Mel had taken up a position at the front door, her nose inches from the screen; on the other side black flies buzzed and knitted their legs against the tightly-woven metal, and beyond the flies, under the searing outback sun, Alice said her farewells to Dinah. She couldn't make out the words, but the gestures - hands swiping at tears, a last lingering embrace - spoke volumes. Neville Bonner, his dark face a passive mask, endured in silence the girlish expressions of sadness and regret, but as his daughter dropped her arms to her sides at last, he stepped forward and took Alice by the shoulders. Mel watched as he spoke earnestly to her, gesturing once towards the house before placing his rough, dry lips against her forehead. Mel regretted that her position did not afford her a better view of Alice's face as Dinah moved away, walking backwards in her father's shadow, returning Alice's wave before turning into the sun.

The solitary figure left standing by the plane placed her hands on her hips, her body rising and falling in a long sigh of resignation. She turned and walked towards the house. Mel watched them, the retreating figures of Dinah and her father, and Alice as she approached the door; she was impressed that neither girl turned to look back at the other. She pushed the door open as Alice stepped onto the verandah, aware that she was probably the last person in the world the girl wanted to see at this moment.

"Thanks," Alice murmured as she brushed past Mel on her way to the kitchen.

Thanks? Okay, scan for sarcasm. Nothing. Mel closed the heavy door with care and even before she pushed through the swinging kitchen door, she could hear the clatter of silverware being drawn from drawers.

Alice had spread a good quality lace cloth on the table beneath windows that opened onto a view of the paddock and windmill. As she carefully laid out the silver, the great knife on the outside, fork on the inside debate raged in her head. She had heard Mel enter the room and without looking up she said, "You might want to check your bread."

Mel reacted as if startled. "My bread..." A quick glance inside the oven. "Oh, my..." Using a couple of paper thin pot holders, she carefully moved the baking pan from oven to butcher's block. "I think it's alright," she said, poking the golden crust with a finger. "You just narrowly averted a disaster." Alice conjured up a smile and collected three mismatched plates from the cupboard to Mel's right. As she passed Mel to set the table, she was humming. "Just two place settings, Alice."

Alice turned, the plates flat against her middle. "Am I sent to bed without supper?"

"I don't know what they're servin' at the corroboree," replied Mel quietly, moving the length of the kitchen. "Probably somethin' still wigglin'." She took the plates from Alice's hands and addressed her seriously so there was no misunderstanding. "We'll miss your company at supper."

"You mean it? I can go?" Her face lit up with a jaw-breaking grin. "Rippa!"

Mel held up her hands in an attempt to stem the tide. "Hold your horses now...go splash some water on your face and run a brush through your hair..." She chased Alice from the kitchen into her bedroom, all the while issuing advice and directives. "I declare...you look like a ragamuffin. And you have Mr. Bonner walk you back afterwards. I don't care how late it is. I won't sleep a wink till you're back safe and sound."

"Can't I stay the night?" Alice dragged a brush through her hair, from roots to end. "Since it's Dinah's last night here...I could be home first thing in the morning."

Mel exhaled wearily. "I must have sucker written all over my face. All right," she conceded, jabbing an index finger at Alice's chest. "But you be home bright and early."

Alice tossed the brush onto her cluttered bureau and presented herself for inspection; dusty chambray work shirt, khaki slacks rife with horse hair and sweat. "Look all right?"

Mel knew her opinions didn't matter one way or the other, but she thought it sweet of the girl to ask. "You'll do...better run if you wanna catch up to them."

"Strewth, yes!" Alice barreled out her bedroom door with the enthusiasm of a freshman running back, leaving Mel alone in the room, rooted to the spot by sheer disbelief.

"Not so much as a thank you. Well..." She turned to leave and saw Alice's dirty battered hat, with its sweat-stained kangaroo-hide band lying brim down on the bed. "Honestly," she said, picking it up. "Forget her head if it wasn't attached." She shrugged and caught her reflection in the mirror, breathing genuine surprise into the word, "Sucker."

