House of the Blue Sea (17 page)

“But didn’t you say something about romances being a waste of time? I believe it was something to the effect of ‘women swooning ridiculously over an imaginary man’, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes, I believe I did utter some such rubbish. But,” he tapped his temple, “since then I’ve given it some thought—and have reconsidered my position. In truth, Rochester was an enormous opportunity, and quite a challenging role. Unfortunately, I made a shambles of the possibility it afforded me, and here I am, waiting for the phone to ring.”

“How did you make a shambles of it? I’ve seen you in a number of movies since
Jane Eyre
, both British and American.”

“If quantity is the important measure, I’ve done fine. The ‘shambles’ I’m speaking of is misjudging Hollywood. When the offers started coming from America, I jumped at them, no matter what they were. One of them,” his eyes shot skyward, “a dreadful thing I agreed to without reading the script. That was a mistake, one I hope you didn’t have the misfortune of seeing.”

Sandra did recall one particularly bad movie she’d seen him in about ten years before but decided it was best to remain silent on the subject. She shook her head.

“I thought that once I had my foot in the door I’d be able to make my way on to better roles, away from the romantic comedies. But, it seems the only way I’m going to climb out of my typecasting is to grow old, which I’m doing a snorting good job of.” Mark raised his glass as if to toast and then took a long drink.

“We’re all doing that.”

“We are, but the value of your painting doesn’t diminish because you’re a year older. In fact, it’s likely your talent will grow over time and your paintings become more valuable. Is that not the case?”

“It’s not quite that easy but, it’s true, artists often improve over time.”

“As do actors. The problem is that movie-goers want to see people their own age on the screen, or so the execs tell us, and people over fifty tend to spend their time at home.”

“But we still watch movies.”

“You’re not over fifty.” Mark pulled his sunglasses to the tip of his nose and peered over the top of them.

“I will be, in about six months. The big five-o, in October.”

“Hm, well, you certainly don’t look it.”

Sandra felt heat rush to her face. It was the first time he’d said anything about her looks. “But, I believe we were talking about your career,” she said.

Mark dropped his head back and moaned. “Oh, that tiresome subject. Must we go on? Is this some manner of Canadian torture?”

“I’m surprised it hasn’t made the newspapers over in the UK—‘Canadians develop most polite system of torture ever!’”

“Polite? Having me dig into my bad decisions and failures? I’d rather the rack!”

“I don’t happen to have one of those in my bag and I believe I also left my thumbscrews back at the hotel, but I could come up with some kind of water torture.” She inclined her head toward the back of the boat. “Care for a swim?”

***

M
ark lounged at the stern of the boat, his head tilted back, face turned to the clouds drifting by overhead.

“Are you sure you won’t join me?” Sandra asked as she emerged from the cabin.

“You’ve just eaten
and
had a glass of wine. Someone has to play lifeguard. Besides, I’m not much of a swimmer.”

“Exactly the sort of lifeguard every woman wants, one who can’t swim.”

Sandra wore a loose white wrap over her swimsuit and was reluctant to take it off. The decision to buy one more bikini before she turned fifty now seemed a terrible idea and she was trying to sort out how to get in the water without him seeing her. It was an impossible feat on a boat and she’d look ridiculous peeling off her beach wrap once she was in the water.
Oh well, here goes.
She stepped near the bow of the boat, dropped her wrap to the deck and dove in. The water was cool enough to send a shock through her body as it enveloped her, such a contrast to the warm air above. She continued to dive until the water felt even colder before turning back toward the surface. Her eyes were closed but she could see the growing brightness as she kicked her feet and pulled the water down with sweeps of her arms. She burst onto the surface about twenty feet off the boat’s starboard hull and smoothed her wet hair back from her face with both hands.

“It’s lovely. You should come in.” She called to Mark, still in his seat at the stern.

