Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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no deviousness in her. Too many people he knew played both ends against the middle, and were shifty, even double-dealing, and some even ended up being treacherous.
Now, as he watched her moving swiftly around the kitchen, preparing the soup for them, he couldn’t help thinking that she moved fluidly and rhythmically, with the lightness and grace of a dancer. Before he could stop himself he blurted out, ‘You must be a dancer, M, the way you move.’
M swung to face him, a smile lighting up her dark eyes. ‘I am a dancer, Dax, but not a professional one. I took a few lessons when I was little, and then got more interested in sports. But I do think I have the spirit and soul of a dancer … I just love it. I prefer dancing to exercising, and running ruins the hips, so I dance all the time. When I’m alone.’
She turned back to the counter top, began pouring cartons of College Inn chicken broth into a large pot, adding chicken, carrots, potatoes, onions and parsnips that she had prepared, then reached for the jar of herbs of Provence and threw a handful into the soup along with some bay leaves. ‘There, that should do it,’ she murmured, turning on the gas. ‘All I have to do now is chop a few sticks of celery,’ and she reached for this, cutting off the leaves as well as the hard nut at the other end.
‘There seems to be no limit to your talents,’ Dax said, still watching her. ‘It strikes me that you’re a good cook; certainly you look as if you know what you’re doing.’
Her cheeky grin flashed. ‘I know how to cook a few dishes but I don’t have a huge repertoire. I can almost prepare this chicken-in-the-pot with my eyes closed, and I’m even better at it since I came to New York. I always make it on Friday evening, and it lasts me all weekend.’
‘You are practical, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ she agreed, and threw the celery into the pot. ‘Do you cook?’
‘Not me, no,’ he said, and sat back in the chair, sipping the second mug of scalding hot tea she had pressed on him a short while ago.
His light grey eyes rested on her as she cleaned the counter tops, put the lid on the pot, lowered the gas, carried dirty items over to the sink. She intrigued him, and also mystified him sometimes.
Leaning against the sink, the wet sponge in her hand, M said, ‘What does Dax stand for? It’s unusual.’
‘Derek Alan Kenneth Small. That’s what it is. Ugh!’ He made a face, and explained, ‘At school the kids called me Daks, because I told them to, and when I got older and went to college, I changed the spelling. I thought Dax was more … sophisticated.’ He grinned. ‘Are we all dumb at times?’
‘I guess so. But you know, I like it. Dax, I mean. It sort of suits you, and your personality. Not to mention your blond good looks. Matinee idol looks, I might add.’
‘My mother always told me I resembled Leslie Howard.’ Placing the mug on the table he murmured, ‘If you know who he was?’
‘Do you think I’m an ignoramus, for heaven’s sake! Of course I know who he was. He played Ashley Wilkes in Gone with the Wind. And guess what, since I’m Marie Marsden, they called me M and M at school. How about that?’
Dax chuckled, and then stood up. ‘I think my clothes must be dry by now. I’d better go and get dressed. See you in a minute.’
In Dax’s absence, M set the table for supper, checked the chicken, tasted the broth, added a few extra shakes of pepper and lowered the heat under the pot. Then she went out into the little entrance foyer and down the corridor that led to Geo’s studio at the back of the old brownstone.
On the phone earlier, Geo had asked her to check that all the blinds were pulled down and also to make sure that the air conditioner was on low. When M walked into the vaulted studio she saw that the room was properly shaded and cool: the paintings stacked here and there against the walls were well protected from the daylight. She glanced at the thermostat on the wall; Geo had turned it to low earlier, but perhaps she had forgotten.
Moving forward, M stood in the centre of the floor for a moment, thinking what a perfect studio this was. There were three windows, all of them large; a skylight had been installed at one end, where a portion of the room jutted out into the back yard. No wonder Geo loved this place so much and painted so well in here. M had been captivated by Geo’s paintings when she’d first seen them, and she admired her talent. Geo had an uncanny way of capturing light on canvas and in a way only a few artists could.
M thought suddenly of an extraordinary painting, which she knew intimately since it was a family heirloom. It was a breathtaking picture by J. M. W. Turner, the great artist, who flourished in the first half of the nineteenth century. His forte had been capturing light on canvas, and nobody had ever excelled this master, and perhaps no one ever would.
M unlocked the back door, and stepped out into the yard. There was a wrought-iron seat, two chairs and a small table on the tiny flagged patio, and, beyond, a minuscule lawn and some flowering shrubs. M took a deep breath, sniffed the air. Earlier the rain had stopped and it had cooled off; the stifling heat of the afternoon was thankfully diminished. Returning to the patio, she sat down on the wrought-iron seat, thinking that this tiny verdant patch in the middle of Manhattan was like a miniature oasis that truly pleased the senses.
A moment later, a rush of sadness engulfed her as she thought of her mother’s garden in England. Closing her eyes, she saw it in her mind’s eye; saw all of its wondrous glory, walked along its winding paths. And for a few moments she was transported back to her favourite place on this earth, the place that was always in her heart, would always be embedded there, the place where she had been her happiest. Go back home, go back straight away, a small voice whispered at the back of her head. You’ve nothing to fear.
A second later M heard the sound of Dax’s feet clattering across the terracotta floor of the studio. She roused herself from her reverie and brushed a hand over her eyes, blinking back unanticipated tears that momentarily blinded her.
Dax did not appear to notice anything amiss as he came to a halt in front of her and said, ‘My clothes were dry, and I had a quick shower in Geo’s bathroom before I got dressed. I feel much better, as good as new, and my cold seems to have gone.’
‘I hope so,’ M answered, wondering whether he ought to be using Geo’s shower, and then decided she must clean it later. She didn’t want to go into a lot of explanations about Dax’s presence here this afternoon. Who knew what kind of relationship they now had?
He went on, ‘Geo’s lucky to have this back yard, even though it’s the size of a postage stamp. And the studio is awesome, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is, and you would be really awesome if you went back to the kitchen and poured us both a glass of wine. I bought a bottle of Sancerre the other day, and it’s in the fridge. You can’t miss my bottle, it’s got a big red M on the label.’
‘At your service,’ he said, grinning, and went back into the brownstone.
Leaning back against the wrought-iron seat, M closed her eyes once more and pictured her room at home, full of her special possessions, all the things she treasured, and she mentally walked through her parents’ house, opening doors, peeking inside other rooms. Inwardly she smiled; how she loved her family home … one day she would go there again … in a year or two … when she was sure it was safe … when she knew for a certainty that no one could harm her …
‘Here I am!’ Dax exclaimed, handing her the wine glass, sitting down next to her.
‘Thanks,’ M said, and touched her glass to his. ‘Down the hatch.’
He chuckled, looked at her, and chuckled again.
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘It’s such a masculine toast. My father always says that.’
‘So?’ She gazed at him, her eyes narrowing. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Nothing