House of the Blue Sea (29 page)

***

A
fter two days of mostly sleeping and reading, Mark’s hangover of alcohol and emotion was gone and he was feeling more himself. It was time to clean the kitchen and get this thing sorted with Sandra. Sure, she’d said she didn’t want to talk to him, but that was the morning after, when the wound was fresh. He thought he knew her well enough to believe that she’d be more open to forgiving him by now. He’d go to Pablo’s tonight. Ian LeRoy would be playing, so no fear of the Frenchman keeping him from talking to her.

He pulled the crusted, blackened pan from the sink, floating bits of congealed fat on the dark water. “Blimey,” he said out loud. “This would have been easier a few days ago, Jeffery.” But there was no gain in regretting the making of a mess, only a time to start cleaning it up.

***

H
e waited until after eight o’clock to go to Pablo’s, when he knew Ian would be on stage. He heard the music as he descended the stairs. When he stepped inside, his eyes went to the bar, counting on Sandra to be occupying one of the stools. A young couple sat at one end sipping at two straws from the same over-sized margarita glass, an older woman with short spiky hair was two spots down from them, and a Mexican gentleman had the end stool.
Damn
. He took a quick look around the room but saw no tables of one, only twos, threes and fours. Well, maybe she was coming down later. He’d wait.

Mark took the stool halfway between the spiky-haired woman and the solo gent, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the bar. Arturo came from the kitchen and gave him a broad smile. Well, at least someone was happy to see him. “Señor, good evening. What can I get for you?”

“Hello Arturo. I’ll have a Corona—no, wait, just bring me a coffee, please.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, coffee.” He wanted to keep his thoughts clear. “Have you seen Ms. Lyall tonight?”

“Sí, she is over there.” Arturo pointed his chin toward a table behind Mark and opposite the stage. Sandra was seated with two other women, both in their forties or fifties, dressed in the tropical tourist uniform of loose cotton shirts and capri pants. Sandra was talking, her hands moving along with her lips, her companions nodding and laughing. He wondered what story she was telling them and if it was one he’d heard, or maybe even one he’d been part of. Just then she glanced toward the bar and spotted him. Her hands stopped moving for an instant. He smiled at her but there was no acknowledgment of his presence, only an averting of her eyes and a return to the conversation.

So, now what?
He was certain she’d seen him but her response was far less than encouraging. Should he go over and ask to talk to her? Maybe he’d wait awhile to see if her friends would leave.

During the break, Ian joined the table of three women. Behind him, Mark could hear Ian speaking French in a dramatic fashion, the laughter of the women, the conversation lively and cheerful. He continued to face forward, nursing a second cup of coffee. Sandra’s companions weren’t going anywhere now that they’d met the performer; that much he knew. He’d just have to go over and say hello. The thought made his throat constrict and caused his stomach to churn. What was it Paul had said when he was bound for the horse ranch, you’ll survive it? And he would, even if she spat in his face, he’d survive it. What he wouldn’t survive were the feelings of guilt and regret.

***

I
an was playing again, a tune that had the table of three women clapping along and completely focused on the music. It seemed as good a time as any. He slid off the stool and made his way across the restaurant, coming around to Sandra’s side. He touched her shoulder and her head turned toward him and up. The smile fell from her face and she stopped clapping. One of her friends turned briefly to Mark but then refocused on the stage.
Not a Jane Eyre fan apparently—lucky break.

Mark leaned toward Sandra’s ear. “Can we talk?”

She said nothing, just shaking her head and looking back to Ian.

“Please? A few minutes, that’s all I ask.”

She looked at him then and he saw the pools forming in her green eyes. “I can’t. Please go.” She turned away.

There was no anger in her expression or words, something worse, something he didn’t know how to respond to. He straightened and stood looking at the top of her head for a moment. So that was that.

