House of the Blue Sea (3 page)

Again the familiarity, those wide brown eyes. She took a breath and her eyes went to her painting. The sale would cover over two weeks of her stay at Mar Azul. “Okay then ... why not. $1,400. But on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“The sale isn’t final until you’ve seen the finished work, in case you don’t like it.”

“Fair enough.” The man stepped forward and held out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

Sandra accepted his outstretched hand. “Well, thank you, Mister ...?

“Jeffery. Mark Jeffery. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself.”

Oh God. That’s why he was familiar. This was Mark Jeffery, the British actor Mark Jeffery, the very famous, very handsome British actor Mark Jeffery. Yes indeed, she could see it now, those pearly whites peeking out from behind the beard when he spoke, the wavy mane. Men could disguise themselves so easily by growing some facial hair. And he was a bit bulkier than he appeared in his films.

“And you are?” he asked. Sandra realized her mouth had fallen slightly open and she was still gripping his palm.

“Sorry.” She dropped his hand. “It’s just that I didn’t recognize you. I’ve seen your movies. You look ... different than on-screen.”

Mark’s eyes dropped to his rumpled attire and he ran a hand through his greying brown beard. “Ah, yes, my hiding-out-in-Mexico disguise. Clearly it’s working. But I still don’t know your name.”

“Of course. Sandra, Sandra Lyall.” She reached out to shake his hand—again.

He politely accepted it. “A pleasure, Ms. Lyall.”

“Yes. Absolutely. Mine too.”
Really? Mine too? Shut up, Sandra!

“Canadian?” he asked.

“Me? Canadian. Yes. I am. Is it that obvious?”

“It might have been northern America, but when you’ve studied dialects and accents as part of your job, the little things make the difference.” He paused. “So, back to the business at hand; when do you think the painting will be finished so we can finalize the sale? And I’m not in a hurry so whatever suits you.”

Right, business, thank God.
“When I get started on a piece I usually dive in and work until it’s finished. I’m a bit of an all or nothing painter. So, a couple of days. Tuesday?”

“Tuesday it is. How about I come by early? I like Paul’s coffee.”

“Early Tuesday would be fine.” Should she shake his hand again? No, they’d done that—twice.
Just smile, Sandra. Smile and go back to your work.

“See you Tuesday then. Enjoy your day.” He gave a nod, turned and descended the stairs.

She was such an idiot around anyone remotely celebrity. Mark Jeffery. Wow. Paul hadn’t mentioned he had such a famous friend—probably worried his female guests would be clamouring for an introduction. Sandra had first seen him in a period TV drama twenty years before. He had every woman who watched it falling for those dark eyes and unruly locks. Admittedly, he looked a bit different today, more vagrant than movie star. She couldn’t recall what she’d seen him in last. It had been a few years.

But, right now, a painting to finish, and a pre-sold one at that. She dabbed her brush into the blue-green paint she’d mixed earlier and held it up to the canvas. “I wonder if he’d prefer the water more dramatic or kept as a backdrop?” Sandra mumbled to herself. The brush hovered over the sea, not sure where to touch down.

As the brush continued to hang in mid-air, she was reminded why she didn’t sell her work.

Maybe a swim.

***

“M
ark Jeffery? Are you serious?” Trisha’s face looked up at Sandra from the screen of the laptop. She was Sandra’s neighbour and closest friend, and a big fan of video Skype.

“Quite. He walked right up behind me and offered to buy the painting I was working on. I didn’t recognize him at first, but yes, Mark Jeffery.”

“What did you say? What did you do?” Trisha’s grey eyes were large as she leaned closer to the camera.

“Well, let’s see, I blurted out a few stupid words, forgot to let go of his hand when I’d finished shaking it, and I think my jaw may have dropped. So, all in all, I made quite an impression.”

“I’m sure you did fine. You’re always so hard on yourself.”

“You weren’t there, and just because you would have handled the situation flawlessly doesn’t mean a normal person would.”

Trisha seemed fearless in even the most daunting of situations. She claimed that growing up in a household with four older brothers was the source of her feistiness.

“And so, did you sell it to him?”

“It isn’t finished, so he’s coming back on Tuesday to see the final product and decide.”

“Clever ...” Trisha’s digitized face nodded with raised eyebrows, her curly mane bouncing. “... getting him to come back.”

“I was far from clever during that exchange, simply not finished. I’m not even sure I want to sell it to him, to be honest.”

