House of the Blue Sea (27 page)

Sandra enjoyed the walk to San Leandro, so Mark had offered to drive her home at the end of the night. It was a good area, quite safe, but a lone woman on a beach at night was still vulnerable. The beach was quiet now in the late afternoon; vacationers were settling in for dinner or cocktails. There were a number of homes along the stretch between Mar Azul and San Leandro, all fairly small and in keeping with an environment that felt more remote than touristy. Sandra spotted a man and woman seated at a table in front of an orange stuccoed house. There was a white tablecloth and what looked like fine dinnerware and a bouquet of red roses. It appeared they were celebrating something—maybe an anniversary? It had been a long time since she’d had anything to celebrate with a man, unless you counted her brother’s fiftieth birthday.

At the top of the headland Sandra sat down on the bench. To her right stretched the mile of beach past the vacation homes and Mar Azul, to her left the bay of San Leandro, and straight ahead the Gulf of California. Mainland Mexico rested somewhere beyond the horizon, the curve of the earth hiding it from view. Looking at the ocean from a high vantage point always reminded Sandra of the earth’s vastness and, despite the feeling it brought of being a small part of a very large system, it gave her a sense of her own power. Powerful, that was a good way to head into the evening.

She pulled Paul’s hand-drawn map from her shoulder bag. It showed the trail as it went over the headland and down into San Leandro Bay. Amusing, since she’d walked the trail to the village many times and certainly didn’t need a map to find her way there. Paul was so meticulous. It looked as though Mark’s place was a short distance from the main beach area, the house right on the water, third place down from where the main street of the village dead-ended at the sea, and golden yellow. It would be hard to miss. She tucked the map into her bag and set off down the trail.

***

T
hird house—golden yellow—must be the place. There was a staircase off the beach leading to a wide deck but she wasn’t sure if the French doors would take her to a main entrance or a bedroom. Showing up in his bedroom might be awkward; better to go around the back and find the door off the street. A narrow stone pathway took her up past the house, flowering shrubs crowding in on both sides. The scent of the generous pink blossoms reminded her of a perfume her aunt used to wear too much of. The smell was quite pleasing when it wasn’t wrapping itself around her in a bear hug. A tile staircase climbed to the second level and the wrought iron railing was hung with ceramic pots, each an explosion of red, purple and yellow flowers. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the heavy wood door. No answer. She looked around for a doorbell but, seeing none, she knocked again, more firmly this time.

“Yes, yes, I said come in,” she heard Mark call from inside the house.

Surprised by his tone, Sandra hesitated. Maybe he was just in the middle of some difficult task in the kitchen. She squared her shoulders and turned the doorknob.

When she stepped inside, the smell of something burnt met her nostrils and the air was thick with smoke.
Ah, that may explain the tone
. The kitchen was to her left, in the back corner of the house, and the main living area was open to it across a counter. French doors led from there onto the high deck she’d seen from the beach. The house, while not large, was appealing, with its wooden open-beam ceiling and red tiled floors. The walls were a sunshine yellow, less gold than the exterior of the house, and the kitchen cupboards a sky blue. 

Mark had his back to her, focusing on something on the stove. He didn’t turn around when she came in. She stopped half way between the entrance and the kitchen. “Hello.”

He still didn’t turn around. “Blast!” He picked up whatever was burning on the stove top and threw it into the sink, pan and all.

“Not going well?” Sandra tried to keep her voice cheerful.

“Is it that bloody obvious?” Whatever he’d put in the sink was steaming and spitting and when he turned on the tap it got worse.

She was trying not to laugh. “Can I help?”

“You can help by not standing there gawking at this cock-up that was supposed to be our dinner!” He went back to the stove and was stirring something in a large saucepan.

Still amused, she said, “We could always go over to the hotel for something. Maybe clean this up later?”

He whirled around. “So that’s your solution, is it? Just walk away and do something different?” It was then Sandra heard the slur in his speech, the sound of a voice steeped in alcohol.

“I’m sorry. Have I missed something? Are we still talking about dinner?”