"Hey, Mel?" Alice's reflection joined her in the mirror. "I -"

"Forgot your hat," Mel finished for her as she settled the hat atop Alice's head, tilting it first to one side, then to the other, then back until it sat jauntily on the crown of her head. "Oh, well, you wear it however you like."

"I wanted to say thank you, Mel." Alice straightened the hat and in the ensuing silence, she could tell that her expression of gratitude had caught Mel off guard. "Those should have been the first words out of my mouth. I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate this, and I promise," she elaborated, her words taking on the weight of a blood oath. "Not one word of this will ever reach my mother's ears."

"Better not," Mel quipped, smiling crookedly. "Or you'll have company in the dog house." She tucked an errant strand of hair beneath Alice's ear and ran her finger the length of a strong jaw; although Pappas family etiquette warranted a larger display of affection, she knew that not everyone was comfortable with such things. "Okay, scoot."

Alice stepped back, eager to be on her way and yet careful not to offend Mel with a too rapid exit. "You're okay, Mel."

Mel laughed. "The most tolerable in a long line of fiancees?"

"The most," Alice agreed, backpedaling from the room before turning and gaining momentum as she plunged through the screen door, heedless of the explosive return as it fell unchecked back to its jamb.

CHHH-POK! Janice sat bolt upright, sending a small tidal wave over the side of the tub. She had drifted off in her tepid, wet cocoon only to awaken abruptly to the sound of a gunshot. Oh, Jesus. She's killed her. She put the soap, which had refused to lather in the hard water, back into the soap dish and stood up in the tub, murky water running off her well-toned body in sheets. She wrapped the large bath towel around her and heard the bedroom door open. "Mel?" As there wasn't a shy bone in her body, Janice stepped around the corner and breathed a sigh of relief. "Mel...are you okay? I thought I heard a -"

"The door. Remember?" Mel cast a lingering glance over Janice's exposed body; there was little she hadn't seen - in half light, in Braille in the dark - but this was different. Full afternoon sunlight was cascading through the bedroom windows, bouncing off the damp blonde hair, soaking into the golden skin of her exposed legs and shoulders. Mel tilted her head; she didn't remember that little starburst-shaped scar on Janice's collarbone; it looked new. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to kiss it.

Janice was encouraged to be the subject of such thorough scrutiny and so it took supreme effort to pull the towel tightly around her and tuck a corner into her cleavage. She even managed to conjure up a suitably flustered expression. "Hey, how would you feel if I looked at you that way?"

Flattered. Mel blushed and her eyes instantly found other targets on the floor of the room. "I'm sorry. I just came into..." She bent and gathered a discarded pair of jodhpurs and the grimy white blouse. "...came into collect these. I'm startin' a load of wash."

"Mel, you don't have to do that...matter of fact, I'd prefer it if you left the blouse especially. I don't have a clean one to wear."

"Well, if you think I am going to let you sit down at my supper table in this -" she held the blouse away from her body, out of respect for her nose. " - you have another think comin'." She dipped and snagged the white brassiere, adding that to the pile in her arms.

"Aw, no, not that, too! C'mon, Mel...what am I supposed to do?" She threw up her hands. "Turn up in a towel?"

Mel backed towards the door, a quirky smile on her face. "Well, dinner will be informal."

Janice put her hands on her hips. "Don't tempt me, sweetheart."

Mel moved towards the open bedroom door, turning at the threshold. "I'll find you something to wear. Alice probably has somethin' that'll fit you. Be right back."

Janice plopped down onto the bed and crossed her legs, the towel riding up to mid thigh. "...so help me, she brings me anything with cute little animals on it, I'll be sick," she muttered, her fingers tented open on either side of her, testing the spring of the mattress. She hadn't slept in a bed in five weeks and the clean linens and firm mattress were like a siren's call. She fell lazily backwards, eyes closed, with her hands cradling her head.

