Summer Seduction. Daphne Clair
he arrived and she opened the door to him, he seemed less aloof, even giving her a smile as he handed over the bottle of wine he carried. She thanked him nicely, smiling back, and he blinked and she saw his eyes darken, become softer. Surprised at the unmistakable tug of attraction, she stared for a moment before stepping back, breaking the tenuous thread as she invited him in. ‘Come and meet my parents.’
He asked them to call him Jas, and shared a beer with her father while he enquired how the traffic had been from Auckland, commented on the weather, and showed interest in the headlines of the Sunday paper the Summerfields had bought. He even admired some of Blythe’s floral arrangements that she’d removed from the table and laid into open boxes ready for sale, studied samples of her work hanging on the walls and, raising his eyes, noted without comment the drying nets with their delicate, rainbow-coloured burden of flowers.
After they were seated around the table Rose asked what he did for a living.
‘Teaching,’ he said. ‘What about you and Brian?’
‘We’re farming,’ Brian Summerfield told him. ‘Out the other side of Auckland, near Wiri. But the land all around is being swallowed up in lifestyle blocks bought by Queen Street farmers—lawyers and accountants farming in their spare time. We’re thinking of selling…’
Rose slipped in a remark about the children not being interested in carrying on the farm after Brian retired, and added, ‘What do your parents do, Jas?’
‘My mother died when I was a teenager. My father’s living in a retirement home now.’
Rose managed to elicit the fact that Jas had come from Wellington before he deftly changed the subject again. He helped with the dishes and even accepted another cup of coffee, on the deck built to take advantage of the afternoon sun and the ocean view. And after a while he took his leave with a gracious thank-you for Blythe and handshakes for her parents.
‘Seems a decent sort of bloke,’ her father said.
‘I’m sure we needn’t worry about him,’ Rose agreed, ‘although he isn’t very forthcoming about himself.’ Looking slyly at Blythe, she added, ‘You didn’t mention he was dishy.’
Blythe laughed. ‘Dad—did you hear that?’
Rose refused to be diverted. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘Personality is more important than looks.’
‘What’s wrong with his personality? He was very pleasant, I thought.’
‘He was trying to impress you today.’ And that was probably not quite fair. He had simply demonstrated ordinary courtesy.
‘Do you think so? Why?’
‘I told him you worry. That’s the only reason he agreed to come to lunch. To…set your minds at rest.’
Brian said, ‘Well, that was good of him.’
‘Sensitive.’ Rose eyed her daughter consideringly.
Blythe cast her a laughing glance, guessing the direction of her mother’s thoughts. Of course Blythe had noticed that her new neighbour was quite a handsome man. And today…
If she was totally honest she found Jas Tratherne surprisingly attractive, and for a moment she’d seen a spark of warmth, of desire, in his eyes, despite his seeming determination to repel boarders.
On Monday she took a load of flowers and notions into Auckland, and looked up an old schoolfriend who after a year overseas had just moved into a mixed flat.
Gina’s flatmates, a pleasant, casually welcoming crew, invited Blythe to eat with them. She stayed late, drank a few glasses of cheap wine and ended up spending the night on the sofa. While everyone was snatching some kind of breakfast-on-the-run next morning, she issued a general invitation to them to visit her.
On Wednesday morning Blythe donned her red sweatshirt over shorts and shirt, piled sacks into the van, and drove down the short distance to the landward side of the saddle. A stormy night and spring tide had left an abundance of seaweed on the high-water line.
Down on the beach she filled a bag with rapidly drying hanks of brown kelp, tied it with rope, and dragged her harvest back over the sand, ignoring the sand flurries that stung her bare legs.
At the slope the bag snagged on a bit of driftwood almost buried in the sand, and she turned backwards to pull it free, tripped on a tuft of pingao grass and sat down hard, letting out an exasperated swear word.
‘What are you doing?’
Jas’s voice came from behind her, and then he was at her side, looking down at her.
She lifted her head and squinted up at him against the capricious wind that worried her hair. He was wearing his track pants and running shoes.
‘Getting fertiliser.’ She tugged again at the bag.
‘Give me that.’ A lean hand took the rope-end from her, and Jas bent and swung the bag to his shoulder.
Blythe said, ‘I can manage—’ Already beginning to dry, the seaweed wasn’t heavy.
‘Sure,’ he said, and went on up the slope.
Given no choice, Blythe followed him.
He stowed the bag in the van and looked at the pile of empty sacks. ‘You’re planning to fill all those?’
‘It’s not hard. Just time-consuming.’
‘Right.’ He picked up the pile. ‘Let’s go.’
She gaped for a moment and then followed him up the slope. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
‘If you really don’t want my help you can say so.’
Blythe shook her head. She was actually dangerously delighted. Not only because it would take half the time to gather the seaweed, but because she liked the way the wind whipped Jas’s hair over his forehead and then smoothed it back, making him look younger. ‘This is nice of you.’
‘I can do with the exercise,’ he told her as they reached the beach again. ‘Besides, I owe you.’
‘Owe me?’
‘For a very nice meal? And biscuits.’
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ she protested. He’d only come to lunch as some sort of favour to her—or to her then unknown parents.
They didn’t talk much. He just filled a bag, working a few yards away from her, and then carried two bags back to the van while she started another.
‘Thank you,’ she said, closing the door on the last of them. ‘I appreciate this.’
‘I’ll come along and help you unload.’
She didn’t argue, allowing him to climb into the passenger seat as she started the engine. He slammed the door and briefly his shoulder touched hers before he raised a hand to smooth back his wind-tousled hair, and stretched his long legs as far as they’d go in the confined cab. He smelled of salt and seaweed, and so, she supposed, must she.
He helped her stack the bulging bags near the compost bins and eyed the petrol-driven machine standing nearby. ‘What’s that?’
‘A mulcher. I’ll put the seaweed through it later and add it to the compost.’
He studied the toolshed, and the huge stainless-steel tank on the rise between the garden area and the cottage, half hidden by leggy kanuka towering above a tangle of smaller native plants. ‘Your water supply?’
‘A holding tank. I’ve got three rain-collecting tanks behind that trellis at the back of the house, and the extra water’s piped down.’
‘That must hold about seven thousand gallons?’
‘Mm-hm. It came from a dairy factory that was closing. I had to get