think. I think I can swing it from funds available for the library. But there is one here I would like for myself. Can you invoice this separately?'
It was a book of modern art with coloured prints, not cheap but not of the same value as the one on Pacific art which he had been looking through before.
'Are you interested in art?' Stacey asked as she filled in details.
'As a spectator, yes. I haven't your ability to do the thing.'
'My ability is no great talent,' Stacey said. 'I just dabble because I enjoy it.'
'Don't be silly, Stacey,' he reproved quietly. 'There are few great artists, but a modest talent should be appreciated for what it is, not belittled because it isn't among the handful of geniuses.'
Recognising his sincerity, she was happy to accept the compliment to her small artistic skill, but couldn't resist a dig at his slightly schoolmasterish tone. Folding her hands, she cast her eyes downward and said meekly, 'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. May I go now, sir?'
He gave a smothered laugh, and said, 'It would serve you right if I spanked you for that.'
'Just you try!' she warned him, and saw by his face that she was treading on dangerous ground. Neither of them was serious, but all the same Alex Lines was not a man to resist a challenge.
Hastily she gathered up his books and thrust them into his hands. 'Will they be all right like that, or shall I wrap them?' she asked.
His eyes alight with laughter, he said, 'No, that's fine. If you'll hold them for me in the car.'
He stopped when they were outside the shop and looked in at her window display, st
udying it for some minutes.
'Very nice,' he commented, as he turned to the car.
Stacey thanked him demurely and took the books from him as he opened the door.
Perhaps it wasn't going to be so bad having him around for a while, after all. He really could be very nice when he tried.
CHAPTER FOUR
When they returned to the house, just in time for their evening meal, it was to find Graeme there, looking a trifle put out, although trying not to show it. He greeted Alex with a cool nod, and kissed Stacey. She was faintly startled because he had never kissed her in front of anyone else before.
'I've asked Graeme to stay and eat with us,' her mother said. 'He's been waiting for some time for you to come back.'
'Your brother seemed to think you would be only a short time,' said Graeme. 'We thought it was just a matter of delivering a tree to the shop.'
His tone sounded faintly accusing, and Fergus didn't help the slightly strained atmosphere when he said, grinning a little, 'Got held up, did you?'
'My fault,' Alex said easily. 'I can never resist books. I just had a look round while I was there. Actually I bought some—for the school,' he added, as Graeme glanced pointedly at his empty hands. 'I left them in the car to be taken to the college tomorrow.'
Stacey was suddenly furiously angry. Graeme was acting like a jealous husband, and Alex was simply playing up to him by offering unnecessary explanations. She felt like throwing something at both of them.
'I'm going to wash,' she said shortly. 'My hands are filthy.'
Alex murmured something about feeling the same, and followed her down the passageway. As she made to turn into the bathroom ahead of him, he murmured, 'Your boy-friend's a suspicious type, isn't he?'
Turning flashing eyes to him, she said sharply, 'It's none of your business! And it's none of his business what I do either. He doesn't own me! There was no need for you to make excuses for me, thank you!'
'Thanks for crediting me with such chivalrous impulses,' he said mildly. 'But it was my skin I was thinking of, not yours. He looked about ready to punch me on the nose.'