House of the Blue Sea (12 page)

“I will channel you as best I can.”

Trisha lifted her coffee mug and held it between her two hands. “So then what, after the marina?” She took a sip.

“We went to a liquor seller where he picked up a case of wine—”

“A case? What, is he throwing a party?”

“No, he just likes wine, among other intoxicants. He went through three beers to my one over lunch.”

She set the mug down. “Okay, now that concerns me more than the temper. You know I went down that road with Jack, and my father before him.”

“I know. You see? You see why I’m not easy with this?” Sandra sat up and pulled the computer onto her lap. “Anyway, after the wine pick-up he drove me to this lookout, this absolutely amazing spot that looks down over La Paz and across the Gulf. We had the place to ourselves.”

Trisha leaned in, her face filling more of the screen. “Now the story’s getting interesting.”

“Don’t get too excited. It was just a hike up a steep trail. But there was this one moment—”

“M-hmm?”

“Well, I wasn’t wearing great shoes for climbing so he took my hand to help me over the steepest part. He looked back and smiled at me with his hair blowing around his face and I felt like I was the heroine in one of his movies. And, I admit, my knees felt weak for a moment and I may have approached a swoon.”

“A swoon! Well, that’s a great deal more than
nice
!”

“But it’s not real Trisha, it was purely a movie star crush kind of swoon.”

“So? Who cares? You’re on bloody vacation. Lap it up!”

“I’m trying but I’m just not—”

“Normal. I know. So then? Tell the rest.”

“I took a few photos of the view and we went back to the car. The drive home was pleasant enough; he talked about his family, his house in San Leandro ... normal stuff. It was one of those times when I forget he’s anyone other than an average Joe.”

“We’re all average Joes on some level Sandi, even Mark Jeffery.”

M
ark awoke to the familiar sound of gulls and rolled over to look at his bedside clock. Seven. Time to get moving. It was Thursday, the day of his weekly tennis game with Paul. Through Paul’s connections in the hospitality industry, they had an arrangement with Baja Waters Resort to use the courts once a week. Neither of them was a very good tennis player, but they were matched well enough to enjoy a game.

The smell of coffee drifted to his nostrils. A cuppa with the morning news on the verandah—the daily ritual. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched his arms over his head. He pulled on a pair of white shorts and a yellow t-shirt, smiling as he thought of Paul’s certain annoyance at his wearing a shirt the same colour as the ball. Like it made a difference at their level of play.

Coffee cup full and toast on a plate, Mark settled himself at the outdoor table and hit the power button on his iPad. His first stop was always the BBC World News and then on to things more personal, like the U.K. entertainment news. There was more about Patrick Janzen and his exciting new movie role, but the story didn’t seem to have the same sting as on previous mornings. Mark hummed to himself as he continued to flip through the digital pages, alternating between sips of coffee and bites of toast.

A large white gull landed on the railing a few feet from where Mark sat. “Ah, good morning Geoff. You’re here early. You must have caught the scent of toast.” Geoff was larger than most of the gulls that frequented this part of the beach and he had a black band around his yellow beak that set him apart from the others. “Do you like marmalade?” Mark tossed a small piece of crust toward the bird who hopped down to the deck to retrieve it. Geoff pointed his head skyward and gulped down the bit of bread. “It’s not biscuits but it seems it will do. Smart man, take what’s offered in case it’s all there is.” He paused. “Unless of course you’ll choke on it. Then I’d advise against.” He stared at the bird without seeing him for a moment. “Right.” Mark stood and gathered his dishes and iPad. “Well old chap, there’s a tennis court with my name on it. I’ll see you back here for biscuits this afternoon.”

***

“A
re you ready, mate?” Mark asked as he walked into the lobby of Mar Azul. Paul was where he often found him in the mornings, at his desk behind the front reception counter.

“I am ... just ... give me ... a ...,” Paul said, not looking up from the pile of paper in front of him.

“A minute?” There was no response from Paul. “I’ll go ramble the decks.” Mark left through the side door, stepping out onto the breakfast patio where two couples were seated at tables. They glanced up as he entered their space and he gave a quick nod of acknowledgment. He crossed the patio and took the stairs to the rooftop. It was empty this morning, its white floor gleaming, a few deck chairs stacked over to one side. At the edge of the roof he looked down onto the beach; it was quiet at this hour. A man wearing a bright orange shirt sat at one of the palapas reading a newspaper, a woman jogged by at the edge of the surf, her ponytail bouncing with each stride, and far down the beach a couple walked hand in hand, pointed in the direction of San Leandro.

