by Daphne Clair
About to say something sharp, Stacey stopped herself in time, and substituted a murmur of agreement and an assurance that she could do the honours. Her mother's social life was limited, and the club which met once a month was one of the few outings she enjoyed. It would be selfish of Stacey to display any reluctance to take on this small duty for her.
And so, soon after eight o'clock, Stacey was opening the door to Alex Lines with a polite welcoming smile •carefully fixed for his benefit.
His answering smile as he took up her invitation to come inside held a hint of satire, as though he knew she would much rather have slammed the door in his face. If anything, he looked even more formidable than before dressed casually in fawn drill trousers which hugged his hips, and a suede jacket, over a tieless knit shirt.
She apologised for the absence of both her mother and Fergus, and he said politely, 'That's all right. I understood from your mother that she couldn't be here, and I don't expect anyone to alter their plans for my benefit.'
What, never? she wondered, and turned away quickly so that he should not read her face, saying, 'The room is down this way—if you'll follow me?'
It was near the back, but on the sunny side of the house. Stacey opened the door and walked in and he followed her, stopping just inside to look round appraisingly.
'It's rather small,' she said.
'Yes, but quite compact, I see.' The walls were painted a pale eggshell blue, which seemed to make it larger than it was. The divan bed in one corner was covered with a cotton spread of unusual design in a medley of blues. There was an old-fashioned gate-legged table near the window on one wall, and a roomy chest of drawers by the bed. A charming little 'love-seat' just big enough for two was covered in the same material as the bed, and Stacey saw that the big man's lips twitched slightly as his glance passed over it. A straight-backed Windsor chair by the small table was softened by a cushion of the same colour as the deep blue curtains that hung at the long sliding glass doors. They led to a minute concrete terrace outside, sheltered and given privacy by an L-shaped fence of stained timber that was six feet high and softened by plantings of creeper and a few pretty shrubs.
Alex Lines crossed the room and looked out at the terrace, seeing the steps leading down from it and the path through a gate in the fence.
'A private entrance?' he asked.
'Yes. The bathroom is through here,' Stacey said, opening a door and letting him see the spotless green tiles.
He glanced at her speculatively and looked in briefly.
'And the kitchen arrangements are here,' she said composedly, pulling aside a decorative screen that slid out of the way on rollers, to reveal a range of cupboards, a sink and a small stove set into one end of a bench. There was even a refrigerator, let into one of the cupboards under the sink bench.
'Very neat,' he commented. He looked around again, and trod silently across the dark grey carpet to stand on a bright orange sheepskin rug beside the divan. Its colour was echoed by the large painting that hung on the wall—a vibrant, glowing painting of sunflowers and anemones on straight stalks that was now receiving his dedicated attention.
Stacey stood still and silent as he bent slightly to read the small initials in the right-hand corner. 'S C.'
'Yours?' he asked, turning his head to look at her.
'Yes.'
He went back to his study of the painting, then commented, 'Not bad. I rather like it.'
Tempted to give him a sarcastic thanks, she said nothing, and after a moment he turned and stood at the door waiting for her to precede him from the room.
He didn't say whether he wanted to take it or not, and she didn't want to ask. Unwillingly she, offered him a cup of coffee, and was slightly surprised when he not only accepted, but offered to help. She had taken him for the kind of man who took it for granted that women would wait on him because he was male.
Stacey declined the offer, and ushered him into the sitting room while she repaired to the kitchen to make the coffee.
When she served it, she took a chair opposite to his, assiduously stirring sugar into her coffee, and asked him if he thought he was going to enjoy teaching at the local college.
'Yes,' he answered. 'It's going to be quite a challenge. You would know, of course, that a large proportion of the students are Maori or Island Polynesian. For a good many of them English is a second language, not spoken at home. The approach to teaching is—or should be—radically different from methods used to teach English kids, or those of British descent and cultural background.'
