a round of pineapple were grilling she washed a few leaves of lettuce, added fresh herbs and a squeeze of lemon juice, and wondered what her neighbour was having for dinner.
Maybe she should invite him for a meal. It would be a neighbourly thing to do; her grandmother would have done it, first thing.
But he wasn’t interested in socialising. No doubt he’d chosen to lease the house because of its relative isolation. He liked his own company, did Jas Tratherne.
That probably wasn’t quite true. He didn’t relish the company of other people, but he didn’t seem particularly comfortable with himself either.
The store at Apiata doubled as service station and postal centre. On Friday, as well as groceries Blythe bought diesel for the generator that provided her electricity. The storekeeper handed over her mail and said, ‘There’s a parcel here for Mr Tratherne. In the old Delaney place, isn’t he? Came in and said he might be getting mail here.’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘Doesn’t seem to have a phone. I don’t s’pose you’d like to deliver it to him? It’s sat here a couple of days already, and the weekend’s coming up.’
Blythe hesitated, although if it had been for anyone else along her route home she’d have agreed instantly. ‘Yes, all right.’
When the storekeeper lugged it out for her and slid it into the back of the van she saw why he was anxious to get rid of the parcel. It was a large carton and obviously not light.
She drove back to Tahawai and stopped in front of the Delaney house. Long ago there had been a fence, but now only a couple of weathered grey corner posts indicated the boundary of the section, and another bearing a single rusted hinge was all that was left of the gateway.
Through the bare window on the left of the door, she saw a big table with a row of books and a neat stack of papers on it, and what looked like a portable computer. The office-type chair behind it was empty.
The front door was ajar, and music poured out of the narrow space, surrounding her as she lifted her hand to knock.
She paused and dropped her hand, hypnotised by the rich, mellow sounds.
But if Jas Tratherne found her loitering on his doorstep he’d have cause to wonder if he’d been right about her listening at keyholes.
She rapped quite hard with her knuckles, and the door swung open onto the broad passageway. To her left the room with the desk looked otherwise empty except for a shelving unit along one wall, filled with folders and more books, and to her right, through another open door, she saw Jas Tratherne seated with his back to her at an electronic keyboard.
He lifted his hands from the keys and twisted round, his eyes meeting hers before he stood up, his face darkly flushing—with anger? she wondered. Or embarrassment?
He strode towards her across the bare floorboards into the passageway.
Blythe said the first thing that came into her head. ‘It wasn’t a recording.’
‘No.’ He stood facing her, his hand on the door as if he contemplated shutting it in her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, not sure what she was apologising for. ‘You play wonderfully,’ she told him, driven by her surprise and genuine admiration. ‘I don’t mean to interrupt.’
He didn’t bother to deny it. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘It’s what I can do for you,’ she said, stung by this unfriendly reception. ‘I have a parcel for you.’
His brows drew together. ‘More biscuits?’
‘I brought you a postal parcel from Apiata.’
‘Do you moonlight as a postal employee?’
‘I happened to be collecting my mail and Doug asked if I’d drop it off on my way home.’
‘Surely that’s against regulations.’
‘Very likely, but the locals have a habit of ignoring city-made regulations that don’t fit country circumstances. If you don’t want it, of course I could always take it back, but I’m probably not going there again until some time next week.’
Her voice had a decided edge, and her eyes no doubt were sparkling with a rare flash of temper. She was doing the man a favour, for heaven’s sake, and he wasn’t showing much appreciation.
He must have realised it too. ‘I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I guess I’m not used to “country circumstances”. Where is the parcel?’
‘In the van. I’ll help you get it out.’
He looked down at her, making her conscious that her head was barely level with his shoulder. A faint twitch urged the corner of his mouth upward. ‘It’s that big?’
‘That heavy.’
She led the way and opened the back of the van. But when she put a hand on the box he said, ‘Leave it to me,’ and lifted it into his arms.
She closed the door, and by the time she’d gone to the driver’s side he had reached the steps and bent to put the box on the veranda, giving it a shove across the boards before turning to her. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll be glad to have them.’
‘Them?’
‘Books.’ A movement of his head indicated the box.
‘Oh…books!’ Blythe knew how heavy books could be. She put a hand on the open door of the van.
‘I never thanked you properly for the biscuits,’ he said. Maybe he felt the need to proffer an olive branch after his suspicious reception. ‘Home-made.’
It wasn’t a question really, but she said, ‘Yes. I hope you liked them.’
‘They were delicious.’
Signs of a thaw, Blythe noted with relief. ‘My parents are coming for lunch on Sunday,’ she said impulsively. ‘You could join us if you like.’
As she’d expected, he shook his head. ‘Thanks, I won’t intrude on a family lunch…’
She couldn’t help a small grin. ‘Actually you’re the reason they decided to come—or my mother did.’
‘I am?’
‘I mentioned you’d moved in and…well, you know, it’s pretty isolated here. They worry about me.’
‘Understandably.’
He flicked another glance over her and she fought an urge to draw herself up to her full but hardly substantial height. ‘I told them there’s no need.’
‘But they want to inspect your new neighbour?’
‘It’s all right,’ Blythe said. ‘I’ll say you’re too busy to make lunch, and if they suggest a friendly welcoming visit I promise to head them off at the pass.’
He seemed to be thinking that over. ‘If they’re concerned about their daughter’s safety I’d better meet them,’ he said astonishingly, ‘and put their minds at rest. I’ll come to lunch.’
‘I’VE invited the neighbour,’ Blythe told her parents when they arrived. ‘He’s coming over.’
‘Not such a recluse, then.’ Rose, a petite woman who had passed on her dark eyes and soft feminine mouth to her daughter, was unpacking a bacon and egg pie and fresh bread, cheese muffins and a chocolate cake.
‘He’s a very private person,’ Blythe said anxiously. ‘Don’t give him the third degree, okay?’
Her