That's how Mel found her minutes later. She stood in the doorway, a starched white blouse dangling from the fingers of one hand while those of the other maintained a deathgrip on the doorknob. There was nothing furtive in her observation; Janice need only look up to see her. In the end, it was the idea of those jade green eyes opening and fixing on her own that prompted Mel to slip the clean blouse over the inside doorknob and leave the room.

Padding down the hall, mindful of the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor, she wondered at her attraction to Janice Covington, a woman with a bit of dash and a predilection for hazard. She was a cynical, brilliant archeologist with the gift of keen insight. She was also world weary at twenty-five. The image of Janice, stretched out on her bed, clad only in a towel crept into her mind and she chased it away as counter-productive to her current retrospection. That was her gift, to be able to switch mindsets in milliseconds and to concentrate her intellect on one thing exclusively. She made an audible sound of amusement as she entered the kitchen. Wonder who I got that from?

Her own background consisted of mostly-absentee parents; she had been raised by an affectionate grandmother, with only occasional input from her mother. There had been select boarding schools in the Carolinas and she was an alumni of the college where her father had been dean. Although she was not without intelligence, she had to concede she had traded on the family name and her father's reputation more often than she cared to admit. The name Melvin Pappas, dropped in the right circles, opened doors and minds alike. And after his death on a dig in December of 1939, she had flown to Istanbul at her mother's request to close his affairs. Chief among those duties had been replying to unanswered correspondence. There had been stacks of letters, unopened bills, and a dozen yellowed telegrams, one of which led her to Macedonia where a hail of bullets awaited her. In the end, it had been her father's good name, dropped in the receptive ear of Dr. Janice Covington that led her back to the half-nude vision recumbent on her bed. She didn't know whether to curse her father or to thank him.

She gave the bread a half an hour to rest and used her time well, slicing the veal thin and layering it upon a garishly-painted platter. She ladled new potatoes and au jus over the meat and placed a few sprigs of parsley along the perimeter, hiding the chain of purple daises that bordered the platter. Along with the bread and the fresh green beans she'd prepared, there were black olives and sweetbreads like her mother used to make. It was a great deal of food. She and Alice would be dining on leftovers for a week. She took the platter to the table and lay a small dish of fresh butter beside the bread. After folding the linen napkins in a fan pattern, she swapped the placement of knives and forks and stood back to admire the table. "Well, it's not Delmonico's, but it'll have to do."

"It all looks and smells marvelous, Mel."

Mel jumped, her hand to heart. "Janice...I didn't hear you come in. Did you have a nice nap?"

Janice shrugged and dug her hands into the front pockets of her slacks, feeling decidedly at unease in the borrowed blouse, which fit well about the waist and shoulders, but cut her just slightly across the bust. It gave her a modicum of comfort to know that she couldn't slip effortlessly into the clothes of a thirteen year old girl. "You couldn't resist, could you?"

Mel's eyes jumped from the firm breasts beneath the straining buttons to Janice's face too quickly to disguise what could only be described as honest-to-goodness lust. "Beg pardon?"

Janice fingered the colorful embroidery just above her left breast. Whomever the seamstress was, she had been a true artisan; the words St. Ignatius' School for Young Ladies were plainly visible in Shelley-Volante font-style. "Is this your idea of a joke?"

Mel couldn't suppress a laugh. "Janice, honestly, I never even bothered to look. I chose that one because it's cut large." Janice merely grunted her displeasure and screwed her face into a scowl. "Would you rather it were emblazoned Our Lady of Perpetual Debauchery?"

Janice folded her arms across her chest. "Honestly? Yes." She smiled wryly and in doing so, changed the whole complexion of the conversation. "I suppose it, like your supper table, will have to do."

"You are magnanimous, Dr. Covington. Would you care to be seated?"

Mel held out a chair, indicating that Janice should take what was traditionally the head of the household's seat. The implication was not lost on Janice. "Only two place settings?" she inquired as she pulled the chair up to the table. "Alice not joining us?"