'That's what Fergus says,' she told him.
'Yes, I think we'll work well together,' he said. 'Our ideas tend to coincide, I think.' Then he added, 'And what about you? Would you agree with us?'
Stacey looked surprised. 'I'm not a teacher.'
'You're an intelligent woman. Don't you have any ideas on the subject?'
Stacey, who had never thought of herself as particularly intelligent, wondered how he thought he knew.
'Well—Fergus always seems to make sense,' she said. 'I really don't think I'm qualified to judge.'
He put his cup down on its saucer with a little click and stretched his legs out in front of him. 'What are you qualified to judge, then?' he asked. 'Art? Books? You work in a bookshop, don't you?'
'That's right. But that hardly makes me an expert.'
'You mean you just sell them like so many pounds of cheese or butter?'
Not missing the dryness in his tone, she said defensively, 'Of course not. I love books—-I read a lot, myself. I like selling them to people who appreciate them as I do.'
'What sort of books do you read?'
'Almost anything. I enjoy history—both novels and non-fiction. And for light reading I like a "whodunit" now and then. I'm reading a new illustrated history of Polynesia right now, from the shop.'
'Sounds interesting. Do you sell much of that type of thing?'
'Yes, quite a lot. Interest in them has increased in the last few years. Output, too.'
'I must come and browse round some time. Perhaps I can persuade the college to buy some for the school library. It seems to have an over-abundance of Shakespeare, Shaw and British history, and very little that's from the Pacific area.'
She made no comment on that, and he drained his cup and placed it back in its saucer with a small clatter, and looked at her challengingly. 'Will you mind if I call at the shop?'
'Of course not. You'll be very welcome, Mr Lines.'
'No, I won't,' he said shortly. 'Not by you, Miss Coleman. You don't like me.'
She was saved from having to reply to the direct attack by his going on, 'However, don't you think that if we're going to be living in the same house, we might call each other by first names?'
'Yes, of course,' she said. 'Are we going to—I mean, do you want the room?'
He didn't answer immediately. There was a slight smile about his mouth, but it did nothing to soften the hardness, of his eyes as they rested on her.
'I want the room, yes,' he said at last. 'But if you object to my having it, you can tell your mother I said it was charming, but unsuitable.'
Her cheeks faintly flushed, she said, 'It's for my mother to say --'
'No. This is your home, too.' He paused. 'I gather it's not a question of needing the money?'
'Certainly not. I don't think money was mentioned, was it?'
'Actually, no. But naturally I shall pay my way—I presumed that was understood. Even though I realise your mother's offer was made as a generous gesture rather than a business proposition.'
'I shall tell her that you accept, then. When would you like to move in?'
'Would tomorrow suit, do you think?' he said, after a moment.
'I'm sure it will. You can discuss—terms—with my mother.'
'Right—Stacey.' He stood up, depositing his cup on a side table. 'Thank you for the coffee and—everything. I'll see you tomorrow, then.'
She saw him to the door and said goodnight
without using his name.
Her mother was pleased to hear of his acceptance of the room, and Fergus was almost equally enthusiastic. Stacey carefully preserved a cheerful air and simply refrained from mentioning the new boarder except to make noncommittal noises when the other two did so.
He moved in with a minimum of fuss, bringing two suitcases and declining help with unpacking them.
'I don't have many worldly goods,' he told Mrs Coleman at the dinner table afterwards. 'Except for books. There are some boxes of books in storage, which I shall leave until I find a permanent place. The few I have with me now just fill the bookcase above my bed nicely.'
He gave her his attractive smile, and Stacey, politely passing the dish of potatoes to him, caught the tail end of it as he turned to her with a murmur of thanks. Again she felt that flicker of antagonism, and wondered at herself. Usually she got on well with people, and it was unusual for her to take a dislike to any stranger—particularly a friend of her brother. As a family they usually accepted each other's friends easily, and tended to like the same kinds of people.
