House of the Blue Sea (30 page)

“I maybe should have called first but I needed to come to the village this morning and—”

“And Paul asked you to look in on me.”

She tried to respond with words but then just shrugged.

“I thought so,” he said. “But no worries, I’m glad you’re here, no matter how it came to be. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” Sandra saw his face tighten and he turned away, taking steps toward the kitchen. “I was making some tea. Would you like a cup?”

“I’d love some tea.”

Sandra wandered the living area of the house as Mark boiled water and heated cups. Her painting hung on the wall behind a sofa, a reminder of how all this had begun. The two people in the painting were still walking along the beach toward one another, still a mystery. Mark’s iPad sat on a small table next to a wingback chair that would normally give a beautiful view of Cortez, but not with the blinds shut tight.

“Can I ask why you have the blinds closed on such a beautiful day?”

“Precisely.”

“Precisely what?”

“Precisely because it’s such a beautiful day. Don’t you ever get tired of it, the weather here?”

“Never, and you’re the first person I’ve heard complain about it being too nice.”

Mark brought a tray from the kitchen and set it on a large square ottoman. “It’s just so interminably pleasant—drives me mad.” He gestured to a double-wide leather and brocade chair. None of the furniture in the living room matched and yet it all came together in a harmonious way. “Sit. Please. That overstuffed thing there is quite comfortable.” He poured two cups of tea, offering cream and sugar from a matching bowl and pitcher. 

Sandra picked up her cup, blew on the surface of the tea and took a sip. “I’ve not seen you drink tea before. I wouldn’t have pegged you a tea drinker.”

“Oh, I’m true to my heritage that way, a proud supporter of the British tea culture. I don’t remember ever
not
drinking it. Well, except when I stupidly decided to try substituting with wine. A rather dull-witted idea as it turned out.” He attempted a smile but it couldn’t break through the darkness clouding his features.

“Paul told me you made a donation to the cellar at Mar Azul.”

Mark nodded and took a drink from his steaming cup. “So, exactly what did my old friend Paul put you up to?”

“He asked me to come and see you, hear you out. He thought it might help.”

“You know I didn’t ask him to do that.”

“I do. And I know you tried to speak with me before. I’m sorry I wasn’t able—”

“
Please
don’t apologize to me for anything. I feel dreadful enough.” He set his cup down and took a long, slow breath before lifting his eyes to Sandra’s. “My behaviour the last time you were here was unforgivable and boorish and I am terribly, terribly sorry. Whenever I think about the unkind words that came out of my stupid, arrogant mouth, I ... you, of all people, didn`t deserve a bit of it.” His head dropped forward into hands propped in prayer position, his index fingers pressing into the space between his eyebrows. “I was angry with Nate, with myself, and I directed it at you.” He lifted his head and his eyes met hers again. “Please, forgive me.”

Sandra had always considered herself an understanding person, but could she forgive him his words? “Of course,” she said.

“Thank you. I don’t believe those things I said. Please know that I don’t. I can’t imagine where they came from. As you know, my life has been in a bit of a state lately but it’s no excuse. I have nowhere to lay blame but here.” He patted his chest with his hand.

“I believe you. Thank you,” she said.

Their two chairs were angled toward each other and to the shuttered view of the sea, close enough their hands could touch if they both reached out. They sat in silence, each sipping their tea, Sandra glancing at Mark every so often. He held his cup in both hands, his eyes fixed on it, his gaze drifting to the tea service whenever he lifted the cup to his lips.

Sandra spoke first. “You know, to paraphrase Jane Eyre, from this distance you’re looking rather alarming, Mr. Jeffery.”

He snorted, nearly spitting tea. “I’m quite certain I am.” He set his cup down and ran both hands through his tangled curls. “Any better?”

“Not really. Sorry. Did you lose your razor again?”

He rubbed a hand over the growth on his face. “I can go shave if it would make you more comfortable.” He sounded serious.

“No, of course not.”

He looked around the room and then back at Sandra. “I’m leaving in a few days. I’ve accepted my fate and taken the part. I’m off to London to finalize things and then to America to begin filming.”

“I see. And you’re happy with that decision?”