"I sent her on to the party," replied Mel with forced nonchalance as she opened the ice box. "It seemed the thing to do if I wanted to live with myself."

Janice swiveled in the chair and crossed one leg over the other. "Was she being difficult?"

"Just the opposite," came the muffled reply as Mel groped about in the dark ice box. "She was civil and mature." She poked her head above the door and narrowed her eyes at Janice. "You know how that grates on me."

"She's got you here, Mel," chided Janice, displaying an upturned pinky finger. "Admit it."

"I knew I could count on you to be sympathetic and understandin'. Remind me again why I asked you to supper?"

Janice's gaze was level and serious. "Maybe you missed me..." She held her thumb and forefinger apart in a little pinch. "...maybe just this much?"

Rather than confirm or deny Janice's suspicions, Mel opted to change the subject. "What would you like to drink?"

Okay. I can play that game. "What've you got?"

Mel moved items from front to back, clearing a path for her reach. "Simply everythin'."

"Got any virgin's blood?" Janice quipped, her face an unreadable mask.

"Fresh out," quipped Mel without sparing Janice a glance. "There's milk and lemon squeeze...water, tea...oh, and some perfectly awful local beer," Mel displayed a label-less amber bottle. "I think it's bottled in a wool shed someplace. I don't recommend it."

"That'll do." Janice crossed the floor and took the bottle from Mel; having been at the very back of the ice box for some time, it was half frozen, just the way she liked it. "You know me: I like living dangerously." She held the bottle up to the light as she walked back to the table and judged the meager amount of sediment floating within to be acceptable.

"Why don't you put on some music?" Mel, her hands occupied with condiments, gestured with her chin to a standing oak phonograph beneath a curio shelf.

"Any preferences?" Janice asked as she raised the battered lid of the phonograph. "I think I spoke too soon." She picked up a sleeveless 78 with more care than it had previously been shown in its lifetime. "We have a very scratchy copy of...ooh, Noel Coward." She made a face as she looked at Mel. "I think I was ten when this was recorded."

"The phonograph was a wedding gift...for Jack and Peggy." Mel popped the cap from Janice's beer and began serving the veal. "I think those albums are probably original to it."

"Billie Holiday," Janice crooned. She removed the slick black LP from its sleeve with care and held it by her fingertips. "With Teddy Wilson. Naw, Mel, this is relatively new." It wasn't just new, it was pristine, and had in fact probably never been played at all, very likely due to the color of the artist. Considering what little she knew of Peggy Greenway and her narrow opinion of the Aborigines, she marveled that the album had been allowed in the house at all. "You Go To My Head, More Than You Know..." She might have easily been describing Mel, an idea that was given credence by the next song title: Them There Eyes. She looked to the table, where Mel had taken the chair kitty corner from her own, and seated the LP beneath the needle, setting the volume to 3 on the dial. She opened the double doors on the phonograph's face to reveal the speaker as You Go To My Head opened with a combustible alto sax. She was sitting beside Mel, shaking the napkin into her lap as a clarinet riff paved the way for Holiday's one-of-a-kind vocal stylings; the timbre was just a touch cynical, and Janice knew, without actually knowing Holiday personally, that she had been burned at love before. "This is nice, Mel," she murmured, feeling decidedly warm beneath the thin blouse. She looked down at her plate, trisected neatly with meat, starch and vegetable, all carefully prepared by a talented cook and yet nothing looked as enticing as the woman seated across the table from her.

"Janice..." Mel turned an anticipatory gaze on her guest. "You aren't eating."

"Savoring the moment, Mel," replied Janice. She sliced into her veal with enthusiasm, but it was all for show. Food no longer held any interest for her. Mel's proximity had whetted a different kind of appetite. She lay the knife across the edge of the plate, dropped her free hand into her lap and speared the vaguely rare meat with a fork. When she looked up, she found Mel's eyes waiting, alight. Before she had taken one bite of veal, she was already anticipating dessert.