She frowned down at her plate and attacked her lamb chop with unnecessary force.
'Delicious, Mrs Coleman,' Alex was saying. 'Real mint sauce, too. Home-made?'
'Yes, with mint fresh from the garden,' her mother smiled.
'Great, there's nothing to beat home cooking,' he said.
Stacey, with unusual cynicism, wondered how much he really meant that. She glanced up to find he was looking at her, and he must have seen the thought reflected in her face, because his mouth perceptibly tightened, and she thought a faint flush showed under his tan briefly.
'Are you a cook too, Stacey?' he asked, taking her by surprise.
Hastily swallowing a forkful of meat and potatoes, she felt her eyes watering as she endeavoured not to Choke, and was thankful that , her mother decided to answer for her.
'Stacey's a very good cook, Alex,' she told him. 'We must get her to make you a sponge cake some time. It's her speciality.'
'I'll look forward to it, Stacey.'
He was trying his smile on her now, she saw. But Stacey refused to respond to its charm. 'My mother is a far better cook than I will ever be,' she said. 'She tries to encourage me, however.'
'False modesty!' mocked Fergus, teasing.
'Is that what it is?' Alex asked interestedly,' and Stacey, unable to think of a suitable riposte, glared at her brother, ignored the other man, and busied herself buttering a piece of bread she didn't really want.
The conversation drifted to school affairs and she turned her attention to her plate gladly, getting up to help her mother dish up the dessert when they had finished their first course.
Alex offered to help with the dishes, but Mrs Coleman firmly refused, saying he must be tired after moving in, and that he should sit down in the front room with Fergus, and relax.
'Very well,' he acquiesced. 'But another time I shall insist. You were kind enough to ask me to regard myself as a member of the family, and that means doing my share of chores.'
'But I'm taking board from you!'
'Not more than a token amount, as I well know. Please—I want to be allowed to help sometimes.'
'Isn't he nice?' Mrs Coleman asked Stacey after he had gone to join Fergus. 'He's already offered to help Fergus trim that tree at the back fence—you know the one old Mrs Penrose has been complaining about.'
'The old apple tree that Fergus was supposed to cut back? I'd forgotten about that,' Stacey began to look thoughtful.
Her mother smiled ruefully, 'Mrs Penrose hasn't. She was on to me again about it today. You can't blame the poor old thing. Her bedroom window is close to the fence, and I suppose when the tree is in full leaf, it must block a lot of light from the room.'
'Yes, but I sympathise with Fergus, too. I hate to see trees mutilated or chopped down.'
'Yes, I know that's one of the reasons he's been delaying the job. But we don't need to cut it right down, just remove enough branches to give Mrs Penrose more light. Fergus isn't too sure how to go about it without really damaging the tree, but Alex seemed to know quite a lot about it, and he offered to help. They think they can do it this weekend.'
So Alex was an expert on trees, Stacey thought resignedly. He would be, of course.
'I wonder,' she said aloud, 'if I could rescue one of the branches, when they've finished. I'm looking for one for a book display.'
'Oh?' Her mother looked interested, and Stacey was soon explaining her idea for a spring display.
'What are you going to call it?'
'I don't know yet. I'll have to think of some catchy slogan that's not too corny.'
'Perhaps Alex could help,' Mrs Coleman suggested. 'As an English teacher, he should be good at that sort of thing.'
'Fergus is an English teacher, too,' Stacey reminded her, a little edgily. .
'Yes, but Alex is older and has more experience.'
Stacey didn't answer that.
When they rejoined the two men, Mrs Coleman repeated what Stacey had told her, and Alex and Fergus began to suggest slogans and quotations with more enthusiasm than seriousness.
'In spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to— literature?' Fergus offered.
'Spring-time, the only pretty reading-time?' murmured Alex with rhythm; 'Hope springs eternal in the bookseller's breast?'
'Don't be idiotic!' Stacey laughed at her brother.
