a saint!” said Bronte, giving him a little salute before disappearing down the hallway. “Saint Stephen. I can’t remember what happened to him.”
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT did you think of Steven?” Gilly asked, looking with the greatest interest into Bronte’s face.
“What was I supposed to think of him?” Bronte parried, deadpan.
“Tell me, you little tease!” Gilly seized her hand. They were sitting in the kitchen over a cup of coffee. Gilly had only been home ten minutes, most of the conversation taken up with Gilly’s visit to the eye specialist. The problem could not be cured but thank goodness it was manageable. “Not as nice as mine!” Gilly sniffed critically at the rich fragrant brew beneath her slightly hooked nose.
Bronte had to laugh. “Which says a lot for your cast-iron stomach. Actually they’re very good Italian beans. I put them through the grinder.”
“I expect Steven was thinking of you,” Gilly said, quite fondly for a woman usually incapable of finding a good word for a man. “I must have told him you didn’t like your coffee as full bodied as my home grown roast. He’s nothing if not thoughtful.”
Bronte set down her near empty cup, with a feeling of astonishment. She stared into Gilly’s much loved face. It was seamed, the skin tanned to the texture of soft leather, stretched tight over the prominent cheek bones. Gilly’s eyebrows were still pitch-black making a piquant contrast to the abundant snow-white hair she had always worn in a thick loose bun. It was a very much out of the ordinary face, Bronte decided. “In love with him, are you?” she jibed.
Gilly responded with an unexpected sigh. “I’m ever so slowly realizing I could have wasted my life, Bronte, girl. Just because I burnt my fingers once, I shouldn’t have let it put me off men for good.”
“Gosh I thought you loved being a recluse,” Bronte looked at her great-aunt with as much surprise as if she had just expressed regret at not reaching the summit of Everest. “Why, you’re famous around here.”
“And I deserve to be. Every bit!” Gilly harrumphed. “Didn’t I clear up Hetty Bannister’s terrible leg ulcers when her doctor couldn’t? I’ve cured dozens of cases of psoriasis, eczema, rosacea, you name it, over the years. I’ve got a home remedy for everything.” Gilly leaned down to whack a mosquito that had the temerity to land on her ankle. “I hope you’re not interested in becoming a recluse yourself?”
Bronte grimaced. “I might have to, seeing I dumped the love of my life a week from the altar.”
“You’re not regretting it, are you, lovie?” Gilly’s black eyes sharpened over Bronte’s face. She was wearing new lenses in her old spectacle frames. Now she re-adjusted them on her nose.
“I’m regretting I was nuts enough to get mixed up with him in the first place,” Bronte confessed.
Gilly looked at her great-niece with loving sympathy. “That was your mother pushing you every step of the way. It was a wonder you didn’t have a breakdown. You always end up trying to please her.”
“She is my mother,” Bronte put her elbows on the table, resting her face in her hands. “You’re my fairy godmother. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Gilly. You’re my haven.”
“You bet your life I am!” Gilly frowned ferociously. “It’s not as though you were going to marry Prince Charming anyway. You can’t be too upset about it?”
“Gilly, I’ve had hell,” Bronte said simply. “I vow here and now I can’t go through it again. I’ve had to listen to Miranda’s rages—” Miranda had long since banned the word Mum “—then Carl’s, sometimes both together. It was like the start of World War III. A woman is a fool to marry for love, Miranda told me. A woman should marry for security.”
“And wasn’t she just the girl to arrange it. Though they do use the two words together,” Gilly attempted to be fair. “Marriage. Security. I think you were very brave getting out in time. The suicide rate is high enough!”
“You were telling me the truth about your eyes?” Bronte changed the subject to one of more pressing interest to her. She was sick to death of her own traumas.
“’Course I was,” Gilly said, sitting so upright her back was straight as a crowbar. “Routine pressure check for glaucoma. No sign of it. Glaucoma is hereditary anyway and there’s no family history as far as I know. I get a few flashing lights in my right eye, but nothing to worry about. Like I told you it’s manageable. I’ll see him every six months. All in all I’m a fit old girl with a strong constitution. The sort of person who lives to be one hundred, not that I want to last that long, the only way to go is down. Why don’t we take a stroll before sunset. Steven has worked wonders. I’m darn happy with that young man.”
“So I see!” Bronte despised herself for feeling jealous. “Surely he couldn’t have done it all for nothing? It would have been a very big job. He told me he had workers?”
“They’re from the croc farm,” Gilly announced casually over her shoulder, leading the way out onto the verandah.
“Croc farm? Croc farm!” Bronte shuddered. “What are you saying, Gilly? He doesn’t have a croc farm, does he?”
“It was a real smart business move if you ask me,” Gilly said, stomping down the short flight of steps. “The tourists love the crocs and the reptiles, especially the Japanese. Our world famous crocodile man is moving his whole operation closer to Brisbane. Chika Moran has been doing very nicely for years with Wildwood but he lost a partner as you know.”
“To a crocodile, I believe.”
“I guess he prodded that old croc one time too many,” Gilly said. “Anyway Steven’s not in on that side of it.”
“Thank goodness!” Bronte put a hand over her breast. Used to the sight of crocodiles for years of her life they still frightened the living daylights out of her.
“Steven will handle the business side,” Gilly said, waving a scented gardenia beneath her nose. “He knows all about environmental issues, and he’s good with people.”
“What is he, insane?” Bronte asked sarcastically.
“What do you mean, love?” Gilly halted so abruptly, Bronte all but slammed into her. “Steven isn’t about to arm wrestle the crocs, if that’s what you’re worried about. I told you he won’t be involved with that side of the business at all. He and Chika are considering expanding into a kind of zoo. There’s big money in it.”
“Like a few lions and tigers, a giraffe or two?” Bronte suggested in the same sarcastic vein. “Elephants are obligatory. Everyone loves elephants. A rhino would be nice. I believe in Africa rhinos happily consort with crocodiles. There’s a thought! Did you know white rhino is a misnomer. It was originally wide referring to the size of their mouths which are bigger than the black rhino, though who got to measure their lips I can’t imagine. A bit of trivia for you.”
“That’s interesting.” Gilly smiled on her much as she had when Bronte, the great reader, had come up with a piece of unusual information as a child. “Anyway Chika has the land to make the idea of a zoo feasible. His family pioneered the district.”
Bronte slapped a palm to her forehead. “He’s a fast mover, all right!”
Gilly demurred. “Well, he’s a nice bloke, but I always thought Chika was a bit slow.”
“I’m talking about Steven Randolph. Anyone who lost most of their fingers would be a bit slow.”
“Chika admitted what he did was very very stupid,” Gilly pointed out. “It was years ago anyway. Chika has his boys now, big, strapping fellows.”
“Sure. Neither of them over-bright, either. Who’d want to handle man-eating crocodiles for a living?”
“There’s