Back in the lobby, Paul was still at his desk but this time he looked up and smiled as Mark returned. “Good morning!”

“You realize I was here a few moments ago?”

“Oh, was that you?” Paul said as he put away his papers and notebook. “I was trying to balance things from yesterday’s receipts. Why did I not pay more attention in math class?”

“Because you were too busy thinking about girls ... and drama.”

“I think it was more like drama and then girls for me. I was always realistic about my options. And, at the end of the day, I succeeded with neither.” Paul laughed. “Just let me grab my bag and off to the courts!” He made a dramatic flourish with his arm in the air.

“You do know that those kinds of hand gestures are possibly why the girl thing hasn’t worked out for you?” Mark called after him.

A few minutes later, Paul returned through the door that led from the lobby to his private quarters. “You’re in a good mood this morning. It will be nice to play tennis without that dark cloud hanging over our court. I guess I’ll need my sunglasses.”

“Since when am I a gloomy tennis player?”

“Seriously? You’re going to pretend you haven’t been a dismal Jimmy these past few weeks?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“So, did something happen? Did your agent come through for you?”

“No, nothing’s changed. I’m still pissed off about losing a good role and being offered total crap in its place. It just seems to be feeling less oppressive today.”

“Well, I’m happy to hear it. I’ll let Arturo know I’m headed out.” Paul leaned through the side door and waved to an unseen person. “Arturo. I’m off.”

“
Hasta luego
. Enjoy the tennis.” Mark heard Arturo’s voice from outside.

The two men followed the stone pathway to the parking area, the intoxicating scent of the bougainvillea thick in the air. The woody vines climbed the walls at the entrance to Mar Azul, their pink flowers hanging in clumps.

“So your Canadian guest doesn’t seem to be around this morning.”

“Which Canadian? Oh, Sandra Lyall?”

“Yes, Sandra. When I’ve been here in the mornings lately she’s been painting or up on the roof standing on her head.”

Paul smiled. “I saw her go down to the beach about half an hour ago, with her easel and painter’s bag.”

“Hm, I didn’t see her there either.”

Paul stopped and turned to Mark. “You were looking for her?”

“Well no—not exactly. I was wandering around the decks while I waited for you and I didn’t see her about.”

Paul grinned at him and nodded. “I see.”

“You see nothing.”

“I saw that you took her to La Paz yesterday, although I didn’t hear how it went. You didn’t throw any more furniture did you?”

“I didn’t
throw
my chair that morning. I stood up quickly and the blasted thing fell over. It’s like they’re made of feathers, those chairs of yours. A decent wind would carry them all out into the sea.” He threw his arms in the air and toward the beach.

Paul dropped his duffel bag into the back seat of the BMW. “So it was the chair at fault.”

“I didn’t say that. I said they’re light. And, to answer your earlier question, no, I didn’t throw any furniture in La Paz.”

“Well, good. I’d rather you refrained from frightening my guests.”

“Although ...”

“Oh sod. What
did
you do?”

“I may have lost my temper and rather ... banged my hand on the table, a bit harder than I planned to.”

“Mark ...” Paul shook his head as he settled himself in the passenger seat.

“But I apologized, as I did for my breakfast outburst. She doesn’t strike me as the delicate type.”

“She isn’t, but she’s a good soul who probably doesn’t want to spend her holiday hanging out under your dark cloud.”

“I will endeavor to not frighten her but I enjoy her company.” Mark put the car in gear and started up the long driveway to the road.

“So you’re telling me you’re interested in Sandra?” Paul asked. “She doesn’t strike me as your type.”

“Not
interested
, no, and she’s not my type. I’m simply enjoying her company at the moment. She’s a bit like ... vanilla ice cream—not terribly exciting but predictable and rather refreshing.”

“Not sure I like the sound of that.”

Mark stopped at the top of the driveway and regarded Paul over the top of his sunglasses. “Look, my life has been rubbish this past month and I’ve found a bright spot amid the crap. Is that so bad?”

