A Southern Star (26 page)

“Can I...” Christie sank into a chair without waiting for an answer, reached for the sheaf of mock-ups.
 

Blake took the pans off the stove, moved towards the table. “I used your points for the design brief, told them what you’d said, what I wanted to focus on. I’m hoping they’ll be ready to go for the next harvest.”
 

Christie didn’t answer, focusing on the designs, discarding one completely, looking at the next two with interest. The designer had used a simple, bold colour scheme, modernised the lettering while emphasising the region and the variety. The second design introduced a third colour; had a different lettering. In both designs the extra information on the old label— which Christie had told Blake forthrightly only cluttered the label—had been removed. Matching mock-ups had been prepared of the label for the back of the bottle.

“This one is great, Blake,” Christie said, pointing to the design using three colours, forgetting everything but her enthusiasm for design. “Except you need to ask them to shift the name of the winery down slightly towards the logo, and the variety of wine up. Centre it more,” she explained. “So that the logo is really prominent when the label curves around the bottle. And get them to change the shade of the accent colour.” Suddenly remembering herself she looked up, blushing. “But it’s up to you, of course. And your partners.”

“What do you mean about the accent colour?” Blake asked, his voice serious.
 

“This colour here—” Christie pointed to a golden hue, “—it’s too dull, or it will be, when it’s printed on an actual label, even though it looks quite bright now. The colours look different on different papers or labels, and that colour always comes out dull. They’ll go through all that with you.” She grinned at him. “In the next stage you’ll see the design on the actual label and then you’ll see what I mean. You need to ask them to make it brighter, choose a different shade of that golden colour.”

“How much brighter?” Blake asked, feeling his way, taken aback at Christie’s complete absorption in the designs, her confidence and utter certainty. Christie frowned, trying to explain what she envisaged, unconsciously displaying her artistic view of the world. “Like the leaves in autumn, when they first change colour. A bronze or golden colour. Or—” she paused as inspiration struck her, “—the colour of Scott’s dog, that unusual coppery colour. That would look really good.”

Blake struggled for composure as Christie mentioned the autumn leaves, thinking of the call he had made this afternoon, the message he had left.
Patience,
he told himself.
All I can do is wait. I’ve done all I can…The changing leaves of autumn, a woman’s voice, full of love, talking about the changing of the seasons, the soft rushing sound of the Arrow River as she held his hand.
Blake barely heard Christie’s comment about Scott as memories washed over him. Christie looked up, saw the agonised look in Blake’s eyes, frowned, fed up with him constantly overreacting to anything she said about Scott.

“I only mentioned Scott because his dog is the exact colour you should ask the designer for,” she began hotly, determined to have it out with Blake once and for all.
 

“Of course,” Blake said distantly, seeming preoccupied. “Anyway, dinner’s ready.” Startled at his abrupt change of subject, his unwillingness to be baited, Christie hurriedly set out cutlery, shuffled the designs back into order, strangely put out by Blake’s sudden change in mood.

— # —

“Rebecca is threatening to take over,” Blake said as he carried both plates to the table, poured more juice in Christie’s glass. He had not mentioned the wine labels again while dishing out the meals, had unobtrusively removed the papers from the table without a word.

“Take over what?” Christie asked, still unsettled, not missing the edge in Blake’s voice, wondering to herself whether a brother and sister could be more different.

“My house,” he continued. “I just want something simple. Like this cottage. All I need.”
 

Christie nodded, looking around at the rich colours of the wooden floor, the beams across the ceiling, the open fireplace. “Well, if you want to do that, why not?” Christie said,
 

not wanting to criticise Rebecca, conscious that Blake knew Rebecca’s comments had upset her. Christie was pleased to see that whatever had upset Blake when she was talking about the labels had obviously resolved itself; he was back to his usual slightly teasing, sardonic self.

Blake smiled at her now, leaning back in his chair. “You make it sound easy,” he said.