T
he sky wasn’t looking right and she couldn’t sort out why. Sandra dabbed more cerulean on parts of the canvas.
No, that’s not it.
She stepped back from the painting, looking from it to the horizon and again to the canvas. The late afternoon sky was streaked with trailing clouds, giving it a striped appearance. A sailboat was heeled over and beating upwind on Sandra’s canvas where none existed on the sea in front of her. She’d set up at the palapa farthest from the hotel, hoping to be left alone. It had been a few days since she’d seen Mark, but she’d been keeping to herself and spending less time in Pablo’s so she wasn’t sure if he’d been around or not. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a man leaving the hotel and heading in her direction. Her breath shortened and she felt her chest go tight, but he had far too little hair to be Mark. It was Paul. She waved the hand that held her paint brush.

“Ah, the artist at work on another masterpiece?” Paul asked when he was close enough to be heard over the surf.

“I don’t know about that, but another painting. I’m having some difficulty getting the sky right.”

Paul came around beside her to view the canvas. “Not enough white,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Sandra continued to look at the painting, her eyes travelling from it back to the clouds. “You know, I think you’re right.” She turned to Paul. “How did you figure that out so quickly?”

“Fresh eyes maybe, and I’ve seen a lot of your work. I’m always amazed with how you use white to bring out the colours. It’s what I love about your latest painting of Mar Azul. I’ve been chastised many times for leaving the hotel white and not making it more colourful and ‘Mexican looking’, but I’ve always loved it just the way it is.” His eyes went to the whitewashed hotel with its blue accents. “And in your painting, it’s white, but it reflects the colours that surround it—the sky, the water, the sand—” he swept his arm in an arc over his head, “and the colours leap off the canvas like they’re alive. It’s phenomenal, which is why I now own it, of course.”

“I’m so glad you like it. I was tempted to keep it for myself but I’m happy to have it hanging here. And I don’t believe I ever thanked you for buying it, so thank you. You helped make my first show a sell-out success.”

Paul gave a nod of his head. “But I didn’t come down here to talk to you about your painting. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.” Sandra put her brush in water and placed the cover on her stay-wet palette.

Paul pulled the two canvas chairs around to the far side of the palapa and they sat sideways across the outstretched lounging sections. “Is there a problem?” Sandra asked.

“There is, but it’s not your problem, so I completely understand if you don’t want to involve yourself.” His eyes dropped to his feet in the sand. “It’s Mark. I had written this whole thing off as rather typical moody movie star behaviour, but I’m worried about him.”

Sandra looked out to the waves rolling onto the shore, squinting at the sun reflecting on the water.
What on earth am I supposed to learn from all of this? It better be good.

He continued. “I know. I have no business asking, and I’m not suggesting you involve yourself in a relationship with him, more the opposite in truth, but I’m hoping you’ll talk to him. This whole business with his agent and with you is messing him up in a way I’ve not seen before, and if he had a chance to unburden himself, apologize, it might help him move forward.” Paul’s eyes searched Sandra’s face.

“Has he been here? Did he ask to see me again? I thought I was clear.”

“No, he hasn’t been back, other than to drop off the balance of a case of wine. He’s never been much of a drinker until this past month, you know. I’m hoping he’s figured out it’s not the solution he’s looking for.”

“Well, that’s something,” Sandra said. “But I don’t see how I can help. In fact, I seem to be good at setting him off.”

“And it may not seem like it, but that’s a
good
thing. Mark has so rarely been challenged; it’s been a pretty easy ride until recently. And he’s reacted rather predictably like a spoiled child, which is why I haven’t been inclined toward sympathy until I saw him this morning.” Paul’s voice caught and he paused. “I dropped by on my way to pick up fish down at the docks. He’s looking and sounding ... broken. I don’t know what else to call it. He’d hardly meet my eye, just kept looking at his iPad, scrolling through page after page of tabloids. I couldn’t draw him out, couldn’t even make him angry, and I’ve always been good at that.” The corner of his mouth turned up a little. “So, will you talk to him? He didn’t ask. I don’t think he will again. And I’m betting you won’t see him before you leave if you don’t want to.”