“Not bad for you, no, but she is a living, feeling person. I’m not sure she’d be happy knowing that you’re using her.”

“I’m not using her, I like her. I’m finding it pleasant to spend time with someone completely outside my normal circles.”

“Okay, but if you hurt that lovely woman ...” Paul leaned toward Mark and opened his eyes wide. “I’ll have your guts for garters.”

“Right.” Mark chuckled. “I promise to do my best, but ...” Mark grinned as he pulled onto the road toward San Leandro.

“I
know I’m predictable but I’ll have the fish special again, Elena.” Sandra closed her menu and handed it to the waitress.

“And I will have a plate of your fabulous fish tacos.” Ian slid his menu on top of Sandra’s.

“Such a beautiful girl,” Sandra sighed as she watched Elena’s retreating back, the burgundy highlights in her hair reflecting the lamp light. “If only I did portraits ...”

“So, you’ve been painting?” Ian asked.

“I have, and, you’ll be shocked to learn, I’m exhibiting two, maybe even three pieces in La Paz next week.”

“And just how did that little miracle come about? Has someone threatened you?”

“No, not threatened exactly, more ... convinced.”

“Seriously? How many times have I tried to get you to exhibit in that show? Apparently, I need to take some lessons from—who was it, Paul?”

“No, Paul’s friend, the one who bought my painting. Mark Jeffery.”

“Ah, so that’s the catch. I’m not famous enough to be convincing? Or maybe not sufficiently handsome?”

“No, nothing like that. He and Pascual ganged up on me at the art supply store in La Paz. They made it impossible for me to say no.”

“Mm ... I see. Well, however it came about, I’m pleased. It’s about time.” Ian lifted his glass. “Here’s to your success then.” Their wine glasses clinked together.

“So you went to La Paz with Mr. Jeffery?”

“I did—a couple of days ago. He offered me a ride and I found it hard to say no, even though I would have preferred to take the bus.”

“I see a pattern developing. You realize that “no” is quite a short word, very easy to say. Let’s try it—” Ian’s eyes jumped to the beach entrance. “I believe your convincing friend just walked in the door. Careful, or he’ll have you ordering a glass of Scotch and maybe the octopus appetizer.”

Sandra gave Ian a gentle punch before glancing over her shoulder to see Mark walk up to the bar. “That’s a first. I’ve never seen him in here.”

“I have, but not for weeks.”

“I thought it odd he never comes, since he and Paul are old friends,” she said.

“So you’ve been watching for him.”

“You don’t have to watch for someone in a place this size to notice they’re never here.”

“Best practice that difficult two-letter word. He’s coming this way.”

Sandra turned to see a smiling Mark moving toward their table. “Sandra, hello.” Mark held out a hand for her to shake. He turned to Ian. “And ... I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Ian. LeRoy.” Ian extended his hand.

“Of course. I apologize. I’m terrible with names. May I join you?” He was already pulling out one of the two empty chairs.

“Be our guest,” Ian said, the annoyance obvious in his voice. Sandra gave him her best
be nice
look.

Mark didn’t seem to notice as he settled into his seat. “So, are you playing this evening?” he asked Ian.

“No, not tonight. There’s a flamenco duo in from Cabo.”

“Excellent. Nothing quite like live music. Rather lifts the spirit, wouldn’t you say?” Mark looked from Sandra to Ian and back again.

“Yes ... absolutely.” Sandra said.

Elena approached the table and took Mark’s order. When she left, the three sat in silence. Mark spoke first. “Soooo, Ian ... did Sandra tell you she’s showing in the La Paz art show next week? It took some persuading but I think it’s a good thing. What is the point of art if not for the enjoyment of others? It would be like you, playing music solely in the privacy of your own home, or me, reciting lines from Shakespeare in front of my bathroom mirror. What would be the point? We artists are destined to express ourselves for the enjoyment of others. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ian hesitated. “Well, yes, I suppose that’s true, but there is also an aspect of creating art for one’s own enjoyment and satisfaction. Wouldn’t you agree, Sandra?”

Ian had a tone that Sandra recognized, that slightly mocking, ready-for-a-debate tone that was entertaining under the right circumstances, but unnerving in this situation.