“It is,” she said, matter-of-factly, some of her old confidence returning, her voice animated, enthusiastic.
 

“Rebecca can be bossy though,” he commented.
 

“What a coincidence,” Christie said with mock surprise. “I know someone like that too.”
 

Blake grinned at her briefly, continuing to talk about his ideas. He moved the cutlery on his plate as he spoke. “I’ve seen a couple of things I like. Things Rebecca would approve of.” Christie realised he would be able to choose custom-made things for his home; a slight blush washed over her face as she thought of his tactful comments the day before, always conscious of her budget, supporting her choices. “But then I’ve seen some other stuff—”

“That she wouldn’t,” Christie finished, unable to resist, meeting Blake’s laughing gaze, a smile playing on her face. She watched him, longing trickling through her.
 

“I can see the point of buying a couple of special things if I really like them,” he continued. Christie’s eyes widened slightly as Blake unknowingly repeated her own thoughts while shopping in Dunedin. “But I thought you could help me look around.” He hesitated. “I do want something similar to this cottage,” he repeated. “Not over the top. It wouldn’t be for a few months yet. After the baby is born.”

Christie nodded, suddenly not trusting herself to speak at Blake’s casual reference to shopping together, to the baby’s birth. She glanced at Blake, her surprise showing on her face as he abruptly changed the subject, started talking about his next hunting trip. Blake grinned at her. “Can’t talk about design and colours for too long,” he said flippantly, obviously baiting her.
 

“What happens if you do?” Christie said, struggling not to laugh.
 

“Damage to my reputation as a staunch southern man,” he retorted.

“And how will you ever restore that?” Christie said, shaking her head, continuing the joke.
 

“I’m open to suggestions,” Blake said, his voice suddenly low, intimate, his eyes pinning Christie. She opened her mouth slightly, unable to look away from his piercing gaze, the desire in his eyes. She was shocked at his words, at this change from his casual joking to an unmistakable suggestive undertone that froze her in her chair as she cast around for a reply.

“I’ll let you know if I think of something,” Christie said, only a slight tremor in her voice, desperately trying to maintain her previous light tone. Blake did not reply, frustrated by her refusal to at least flirt, her determination to act like some sort of friend. He realised Christie was talking now, asking about hunting. He answered her questions politely, kept the conversation going as she turned her questions to his work, asking about the trip Mel had mentioned.

Blake found himself talking to Christie in more detail. “It was already on the cards when we took over, but I don’t see the point of building up international markets when we need to sort out the domestic one, build up the reputation of the winery again. And California, it’s another huge pinot noir region so the competition is tough. Still, I’ll probably go, for the contacts if nothing else. See what I can make of it.” Uncomfortably, he thought of Mel’s comment about the date coinciding with the birth of Christie’s baby.

Blake continued talking about the value of the export market compared to domestic sales, mentioning the advantages and disadvantages of each. Fascinated, but at the same time intimidated by the scale of the numbers Blake was mentioning, Christie said little, realising that Blake obviously had a strong grasp of the individual business and the industry, was completely focused on building up the winery.

She was just about to reply to his comment about plans for the harvest when Blake stood up abruptly, reached for her plate, took both over to the sink. Christie noticed he seemed suddenly distant, preoccupied, seemed to be looking at his mobile phone on the bench. “It was a great meal, Blake. Thanks.” Aware her words were minimal in the circumstances, Christie stood up, walked into the kitchen, was taken aback as Blake swung around just as she stepped closer. His face cleared as he saw her standing there.

“I’ll just organise dessert,” he said. “Do you want to eat that in the lounge, put a DVD on?”

“Dessert?” Christie repeated, not knowing what to say, disappointed he had mentioned a DVD.
 

“Yes,” he agreed. “Fruit and ice cream.” An involuntary smile tugged at Christie’s mouth as she recognised the New Zealand staple from her childhood. She glanced up at Blake, could tell from his face he knew what she was thinking.
 