He stared at her, a tomato sauce covered spoon in his raised hand. The sauce ran down the handle of the spoon onto his wrist. “Bugger and blast!” He threw the spoon into the sink with the still steaming pan and wiped his hands on a towel that lay bunched up on the counter. Beside the towel was an empty wine bottle and a half full glass of red wine. It seemed he’d gotten a head start.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Do I seem
okay
? Is this what
okay
looks like where you come from?” He held his hands out wide to give her a good view.

“I’d have to say, definitely no.”

He turned to look back at the water-filled pan, blackened chunks of something unrecognizable floating in it.

“It’s just dinner, Mark. We’ll find something to eat.”

“It’s not the blasted meal, for Christ’s sake!” He continued to stare into the sink.

She waited, watching him, wanting to offer some kind of comfort but, at the same time, afraid to move or speak. “So, what is it then? What’s happened?”

He spun and pointed to a manuscript lying on the floor; it was open and standing like a pup tent next to the dining room table. “You see that?”

She nodded.

“
That
is the script I’ve been waiting for. Do you remember? The masterpiece that was going to lift my career from the gutter and launch me to Oscar stardom? The one my feckless agent assured me was the perfect part for me?”

“I take it it’s not what you were expecting.” Sandra walked over and picked up the script. The cover read One More Chance.
There’s a bit of irony
.

“What I was expecting? No, I’d have to say I wasn’t expecting that piece of absolute rubbish, a dreadful waste of the paper it’s printed on. They should have saved a tree and not bothered!” He turned back to the stove for a moment and then whirled around again. “And to top it off, the role they assured me was equal to the one I had ripped out from under me?—supporting flunky to a couple of near-teenagers. They want me to play the loser father, a character who is so far-fetched and annoying the audience will undoubtedly fast-forward through every one of his scenes if they’re fortunate enough to be watching at home!”

“So, can’t you just say no?”

Mark picked up his wineglass and took a large swallow. “Oh, of course, so simple. I did! I called him immediately and do you know what he said to me? He told me I might not be offered anything better and the clock is ticking. The clock is ticking! So, basically, he’s saying I’m second rate and my career is over.”

“I don’t think he was calling you second rate, maybe just trying to protect your career. That is his job isn’t it?” She tried to sound as conciliatory as possible.

“Oh, and precisely when did you become an expert on the movie industry and what the job of my agent might be?” He set down his glass and placed his hands on the counter top.

Okay, wrong approach
. She attempted to recover. “All right, I know nothing about your business. All I’m saying is that he might just be trying to do his job—”

“He’s trying to cover his own ass is what he’s doing. If I don’t work he doesn’t get paid! And that, that ...” Mark pointed at the script in Sandra’s hands, “insult, happens to pay very well. Why anyone would put money up for this crap baffles the hell out of me.”

His intensity seemed to ease a bit on the last statement; she forged ahead. “So, tell him no, again,” she placed the script on the table, “and wait for something that suits you.”

“Well isn’t that great counsel coming from the artist who has no ambition or desire to do anything more than sit on a beach and paint pretty pictures—for herself! She’s giving me advice on something she knows bugger all about, advice that, followed, could very well end my career. What the hell do you know of my life?”

Sandra felt the heat rush to her face. She placed a hand on the table to steady herself. So, this is what he thinks of her. She wasn’t sure whether she should stay and argue or run for the door. The door was more appealing, but then she remembered Trisha’s words from their call this morning: “Don’t let him frighten you.” This probably wasn’t what she had in mind when she’d said it but the advice seemed to fit the situation. “I don’t see how attacking me is going to help you. I—”

“Attacking you? So now this has become about you, has it? My wretched life is in shreds and you want me to be
polite
. Is that how you deal with things in Canada? Everyone is polite and all the problems magically disappear?” He waved his hands in the air above his head, the volume of his voice building. “Or is that just how it works in your own little sheltered world of ordinary?”

