Shelley agreed. “I’ve been flat out trying to master a few Japanese dishes for my guests.”
“Have you succeeded?” He was deriving a lot of pleasure from watching the swift changes of expression on her mobile face. In the candleglow from the frangipani-ringed lamp her eyes had little flecks of gold suspended in the emerald. Fascinating!
“It’s taken time,” she said. “I’ve certainly mastered sushi rice, but the rice only lasts a day. You can only serve it once. The biggest problem is getting in fresh fish—frozen simply won’t do. Most times I have to make do with canned salmon and crab, but our plentiful beef is the basis for sukiyaki, teriyaki, kushi-age. I’ve even bought special serving ware—bowls, plates, platters. They’re white. Food always looks good on white. Not to mention accessories like omelette pans. Japanese omelettes need a special rectangular pan. I’m good with thin and thick omelettes, and I’m not bad with presentation.”
He smiled at her enthusiasm. “I’ll have to visit some time,” he said, making a decision to do just that. “I seem to recall you had an artistic streak at school. Didn’t Miss Crompton keep all your drawings?”
“She did.” Shelley felt a tingle of pleasure. “Fancy your remembering that. I still have my drawing and my watercolours, whenever I get the time for relaxation. I’m a thwarted botanical artist. You’d be surprised at the remote areas I’ve ventured into when all the wildflowers are out.”
“You sound like you really love what you do.” She looked so happy he wanted to reach over and take her hand. Seemingly so fragile, she sizzled with life.
“Of course. I’m not as certain as Miss Crompton my watercolours are that good, but she seems to think so. She taught me art and its appreciation in the first place. Encouraged me every step of the way. Told me I was way better than she was years ago! She’s been trying to get me to mount an exhibition. She even offered to have it here.” Shelley glanced about the courtyard and into the packed main room. “Imagine my watercolours all over her walls, like a gallery.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.” Brock realized with surprise he was getting a considerable lift out of Shelley’s company, when beautiful, experienced women with languorous eyes had come close to boring him. “I’m quite sure Miss Crompton is an excellent judge.”
Shelley smiled. “That’s what gives me confidence. Harriet has done me such a lot of good. I love painting on silk as well. One of these days I’m going to find my way up to the Daintree. I want to paint the rainforest flora and the butterflies. The brilliant electric blue Ulysses and all the lacewings. Butterflies are so romantic! But, there; you’re making me talk too much.”
“Believe me, I’m enjoying it. Keep going.” The tension had all but drained out of him. He might even see if he couldn’t organise a trip to the Daintree for her some time.
“Stop me at any time,” she advised. “I’ll never run out of things to paint. There’s a whole world of tropical birds, and all the fruits of the rainforest.”
“How are you going to fit all this in?” he mocked.
“Heaven knows! Most times I’m run off my feet.”
“There’s certainly nothing of you.” He controlled his tone, but he could tell just by looking at her she’d be exquisite to make love to. He had a finely honed instinct about such things.
“Don’t be fooled,” she replied. “I’m strong and I eat properly—as you can see. It’s a lot of work, but I really enjoy the tourist parties. I get a huge amount of pleasure out of my work, too. It was a Japanese lady who spent a lot of time showing me how to wield a vegetable knife to make all the beautiful garnishes that adorn Japanese food platters. Now, she was an artist. She could make anything of simple vegetables, flowers, leaves, little ornaments—you name it. Just give her a lemon or a lime, a cucumber, a radish, mushroom, zucchini, baby squash. It was marvellous just to watch her.”
“I expect it took her years to master the technique.”
She nodded. “Getting to know the Japanese and their language has been a real experience. Learning to prepare Japanese food is one good way of entering the culture.”
“So you’re open to all outside influences? Though Australia nowadays is very much part of Asia. You really are the hostess with the mostest!”
“I try to be. We desperately need our paying guests. I’ve been trying to talk one of our aboriginal stockmen, a tribal elder, into taking the guests for bush walks to the Wybourne caves. They’re so careful and appreciative of the fragile environment. So far Dad has kept him busy, but it would take a lot off me.”
“It sounds like you relish a challenge, Shelley?” Brock tilted his wine glass, watching the fine beads rising.
“Especially when the challenge pays off. I suppose it’s far too early for you to formulate any plans—unless you intend to return to Ireland?” She prepared herself to be tremendously disappointed if he said yes.
“My plan is to take over the Kingsley chain.”
At his tone she inhaled deeply. There was such bitterness in his brilliant eyes. “Forgive me, Brock, but is that possible?” she dared ask. “There’s Philip after all.”
“I don’t take partners,” he said, with a very sardonic expression.
Something about him scared her. “Then I’ll pray for you.”
“Do that.” Suddenly he smiled, an illuminating flash like a ray of sunshine through storm clouds. “I may need it. Please don’t look at me with fear in your eyes, Shelley Logan.”
“I’m fearful for you,” she said. “How could your grandfather possibly change?”
He gripped the stem of the wine glass so tightly she though it might shatter. “Maybe he’s discovered he’s got a conscience after all.”
“You believe he means to reinstate you in his will?” She was very aware of the shift in his mood.
He nodded, though his mouth had a sceptical twist. “I’m always troubled by my grandfather’s motives, Shelley. On the face of it he’s told me he wants a reconciliation, but he’s always been the most devious of men. Maybe it’s another cruel joke. Maybe he’s a little mad these days. Pain is tearing his body to pieces. Guilt his mind. He was even talking of going to Ireland to visit my mother’s grave. He’ll never get there.”
“He’s that bad?” Shelley waited quietly for his reply.
“Even if he survived the journey he knows what kind of a reception he’d get from my mother’s people and all the friends we made. He put my mother through dreadful anguish. Though she eventually found peace I’m sure all those terrible years took their toll.”
“He must have loved her once.”
His answer was suave and cutting. “My grandfather knows nothing about love, Shelley.”
“I’m so terribly sorry, Brock. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back when there’s so much turbulence inside you.”
“There was no alternative,” he answered, as though her comment had touched a raw nerve. “Can you see it? The turbulence?”
“I’m