“I hope it’s canned fruit,” she said flippantly. “It has to be canned.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. “Just this once. Besides,” he added teasingly, “you’re almost in Central Otago now. We don’t have
canned
fruit here. That’s for Aucklanders.”

“I was born in Tauranga,” Christie said softly.

“Still the North Island though,” Blake continued to tease her. “Go and sort out a DVD,” he said, again, giving her a gentle push out of the kitchen. Christie moved into the lounge without another word, still feeling the light touch of Blake’s hand on her back. Wanting to distract herself she walked over to the TV cabinet, smiled as she saw the hunting DVDs and action films. Finding one she thought she could sit through she picked up the case.
 

“Or put the TV on,” Blake said as he walked into the lounge. “There’s the movie channel, the guide’s on the coffee table. Unless there’s something…” He had automatically suggested a DVD, needing a distraction, something to underscore the casual nature of the evening. He glanced at the stereo, looked quickly back at Christie.

Christie made a snap decision, replaced the DVD, turned to Blake. “Could we just put the stereo on?” she said softly.
 

Shocked, he inclined his head, put the dessert plates on the coffee table. “Does that mean you don’t want to watch a hunting DVD?” he asked, smiling.
 

Christie blushed, sure Blake had guessed how she felt, noticed the increasingly overwhelming attraction she felt for him.
Like I have anything to offer
, she thought to herself ruefully, conscious of her advanced pregnancy, her previous doubts playing through her mind, locking away the memory of the previous night. Deliberately, she took the single seat, leaving the oversized couch for Blake, noticing the flash of emotion on his face as he stepped back from the stereo, handed her the plate of dessert.

Christie realised the apricots were preserved, their syrupy sweetness confirming they were homemade, the rich vanilla ice cream obviously a premium New Zealand brand. Sudden tears came to her eyes as she realised how much thought Blake had put into the meal, the effort he had gone to. “This isn’t just fruit and ice cream,” she said shakily. “This whole meal…” She struggled for composure, tried to make a joke. “Does a true southern man do preserving as well?”

“No,” Blake said, watching her reaction. “But his mother does.” He felt a pang of guilt as he said the words. Christie fell silent, enjoying the sweetness of the fruit, the creamy ice cream. The meal had been delicious; Christie started to genuinely relax, finally able to shrug off Paul’s angry call, pleased she had spoken her mind instead of breaking down in tears. She realised how much she had needed to have an evening like this.
With a friend
, she told herself desperately,
just cooking dinner at home, talking, no fashionable restaurants or loud nightclubs.

Unbidden, an image of Paul came into Christie’s mind as she recalled his pretentious attitude, his shallowness. She doubted Paul would ever have arranged an evening like this, in fact, could not recall him having done so. His answer would have been to take her out to a restaurant, invite friends or colleagues over for drinks.
Or leave me at home while he went to a work meeting,
she thought silently, recalling how career focused he—they—had been.

She thought back to the afternoon, realised that if Paul had needed to miss a meeting because she was unwell he would have complained, somehow made her feel like it was her fault.
Blake just did it,
she acknowledged.

“How is the baby tonight?” Blake said suddenly, surprising her by mentioning the baby.
 

“Fine,” Christie said, smiling.
 

“Really?” Blake asked. “Or is that the same reply as when the doctor asked you how you felt about being pregnant?”
 

Taken aback by his directness, Christie averted her eyes, wondering how to reply. “Blake, I feel so much better. I was just feeling the heat today and the baby’s heartbeat went up slightly.” She shrugged. “And then I got worried. But we’re both fine.”

He seemed unconvinced, kept asking her about the doctor’s consultation. Christie tried to joke about it. “I would have thought you heard far more than you ever needed to know about my pregnancy today at the hospital. What else is there?” She hoped Blake would leave the subject; did not want to endlessly discuss her pregnancy, wanting only to appear independent, self-reliant, ignoring the part of her that wanted desperately to confide in Blake, talk about how she was feeling.