“Okay, I understand your reluctance to hold a full show in my gallery, but a rich and famous man wants to buy a painting you haven’t even finished and you’re not sure? I don’t get you, Sandi.” Trisha was one of those people who gave everyone a nickname. She’d never gone by her full name and didn’t seem to think anyone should.

“He’s offered me $1,400 US. Is that a fair price?”

“Fair? For an unfinished piece by an unknown artist? Unless it’s the size of a bus I’d say he’s being more than generous. So, enough about art, tell me about
him
? Is he as gorgeous as he is in his films?”

“That’s the thing, not really, at least he wasn’t today. If I’d passed him on the street I might have thought he was an old rummy. His clothes looked like they`d been pulled out of a hamper and there was wine spilled down the front of his shirt ... at least I think it was wine since he smelled like he’d been soaking in the stuff. And, I hate to say it but he’s a bit ... well ... heavy.”

“Fat? Oh lord, don’t tell me that, not my Mr. Rochester!” Trisha had loved him in a BBC mini-series of
Jane Eyre
.

“Well, not
fat
exactly, but a bit ... you know ... thick around the middle. His voice and smile were all I recognized, and the smile was largely hidden behind this scruffy hedge of a beard. He said it was his hiding-out-in-Mexico look but the booze smell makes me think it’s more than that. It wouldn’t be the first time a famous person hit the skids and turned to alcohol or drugs.”

“Come on now Sandi, I think you’re jumping to conclusions. Maybe it was the morning after a good party.”

“Possibly. I’ll let you know how he looks on Tuesday.”

“And what are
you
going to wear? How about that dress I gave you for the trip?” Trisha winked.

“On a Tuesday morning to show someone a painting? I’d look ridiculous! I promise to wear it at the first
appropriate
opportunity.” Trisha had given her a short, red evening dress with a bibbed front and spaghetti straps that wrapped her neck and tied in the back. It looked pretty good, but it was a party dress, not a Tuesday morning on the deck outfit. “Besides, he’s coming to look at my painting, not at me.”

“Ah, but there’s nothing wrong with being noticed.”

Trisha had been noticed at least three times in her life, with two ex-husbands and her current groom to show for it. She changed her name with each successive marriage, liking the variety it provided to an otherwise dull aspect of life. Sandra had once heard her say, “Why wouldn’t a woman want to change her name when she has the chance? A different handbag for every day of the week but one name to carry a lifetime?” She’d started off life as a Boyle, which she wore like an ill-fitting sweater, and was all too happy to change her name to Lang when the opportunity arose. Husband two was a Flanagan, which she thought suited her auburn hair and fair skin. Trisha Flanagan—it did have a nice ring to it. Sandra thought Trisha would leave it there, especially once she’d opened the gallery and created a bit of a name for herself in the art world, but no, Tim came along, and Delaroche had a poetic flair that Trisha felt was a good fit for her now fifty-year-old self. Sandra wondered what Trisha would have done if Tim’s surname had been Butt or Gooch or Schmittendorf.

“I promise to wash my face and comb my hair before I show him the painting. Oh, and change out of my PJs.”

“Very funny. Make an effort. Please? For me?” Trisha had her hands in prayer position at her chin.

“For you ... but plain Jane is about as good as it gets.”

“Humility is such an unattractive quality in a woman, particularly at our age. You look great for almost fifty, and somewhere deep down, you know it. Admit it!”

“I feel great. I’ll admit to that. But nothing more. How’s Tim?”

“Tim’s good, I’m good, and Rufus has settled in fine with Molly and Maxwell. He’s such a little thief. Molly’s so smitten she’s apt to drop her food at his feet as soon as he looks her way with those lost puppy eyes.” Trisha’s Molly and Maxwell were siblings, two purebred dachshunds. “She’s nothing like you, I tell you that. A guy would have to do a lot more than look to get your attention. ”

“I just prefer genuine lost puppies to the human variety.” Sandra had found Rufus five years before, hanging around her back alley, scrounging whatever he could find next to the garbage bins. It was November, and the poor guy looked like he hadn’t had a good feed in months. She eventually lured him into her back porch, and then into the rest of the house. By mid-winter he’d pretty much taken over the place. He slept wherever he chose, ate home-cooked food, and rode around with Sandra in her SUV—in the front seat, of course. Rufus was likely a cross between some kind of terrier and a beagle—beagle size and beagle shape but with wiry hair and a beard.

“Have you seen your friend Ian yet?”

