topaz, beryl,” Luke was saying, his brilliant blue eyes reflective. “That’s what started her off on her career. The Major always encouraged her. Now she’s getting to be a big name.”
“It’s marvellous,” Noni a recipient of several beautiful little pieces, smiled. “Storm is delighted when people fall in love with her work.”
“She’s not happy with guys falling in love with her,” Luke commented dryly. “Two fiancés to date. Neither could get her to the altar.”
“You’re not married, either,” Noni pointed out slyly. “You’re quite a pair!” Personally she thought each had ruined relationships for the other.
As they were speaking Athol McFarlane appeared at the top of the central staircase then came very slowly down towards them. He was leaning very heavily on his stick but Luke and Noni knew better than to go to his assistance. The Major scorned help. He was independent to a fault.
“Well, Luke,” he boomed, and his gaunt face lit up. “Come tell me all about your day. Noni has been fussing for hours lining up all the things you like to eat.”
“She spoils me,” Luke grinned, knowing it was true.
“And you’re worth every bit of it.” The Major nodded his thatched grey head that once had had Storm’s raven sheen. “You’ve been the greatest help to me these past years. Devotion and dedication. Not a lot of men are as capable of it as you, son. You keep bringing your dad to mind. A splendid man. Not that I had any illusions he wouldn’t have wanted to strike out for himself one day. With my blessing, mind, but that was not to be.” Athol McFarlane’s expression grew grave and introspective. “Come along now into the study. You might have to fly over to Kingston at the end of the week. About time to pay them a surprise visit. Noni will let us know when dinner is ready.”
“Will do, Major,” Noni gave a comic little salute and made off for the kitchen, thanking God Luke was around to ease the Major’s pain and loneliness.
Above the fireplace in the Major’s book-and-trophy-lined study hung a painting of Storm. It had been commissioned on the eve of her twenty-first birthday. He found himself looking up at it with a brooding silence. No lavish ball gown for Storm. No deep décolletage that would have shown off her beautiful shoulders and breasts. But the painting, like Storm, compelled attention. She was wearing riding clothes, white silk shirt and close-fitting beige mole-skins, a fancy belt with a heavy silver-and-opal studded buckle she had designed herself around her narrow waist. Her long black hair was blowing free, her head slightly profiled, skin luminous, her almond-shaped eyes the same rich emerald-green as the bandanna that was knotted carelessly around her throat. One beautiful long-fingered hand was on her hip, and the other clasped a white akubra with a wide snakeskin band. How many times had he seen her stand like that? Maybe a thousand. As a background the artist had used the wonderful colourations of the desert; the cloudless cobalt-blue sky, the purple hills, the gleaming gold of the spinifex dotting the red ochre plains. The setting lent the painting a kind of monumentality. The young woman up there looked so vivid, so real he had the sense she could very easily step from the frame.
Into his arms?
And then?
He never saw it without getting an erotic charge. He was under no illusion Storm couldn’t move him powerfully. Nothing easy or relaxed about it. Blinding pleasure and sometimes more than its fair share of sexual hostility.
The Major, observing Luke quietly but intently, took his usual seat waiting for the young man to join him. “Could I ask you something very personal, Luke,” Athol McFarlane queried, meeting that direct sapphire gaze.
“Sure, Major, as long as you leave Storm out of it,” Luke returned deadpan.
McFarlane laughed. “What impresses me most about you two is neither of you can find anyone else while the other’s around.”
Luke, taken by surprise, didn’t answer immediately. “You’re suggesting a love-hate?”
“More often than not it’s Storm waging the war,” McFarlane answered ruefully. “I would have thought she’d be long over it by now.”
“She’ll never be over it,” Luke answered, a mite tightly.
“I can’t accept that,” the Major growled. “I want to see her, Luke.” It came out far more plaintively than he ever intended.
Luke stared across the table, perturbed by the Major’s tone. “What’s up? What’s the matter? I wish you’d confide in me.”
“Nothing to confide,” McFarlane lied. He wanted desperately to tell Luke he was dying but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t even tell Storm. “I’m just feeling tired and old and lonely except for you,” he evaded. “You’re my adopted son, Luke. You know that.”
“If there was anything badly wrong you’d tell me?” There was a serious almost stern expression in Luke’s face.
“Sure I would.” McFarlane tried to lighten that gaze.
“Why don’t I believe that? I’m here to help you, Major.”
The Major responded by grasping Luke’s forearm. “Don’t you think I know that, son? But it’s four months at least since Storm was here.”
Four months, one week and three days. “She leads a full life,” Luke pointed out. “Even I’ve picked up the magazines Noni leaves lying around the place. She’s beautiful, gifted, she has a fine family name. It’s only to be expected she’d get invited everywhere. And she has her work. Her commissions.”
“She could do them here.” The Major’s heavy eyebrows drew together. “I’ve offered many times to convert a couple of rooms into a studio, workshop, whatever she wants. God knows there are enough rooms empty.”
“Have you told her how you feel?” Luke asked.
McFarlane sighed. “Yes.” It wasn’t strictly true. He always played hardy when she rang.
“And she still won’t come?” It was hard to keep the censure out of his voice. Storm had plenty of time for parties and all the social functions.
“Maybe I haven’t asked the right way.” McFarlane dropped his gaze evasively, sighing heavily.
“You must know it’s on account of me.”
“I don’t accept that, Luke.” McFarlane shook his head.
“I think you might have to, Major,” Luke countered knowing the Major had been living with the fiction one day he and Storm would get together. God, could you believe it? “Storm has always seen me as the usurper,” he added with quiet force, opening up his own wounds.
“Rubbish! That’s irrational.” The Major’s protest was overloud.
“Aren’t human beings irrational when their deepest emotions are involved?” Luke held the Major’s gaze until he blinked.
“You’re a man of integrity, Luke,” McFarlane said. “Storm knows that in her deepest being.”
Luke’s expression became sombre as he studied the other man’s gaunt face, thin body and arms. “Would you like me to go to Sydney and fetch her?”
McFarlane