Despite her anger, the thought of a beaten Mark immediately brought a tightness to Sandra’s throat. Damn it! How could she feel sorry for this guy after the things he’d said, after he’d used her the way he had. She’d started to feel that he liked her for who she was, not simply as filler for some void in his life, but a bottle of wine makes a good polygraph. She felt the tears coming and looked away toward the water again. “I really don’t know that I can help.”

“I don’t either, but I have a sense that you can.”

She continued to watch the waves rolling and cresting as they ascended the beach. Such a simple, reliable rhythm they made. Simple rhythms, that was how she’d rebuilt her life these past four years, a life that remained fragile and needed protecting. “I’m sorry, Paul, I just don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t think I can.”

“You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. The wise words of A.A. Milne, via Christopher Robin. I don’t like to push, really I don’t, but give him ten minutes, leave at the first angry word, that’s all I ask.”

Paul and his hotel had been the light at the end of a long tunnel and he had never asked anything of her. Maybe she could do it for him. Maybe she was stronger than she seemed. “All right, I’ll go, because you’ve asked, but I can’t promise it won’t make the situation worse.”

Paul reached out and took Sandra’s hands between his. “Thank you. You’re a good person, and a much better friend than he deserves.”

***

S
andra chose mid-morning as timing for a visit to Mark. Paul offered to let him know she was coming but she felt it better to show up unannounced. If she was going to be of any help she needed to see him real, not with time to put on his actor face. As she walked along the beach toward San Leandro, vacationers were out making the most of their time away from winter—walking, swimming, or just lying in the Mexican sun. She noted the house that Ian had described as belonging to the two Canadians hosting the Canada party. It was one story of pale orange stucco with a wide front of windows and a covered deck facing the beach. The deck area alone was large enough to accommodate the number of people expected at the gathering and its low height would make it easy for the party to spill onto the sand if needed. It was perfect—as Ian said it would be—and Doug and Jeremy, excited about the idea, were happy to play hosts. The party was tomorrow. She’d have to stop in San Leandro after her visit with Mark to pick up the ingredients for her food contribution.

Sandra stopped on top of the headland and took a seat on the bench. It had been just over a week since she had last sat here. The view out to sea was almost identical but how different her view of her relationship with Mark was today. Both times she felt hopeful, both times anxious, but today there was no sense of a future with him beyond the next hour or so. She wondered if a future that included a man was in the cards for her at all. Despite the hurt it caused, Mark’s absence the past week had certainly brought simplicity and clarity back to her life. Trisha claimed both were synonyms for boredom, and instructed Sandra to not let one bad dating experience send her scuttling back into her shell, or something to that effect. Sandra smiled and shook her head as she remembered the conversation with Trisha two days ago. At least she finally agreed, reluctantly, that Mark Jeffery was maybe not a good bet, at least not for Sandra. But, now that the dating ice was broken, Trisha was likely lining up prospects for when Sandra returned home. Oh joy.

Well, best get this over with
. She stood and took one last look at the blue waters of Cortez, feeling a bit like Daniel entering the lion’s den.

A
s Sandra approached the house she debated on whether to go around back or climb the stairs to the deck.
Might as well try coming at it from a different angle
. The French doors were closed this morning and the blinds across the front of the house completely drawn.
Is he even here anymore?
You didn’t see blinds closed to the beach in Baja. Sandra was inclined to cover windows only when absolutely necessary, especially here by the sea. She remembered years ago her grandmother joking about the lack of blinds on her bedroom window at the lake house,
“If someone in a boat wants to see an old lady undress, they can be my guest”.
She was a wise woman.

Sandra reached the top of the stairs and knocked, tentatively at first, then hard enough to rattle the panes of glass in the door. There was no point in tip-toeing around. She heard a sound from inside and then a hand pulled the slats of the blind down at eye level. The hand let go and the blinds returned to their orderly state. The door opened and there was Mark, looking well on his way to how he’d appeared when she first met him: rumpled and bearded.

“Hi,” Sandra said. “I was in the neighbourhood ...” She didn’t know what else to say.

He stood looking stunned for a moment and then stepped aside to let her in. “Come in. Please. Sorry, I’m just surprised to see you.”