Yesterday`s flower, Michelle Tarynne [best pdf ebook reader for android txt] 📗

Max?’ ‘Solution-driven,’ Max smiled, ‘what can I say?’
‘But wouldn’t it be be er to solve the sleep problem?’ she persisted.

‘Oh, there are lots of ways to do that, but I’m not sure you’re ready to discuss them.’ Erika felt the colour rise to her cheeks. ‘Is this coffee mine?’ she asked to change the
subject.
‘Just made it,’ Max replied. ‘But if it’s cold, I’ll drink it and make you a fresh cup.’

She sipped from the mug and sighed dramatically. ‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘Careful, Max – I think I could get used to this treatment.’

‘I was hoping there were easier ways of keeping you here than tying you up.’ Prudence bustled in from outside. Beside her was a younger woman in her early
twenties.
‘Good morning, Erika,’ Prudence said.

‘Morning,’ Erika replied cheerfully. Last night she had begun to sense that Prudence didn’t trust her – and granted, the notion was not ill-founded. Now she sensed her scrutiny, as if Prudence was a mother hen standing over her brood. ‘This is Gladys,’ Prudence said. ‘My granddaughter.’

‘Hello, Gladys,’ Erika said. ‘I’m Erika Shaw.’ The younger woman smiled.

‘Gladys usually cleans your room first,’ Prudence said pointedly, ‘but she’s not sure if she can go in there now.’
‘Oh, please carry on. Don’t let me stop your routine.’

Gladys retrieved a vacuum cleaner and a bright purple feather duster from a cupboard.
Her steps echoed as she walked down the wooden passageway. Prudence hadn’t moved.
‘Anything I can do?’ Erika asked.
Prudence huffed, then turned to follow Gladys.

‘Since my mother’s death,’ Max offered, ‘ Prudie has taken her responsibilities to heart. And for reasons I can’t understand, Jared encourages it.’

Erika drank the last of her la e and tried not to think about Jared. ‘I hope I haven’t offended her.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘she’ll come around. Now what can I get you? Toast, an omele e or muesli?’?

♥

Max’s study was on the exact opposite side of the house from her bedroom. Erika had guessed how it would look, and found she was wrong and right in equal parts.

She’d expected it to be neat: a perfectly clear desk with no sign of any paperwork whatsoever. She thought there’d be files on a shelf, lined up in date order or alphabetically, probably in height order. On this she was wrong, because Max’s desk and bookshelf was an array of paper, and though the piles weren’t filed, she could tell by the coloured dividers and Post-its that the heaps were aligned with some care.

She’d thought Max’s desk would be an antique Victorian affair, or even older. It would be traditional, in walnut or mahogany with an original dark-green or burgundy leather writing surface embossed with some sort of pa ern. Instead he was working at a desk of transparent tempered glass, with bright stainless-steel metal legs. It was probably Italian, clearly custom-designed and valuable. And instead of some modern, ergonomic, high-back executive chair, his was a heavily built mahogany antique, with clawed feet and black leather upholstery.

What surprised her most, however, was not the modern bookshelves or the AppleMac screen. Not the De Villiers hall of fame on the one wall, showing black and white faces through the centuries. Not the air conditioning unit humming above them, which she remembered he’d told her about. What caught her off guard was the kite-surfing sketch she’d given to him in Langebaan already hanging in pride of place above his desk.

Max caught her appraising glance across the room, and the way it lingered on the picture.
‘I did tell you it was the best one,’ he murmured.

Erika smiled. ‘You framed it quickly,’ she replied. ‘It suits the room.’ ‘I like it,’ he said. ‘It makes me happy.’

Erika recognised another of Max’s unique qualities: he was comfortable enough not to care that she might think him desperate or foolish. And she was glad that this wasn’t her reaction anyway. She was chuffed. Thrilled that Max liked her work enough to want to look at it every day. And that there might be a li le more to it than that.

Max offered Erika a seat opposite him. ‘So let’s talk about the book,’ he said. ‘I’ve been interested in De Villiers genealogy for years. It started in my late teens, actually, when I did a school project for my history class. Jared, of course, doesn’t have the patience for the sort of trawling that family trees involve. He thinks it’s much too intangible to be worth the effort.’

‘Well, you and Jared don’t seem to be cut from the same cloth,’ Erika commented. ‘You’d be surprised. In some ways, we’re more alike than either of us would care to
admit.’

‘The book?’ Erika prompted, not really wanting to be caught up in a discussion about Jared. It was far too distracting.

I’ve been collecting these bits and pieces for over a year. I’ve met up or corresponded with family members both in South Africa and internationally. We’re quite an interesting bunch, even if I say so myself.’

‘Well, I’m interested.’ Erika hoped immediately that her comment wouldn’t be misconstrued.

But Max continued. ‘I started writing the book. At first it was terribly factual – accurate drawings of family trees done with genealogy programmes, that sort of thing. But I realised immediately that it was dull. Only a De Villiers would be prepared to labour through all of that, and then only the most enthusiastic and dedicated ones.’
‘And?’
‘So I stopped, and thought about what makes a story interesting. The plot. Sure. The

se ing. Of course. But really what most people tend to be interested in is other people. So I changed my focus to include chapters on key De Villiers members who had a specific story to tell. Scandal. Achievement against the odds. Tragedy. All set against a South African backdrop, almost as a means of showing South Africa changing at the same time as the family develops. One of my ancestors, Marthinus de Villiers, wrote Die Stem van Suid-Afrika, our national anthem.’
‘The project sounds great.’