'We're trying to help,' said Alex with mock-humility, and she turned to him and saw his dark eyes gleaming with humour. For an instant, she smiled back at him, her grey-green ones reflecting shared laughter. A shock of surprise washed over her, and just for a moment she knew she could like this man, after all.
Then the door bell rang, and the moment passed.
It was Graeme, suggesting she might like to go for a drive. It was a mild night, and not yet dark. He would bring her home early.
She brought him in and introduced him to Alex, and left him while she went to fetch a jacket.
'What's he like—your brother's new boss?' asked Graeme as he turned the car on to the road.
'Fergus likes him,' she answered.
'Do you?'
'I don't really know him well enough to say.'
'Your mother seems to have taken quite a fancy to him. I've always thought she was a rather shy person, but I could see she was quite at home with him already. She told me he's actually boarding with you.'
'Yes, that was my mother's idea. She took pity on him because he's been staying in a motel. It's only a temporary arrangement, though, until he finds something larger and more convenient.'
'I see.'
Graeme lapsed into silence, and seemed preoccupied for several minutes. When he spoke again it was about something entirely different.
They drove to Mission Bay, a popular city beach, not deserted even at night, for there were very pretty views of the harbour and its graceful arching bridge, with its lights reflected in the water, and the grassy reserve behind the beach featured a spectacular floodlit fountain with coloured lighting.
Stacey let Graeme take her hand and draw her with him for a short stroll along the sand, and then they crossed the road, leaving the beach behind, and found a small coffee bar where they lingered over cups of coffee accompanied by pizza pie.
It was a nice, restful evening, and when he took her home and kissed her goodnight she thanked him warmly and with sincerity before letting herself into the house.
The sitting room was in darkness, but her mother was reading in bed, and called to her as she passed the door of her bedroom.
'Have a nice drive, darling?' she asked, as Stacey entered the room.
'Yes, lovely and restful, thanks.'
'Would you do something for me, Stacey? I forgot to put soap in Alex's bathroom. Would you get a fresh cake from the cupboard—you know where it's kepi;— and take it to him. Make sure he has everything he needs.'
'Couldn't Fergus --?'
'He went to be
d much earlier. Alex and I have been talking. He's a very interesting person, isn't he?'
Fortunately she seemed to require no answer to this, but urged Stacey once again to find the soap and deliver it.
'All right,' Stacey said with as good a grace as she could manage.
She tossed her jacket on to her own bed as she passed her room, and went on to find the soap, and to tap on Alex's door. There was light showing underneath it, so she did not have the excuse that he might already be in bed.
She heard movement, and the door opened. He must have been Undressing, because his shirt was wide open, and she found herself staring at an expanse of tanned male chest, with a vee of slightly curling but not thick dark hair in the middle of it.
It 'seemed very close, and she hastily raised her eyes to his face, to find him looking at her with the same speculative amusement she had seen the first time they met. His gaze lingered on her mouth, and she knew with sudden certainty that he was wondering if Graeme had kissed her—or confirming a guess.
'I brought you some soap,' she said quickly, holding it out to him.
'Nice of you,' he smiled, taking it from her. 'It's not a hint, I hope?'
'My mother asked me to give it to you. She forgot to put some in your bathroom.'
'I see. Thanks.'
'Have you—everything you want?' she asked, and as the' quick laughter leaped into his eyes, wished she had framed the question differently.
'What are you offering?' he asked gravely, but his eyes still laughed at her.
'My mother,' she said icily, 'asked me to make sure you were comfortable.'
'Sorry.' But his eyes were still unrepentant. 'I'm very comfortable, thank you.'
'Well,' Stacey stepped back: 'Goodnight, then.'
'Goodnight—Stacey.'
She walked away. The door to her room was open, and as she reached it she looked back, because she hadn't heard him close his door.
He was still there, leaning against the door frame, and watching her.