He shook his head. “Certainly not. I’ll sit and watch, and keep one hand on the life preserver in case you start cramping up. Nice dive, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Sandra dove again, swimming just under the surface toward the back of the boat. The softness of the salt water caressed her torso and legs as she swam, and in this underwater haven, with all sound and sight blocked, she found herself again. Mark, the boat, even Nick, all washed away by the healing waters. She wished she could swim to Mar Azul, walk onto the beach and rewind her life to the day she arrived, carrying this sense of peace with her. But, she needed to breathe. She surfaced to find she was thirty feet from the stern and Mark was now standing with one hand shading his eyes, scanning the water around Ode to Joy.

He spotted her. “There you are! I was trying to recall the single episode of
Baywatch
I once saw.”

There would be no rewinding; it was impossible to swim backward in water or in time. She waved to Mark and rolled onto her back, letting her arms trail out to the sides, moving her feet gently to keep her legs afloat. She closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. She’d always been a buoyant person, able to float for hours if she wanted to. Maybe the current would take her to Mar Azul. She was enjoying the day, even the conversation seemed to be going well, but underneath it was that persistent discomfort at being out of her element. She wasn’t sure she was capable of looking at Mark Jeffery as just this guy she knew and hung out with. It was all so surreal, chumming around in Mexico with a movie star. Whose life was this?

If she believed Trisha, it was oh so simple, just enjoy it! But that seemed easier said than done. And then there were Paul’s words of warning about getting attached, and she couldn’t deny an attraction to Mark, as much as she might try.

She opened her eyes and righted herself, treading water. He was still sitting at the stern, looking very much the movie star on his yacht—designer sunglasses, good looks and a glass of red wine in hand. He smiled and gave a low wave. He was her lifeguard so it was good he was keeping an eye, but she’d felt his eyes on her many times through the day and had to wonder what was going on behind those dark glasses. Surely he wasn’t interested in her beyond a casual companion? A tingle ran up her arms to the base of her neck. No, it wasn’t possible. A guy who dated models and movie stars twenty years his junior, attracted to her? Not likely. As she started swimming toward the boat, she realized she would need to climb aboard using the ladder at the stern—right past Mark. A few feet away she stopped, treading water again. “Would you be so kind as to get me a towel? I left it in my bag on the v-berth.”

Mark set his wine glass down and went below, returning a few minutes later with her towel. He set the towel down on the rear bench, picked up his glass, and took a seat on the port side.

Sandra climbed up and over the stainless steel rail of the pushpit, aware of him looking in her direction and conscious of her low cut top as she bent to pick up the towel. She wound it around her torso and stepped down into the cockpit. He watched her without saying a word, his hand cradling his glass of wine.

T
he sails filled as Mark steered the boat south toward La Paz. The wind was behind them now and still light.

“It won’t be a quick trip back but we should make it by our five pm curfew,” Mark said.

“Sounds good, Captain.” Sandra’s hair was nearly dry and she tucked it into a pony tail to keep it from blowing forward into her face. She sat near the stern, a few feet from Mark’s position at the helm, looking in their direction of travel.

“You enjoyed, then?” Mark asked.

He was standing and she smiled up at him. “It was nice. Thank you for taking me.” Her eyes explored the landscape as they passed by, the desert dark and colourless between the blue of the water and the blue of the sky.

“And you’d come again?” His hair blew across his cheek and forehead when he turned to face her.

Part of her wanted to say yes, but as soon as his invitation met her ears, that other feeling returned, the one that crawled up in her chest and tightened its grip. “Sure, if there’s time ... sometime.” She turned her attention to the genoa, its white fabric pulled tight by the wind.

“Ha! Such enthusiasm.”

“I only meant that I’m not here that long, and who knows how long you’ll be here, and it’s possible the boat won’t be available—”

“I get it. I get it.” He smiled and focused ahead beyond the bow that rose and fell with the waves. “We’ll play it by ear is what you’re saying.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” What she was saying was that, as much as she’d enjoyed the day, she wasn’t sure she wanted to continue spending time with him. The moments she felt at ease were fleeting, and being his hiding-out-in-Mexico entertainment, cast aside when he went back to his life, didn’t suit her at all.

Sandra felt the wind freshen at the back of her neck and turned to look behind. Dark clouds were building over the headlands near the bay they’d been moored in.