‘My publisher saw the first few chapters and commissioned it based on those.’ ‘No mean feat,’ Erika said smiling.

‘I was pleased,’ Max said modestly. ‘I’ve had to fit it in between my other responsibilities at Le Domaine, so it’s taken a li le longer than it might have, but I’m happy with where I am now.’
‘Where do I come in?’

‘At first I was going to use the photos that I’d collected, which are available in the Huguenot Museum archives. They’ve been very helpful, offering to let me use of any images in the archive as long as I acknowledge them.’
‘But?’

‘But the photos lack vibrancy. When I show you you’ll see what I mean. I’d like you to make the pictures come alive. Like your sketches of Bloubergstrand.’
Erika’s brow crinkled.
‘You don’t think it’s possible?’ Max asked, concerned.

‘Anything is possible, Max. I just hope I’ll be able to pick up the atmosphere from the photos.’

Max smiled. ‘Ah, but it won’t just be photos. I’ll take you around. To the homesteads. The mountains. The cemeteries. And of course you can read the stories from local accounts and my interpretation of them.’
Erika looked at Max. His face glowed with triumph and enthusiasm.

‘We should get started then, shouldn’t we?’ she said. ‘How many images do you think we are going to need?’

♥

They spent the morning paging through transcripts and information collected by other members of the De Villiers family that Max had sourced over the years. He laughed when Erika pulled out a comment he’d highlighted: ‘Brilliant people the De Villierses – unfortunately all of them are not quite all there.’

‘Needless to say,’ Max said, ‘that comment did not come from a family member.’ ‘But is it true?’ Erika asked, giggling.

Max shrugged. ‘I guess I’ll have to let you decide, but don’t judge us too harshly. Every family is bound to have a li le melancholy, don’t you think?’
Erika nodded. ‘I think that’s probably true.’

‘Anyway,’ Max said, ‘the De Villiers family has an incredible legacy. They’ve been represented across most professions. As we go along, you’ll find we weren’t just ministers, although of course faith is what brought us from France. My first ancestors in the Cape, three brothers, Pierre, Abraham and Jacob (or Jacques as some remember him), were forced into hiding by the Edict of Nantes, which actually outlawed being Protestant. But I digress. There are all sorts of De Villierses in the bag: architects, authors, poets, engineers, farmers,

scientists, you name it.’
‘And winemakers?’ Erika asked.

‘We can’t forget them, that’s for sure. Funnily enough, Jared and I are the few remaining winemakers in the family – most people moved on centuries ago.’
‘So how did your family get the farm?’ Erika asked.

‘Although the brothers were Huguenots, they weren’t the part of the first influx. They seemed to arrive a year later than the others, but from the records we can find they were already involved in the community around Franschhoek. From what we can tell, Abraham was officially assigned his bit of land in 1711. He called it Champagne. Jacob got La Bri in 1712, and Le Domaine went to Pierre in 1713.’
‘So he bought it?’

‘No, it was granted to him by the Company. And Pierre was loaned 91 guilders and his brothers something similar to buy stock and materials from the Company. Believe me, it wasn’t charity – the Company made seventy per cent profit. But the brothers paid off their debts by 1719, and bought more land.’ Max shifted. ‘You know what? I think we’ve had enough of a history lesson for the moment? Why don’t we drive into town? I’ll buy you lunch and then we can stop off at the Huguenot Museum if you think you can stand it.’

Chapter 9

For somebody who’d been an integral part of the family picture the day before, Jared

seemed remarkably absent. All day, Erika’s encounter with him had flashed through her mind; its intensity still fresh. When she and Max came back from town in the late afternoon, Jared’s quad bike was parked under the carport, but his canary-yellow Audi S4 convertible was missing.

Max helped Erika carry her sketchpad and portfolio bag into the kitchen, where Prudence was cooking at the stove.
‘I’m not cooking for Mr Jared tonight, Mr Max,’ Prudence said.

‘Oh,’ said Max, walking to the fridge to fetch tonic for their G&T’s. ‘Where’s he off to this time?’

‘He has a meeting in Cape Town. He said if it gets late he’ll sleep at the Camp’s Bay flat.’

Max nodded, then pushed a glass at a time into the fridge’s ice dispenser. He pulled a bo le of Tanqueray off the booze shelf, adding a healthy tot to each glass.

‘Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Erika. Do you want to sit on the porch or in the living room? I can burn some citronella candles to keep the bugs away.’

Although she was disappointed to be missing Jared, staying alone with Max was far less complicated, and she was in some sense relieved at the simplicity of being with him.

‘Outside is lovely,’ she answered. ‘I’ve had a lifetime of living rooms. I’m not really sure why you South Africans ever stay indoors.’
‘Well, winter does come eventually.’
‘Winter!’ Erika sniffed. ‘You call that winter!’
Max laughed.
‘Oh alright, so you get a bit colder where you come from,’ he said.

As they moved outside, Erika watched the clouds gathering