Sandra stood and stared at him. She felt her chest tightening and the tears welling up. No, she would not cry and let him see that he’d hurt her. “Well, excuse me Mr. Rich and Famous. I can’t imagine why I thought you would take my comments as those of a friend, rather than some
ordinary
drone trying to tell you what to do with your illustrious career. I’ll leave you to your self-pity and go back to my sheltered world where people are fucking polite!”

She turned and strode toward the French doors that were open to the deck. She stopped in the open doorway and glared back at him. “Oh, and maybe open another bottle of wine. The first one seems to have done wonders for your perspective.”

“So that’s the solution, is it? Run away? Just like you’re telling me to do? At least I have a career and take my work seriously. You, who dabbles about with your interests, unwilling to let ...”

His voice faded as she plunged down the stairs. By the time her feet touched sand he was on the deck, continuing to shout at her retreating back. She couldn’t get out of range of his voice quickly enough. She wiped the tears from her eyes as she jogged toward the headland.

***

B
y the time Sandra reached Mar Azul she was feeling less shaky but still in shock. She’d seen Mark’s temper before but never directed at her like it was tonight. She’d been right from the beginning, stay away, the man was nothing but hurt waiting for a place to happen, and she’d stepped right into it.
Stupid, stupid girl, Sandra.
She was tempted to go straight into Pablo’s but decided to freshen up in her room first. She’d been crying on the walk back and her mascara probably had her looking like a raccoon by now. She rounded the corner to the stairs leading to the main level and nearly ran straight into Paul.

“Hey! What are you doing back so early?” he asked cheerily. His tone changed when he saw her face. “Oh no, what happened?”

“I’m okay, really. I’ll be down for dinner in a minute, just need to freshen up.”

“No, no. You need to tell me what he’s done.” He looked past her toward San Leandro. “Damn him!”

Sandra touched Paul’s arm. “Paul, I’m okay. He’s having a bad day I think. I’ll be fine as soon as I have some dinner and one of Arturo’s gigantic margs.”

Paul searched her face. “I’m sorry. I told him ...”

“It’s got nothing to do with you. If I walked into something I shouldn’t have, it’s my own doing. See you downstairs in a few minutes?”

Paul stepped aside to let her pass. “Okay, but over dinner you have to tell me what’s happened.”

“Deal,” Sandra said as she took to the stairs.

When she got to her room she threw her bag on the desk and flopped face down on the bed. The smell of the clean pillowcase was soothing and the comforter felt soft underneath her body. If not for her growling stomach she’d be content to lie here until at least the morning. She could always order room service; but no, she’d promised Paul. What was she going to tell him? Your friend is an arrogant, thoughtless ass? She didn’t want to cause a rift between them, although it was possible that was already done. Besides, it wasn’t her job to protect Mark Jeffery from the consequences of his behaviour. Mark Jeffery ... as soon as she’d known who he was she’d wanted to run away, and the first time he’d shown his temper she’d wanted to run faster. Why had she not listened to her own good instincts? But, no real damage done, it wasn’t like she’d fallen in love with the guy. She rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling, blue starfish swimming across it. Had she? The tears started then, running down her cheeks and into her ears. The tightness moved from her stomach to her chest to her throat, its grip making it difficult to breathe. She released a loud sob, then another, and rolled over pressing her face into the pillow.

***

F
ace washed and make-up reapplied, Sandra went downstairs an hour later. Her eyes were a bit puffy and red but she hoped no one would notice in the low light of Pablo’s. She stopped near the bottom of the stairs.
Oh God, what if he’s here?
She couldn’t face him right now and didn’t want to hear some smarmy, drunken apology. She edged over to the wall and peeked around the corner of the entrance, scanning the people inside. No Mark. Good, perhaps he’d passed out. If there was justice in this world he’d have a mother of a hangover tomorrow.

Sandra squared her shoulders, put a smile on her face and walked straight up to the seashell bar. Arturo was taking a drink order and glanced at her, smiling, as she climbed onto a stool. No Paul either; so far, a perfect evening. Then she felt warm hands on her shoulders and her heart thudded in her chest.

“Good evening, mademoiselle. I haven’t seen you for ages,” said a familiar voice in her ear.