“Should we be concerned about those?” she asked, pointing to the clouds.

Mark turned his head to look. “No. Thunderstorms are a summertime thing in this area. There were clouds this morning that departed without issue. I’m sure these will too.”

Sandra continued to look at the darkening sky off the stern. “Fair enough, but if I were home on the prairie, I’d be thinking about battening down the hatches. These things can come up fast.”

“We might get a bit more breeze and a scattering of rain but I venture that will be the worst of things.”

“Okay, I’ll trust you, but I’m going down below to grab my jacket all the same. Do you want one?”

“I didn’t bring anything.”

“Seriously, you didn’t bring a sweater or a coat?”

“Indeed I did not.”

“Foolish Englishman.” She went below to get her jacket. She was half way across the cabin when the gust hit, sending the boat lurching on its nose and knocking her to the floor. Her head clipped the corner of the table on her way down. “Shit!” Sandra put her hand to her head and got back on her feet, holding the settee to maintain her balance. Jacket mission abandoned, she hurried to the cockpit and saw the cloud was building to a towering mass, its layers boiling one on top of the other. The waves were cresting all around them, the rolling sea transformed into a frothing mass.

“I’ll need your help to drop the sails.” Mark hit the start button and the diesel engine roared to life. He began turning the boat toward shore and into the direction of the wind. As the wind released the sails from its grip, the stiff fabric snaked back and forth, whipping the air. “Release the sheet on the jenny so I can furl the sail.” Mark shouted over the fusion of roaring wind, snapping sails and diesel engine. Sandra released the line that held the back of the genoa and Mark hit the button for the roller furling. Nothing happened. He hit the button again, and again, then with more force. Nothing. He looked at Sandra, his mouth a grim line.

Her eyes went to the deck of the boat, searching for the halyard. She grabbed the red line marked genoa and pulled as hard she could. The line popped from the cleat and the top of the genoa went loose. The bow rose and fell dramatically as it dove into a trough and then shot up on the crest of another wave, each one bringing a cascade of salty water over the front of the boat. Sandra took a deep breath and climbed out of the cockpit onto the deck.

“Don’t do that, Sandra!” Mark shouted.

She glanced back at Mark and then to the bow of the boat. There wasn’t a choice. She made her way forward, clutching the lifeline as she went. By the time she got to the bow she was on her knees, gripping the rail of the pulpit. She let go with one hand and grabbed the front edge of the sail. Something was jammed, it wouldn’t slide down the forestay to the deck. She looked up at the stubborn sail and her father-in-law’s voice echoed in her head, ‘
Remember, one hand for the boat and one hand for you
.’
Sorry Dave, I’m going to have to break that rule.
Sandra let go of the pulpit and hauled down on the sail with both hands. It dropped, a few feet, and she reached up and pulled again. The sail was mostly on deck, its folds resting against the starboard stanchions and lifelines. She reached for a handhold just as a huge wave hit the bow and washed over the foredeck. Her knees slid across the wet surface and her legs went under the pulpit crossbar and over the side. The water pulled at her as the bow rose but she wrapped her arms around a pulpit post and held on. She could hear Mark yelling from the back of the boat but couldn’t make out the words. Life jacket—why hadn’t she put on her life jacket? Even on a calm day on Lake Ontario they always wore life jackets.

Again she felt the grip of the water on her lower body as the bow dipped into a trough. The next time the bow rose she swung her right leg toward the deck of the boat. Her ankle smacked into the rear post of the pulpit before dropping back over the side. She held tight through the next wave and tried again. This time when her leg swung upward it was grabbed between two strong hands that pulled her through the pulpit opening and back onto the deck. She lay there with her arms still encircling the post, soaked to the skin, her breath coming in gasps. As another large wave swept the bow, Mark dropped to the deck next to her and wrapped his arm around her torso. She could feel the warmth of his body through her wet clothing and she shuddered as the tightness eased and the fear left her. She turned her head toward him, her arm still wrapped around its anchor. His face was white and only inches from hers, his hair plastered to the sides of his face.