“Now why would you think of him during a conversation about lost puppies? He’s far from being a stray.”

“I don’t know, he reminds me a little of your Rufie with his bed-head and whiskers. So, have you?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll see him soon. I’ve plenty of time and my first priority is to paint.”

“And, when you do see him, what
then
?”

“Ian is a great listener, fun to be with, and a
friend
. Besides, you know I’m not interested in meeting anyone or dating.” Trisha was constantly trying to set Sandra up with someone or imagining more to her friendships than was there. She did it because she cared, but Sandra still found it annoying.

“Maybe I should come down there and see what I can conjure up for you.”

“Oh, really? How many times have I invited you to join me for part of my stay? Let’s see, my second time down I recall inviting you at least twice before I even booked the hotel, another couple of times before I started packing, and multiple times while I was here. By the next year’s trip, I was starting to get the hint but I still asked once or twice. Last year, I think I alluded to the idea just once, and you pretended not to notice.” As long as Sandra had known Trisha, she’d not been further than Banff, about a two-hour drive from her front door. She’d visited every art gallery, eclectic shop, fine dining establishment and theatre in a two-hour radius of home, but not ventured beyond it.

“Some people go for the hundred-mile diet, I’m inclined to hundred-mile travel. It’s environmentally friendly.”

“And that’s why you do it ... right.”

“There’s just so much here in my own backyard, why go to all the trouble of packing a suitcase or getting on a plane. I don’t get what all the fuss is about.”

“The fuss is about summer weather in February. Shorts. Flip-flops. Suntanning. Dining on a patio without the need for a parka—”

“And ... and,” Trisha pointed her finger at the camera, “... sleeping on a mattress other than my Kingsdown, not having access to my closet, leaving behind Molly and Maxwell, entrusting my gallery to
Felix.
Not to mention jamming myself into a flying sardine can with a hundred different kinds of viruses. If I want warm temperatures and skimpy clothes I’ll go to the spa, thank you. And afterward, I’ll pick up a gourmet lunch-to-go from Sunterra Market and eat it in the Devonian Gardens in downtown Calgary!”

“And is there a beach with white sand and rolling surf in your Devonian Gardens?”

“No, but there are over five hundred palm trees.”

“I’m sure there are. I get it. You don’t like to travel.”

“I disagree. I just don’t like to travel long distances. But, if I did, San Leandro would be the first place I’d visit.”

“Well, thank you for that. You’re always welcome, even if you can only come for a few days. The La Paz airport is less than an hour away and I’d be happy to come and pick you up.”

“I know you would, and I appreciate it. But, right now I should be getting back to the gallery. I’ve left Felix on his own for three hours and my palms are starting to sweat. Don’t sell all of your Baja paintings because I’m determined to have a few hanging in my gallery ... or maybe a full showing?” Trisha panned her hand across the screen. “‘
Images of Baja
, by local artist Sandra Lyall.’ I can see the posters now.”

“I’m sure you can, as clearly as you see me getting together with Ian LeRoy. I hope you’re enjoying the imaginary life you’re creating for me, but I prefer my real world. I’m all right, you know. Quite content.”

“I know you are, sweetie. Good to talk to you. I’ll be checking in Tuesday night after your
rendezvous
with Mr. Jeffery.”

“He’s buying a painting!”

“Of course he is.” She winked. “Bye now!” Trisha’s face disappeared from the screen.

“You can be such a pain in the ass!” Sandra said to the Skype logo in the middle of her monitor. “... but in a good way.” She smiled and headed for the shower to remove the salty remnants of the Sea of Cortez.

I
t was after sunset by the time Sandra wandered downstairs to the restaurant. She hadn’t been able to tear herself away from the sky’s end-of-day drama any sooner. She’d have to remember to thank Paul for the perfect room location.

Pablo’s Grill and Lounge was situated on the ground level of Mar Azul and was open to the beach—one of the things Sandra loved most about Mexican architecture, the inclusion of the outdoors. Back home, restaurants had seasonal patios with doors or windows that opened out in good weather, but in Mexico, eating establishments were often as much outdoors as in, with courtyards, glassless windows and absent walls. Pablo’s had been a large stone deck before Paul decided to turn it into a restaurant/lounge and the rough stone flooring and beds of vegetation remained. There were walls on three sides with the fourth open to the sea and the white plaster was adorned with art that Paul had collected during his years in Mexico, most of it from artisans in the area—metal geckos, ceramic suns, brightly coloured paintings.