“Happy? Good God no, but what choice do I have?”

Sandra was afraid to say what seemed so obvious to her but had launched him into a fury only a week ago.

“I can tell you have something to say. Out with it. Go ahead. I promise to remain civil,” Mark said.

“Only what I’ve said before. Don’t do something that goes against your better judgement and instincts.”

“And throw away a thirty-year career? Because that’s basically what it comes down to, tossing success out the window.”

“Is what you have right here, right now, success? An agent who doesn’t know who you are or what you want and is trying to get you to do something to pad his own bank account? If you’re right, and he believes you’re second rate, then get rid of him. If you don’t believe in your own worth, no one else will, and people like Nate will only drag you down. There is more to you than what he sees.”

“And what more is that then? The bit that’s around my mid-section, this extra chin I’ve been developing, or maybe the crow’s feet next to my eyes.” He pointed a finger at the side of his face. “I’m sure he can see them just as well as everyone else can ... including all the wonderful friends I have, who seem to have forgotten I’m alive and don’t give a fig that my life is crashing down around my ears. In fact, it’s more like they’re afraid they’ll get some on them if they get too close.”

He’d leaned forward and his voice was getting louder but Sandra remained in her chair, holding his gaze. “I give a fig,” she said quietly.

“And look how I treated you.” Mark’s head dropped forward and he ran his hands through his hair again, pulling at it. “The thing is, I don’t want this part.” His eyes met hers, their darkness filled with pain. “The frightening thing is, I’m not sure I want any part.”

“So what is it that you do want?”

“And that is exactly the bloody question I’ve been wrestling with and still don’t know the answer to. I’ve thought about doing something completely different, although I don’t know what that would be. Problem is, when you’ve got people following your every move, it’s difficult to walk away from your work.” Mark leaned toward her, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me, when you left your job as a curator you set out to do something entirely different, reinvent yourself. Is that about right?”

“Yes.”

“And how many magazines and newspapers printed the story of your departure? How many people speculated unkindly about where you’d gone and why? How many headlines reported your has-been status? How many reporters called your friends and family to dig out your hard luck story so they could splash it all over the tabloids?”

Sandra nodded, considering his words.

“Because that’s what happens to a celebrity. When we disappear, even intentionally, we must have done it because we’ve crashed and burned and, even if we didn’t, they’ll report it that way. Why? Because they like to see us fail. It sells magazines.” He leaned back with a thump that moved the chair backward an inch.

“I can see how that would happen. But you know, I would have done it anyway. I felt trapped in my job. I’d never chosen it and, once my father was gone, I had no reason to continue; not that he was a good reason to do it in the first place.”

“So even if you knew your life would be portrayed as a complete fall-out, you’d have walked away.”

“I would have. As for the tabloids, I’ve only experienced them as a reader, but people forget very quickly. And, those who are true fans, like my friend Trisha or Pascual’s wife, will still sit and watch
Jane Eyre
, fall in love with your Mr. Rochester and cry their eyes out, just like they did the first time—or second, or third. That’s the beauty of what you’ve done for the last thirty years, no matter where you go, or what you do next, the best of that work will live on.”

Mark was silent for a moment. She could almost hear the thoughts turning like rusty cogs and wheels. “Thank you for that.” His voice wavered on the last word. “I’ve been having this recurring dream, about a dog, an Alsation of all things.”

“Didn’t you tell me you had a German Shepherd when you were a child?”

He nodded slowly as he explored the back of his left hand with the fingers of his right. “Sig.”

“And do you think it’s Sig in the dream?”

“I’m not sure. Probably. In the dream, the dog needs saving and I seem to be his last chance.”

“Dogs can mean all kinds of things in dreams, according to the experts,” Sandra said. “What does Sig represent to you?”

“I don’t know ... childhood maybe, strength, unconditional love. He was my father’s dog, but in truth he was mine.” Mark was smiling slightly, still examining his hands. “I used to imagine we were a search and rescue team on missions of great importance. I recall we once rescued Queen Elizabeth.” He chuckled but then his face fell. “But he got old and died before I was ten.”

“And what happened to the dream of being a search and rescue guy?”

“Nothing. It was just a boyish game.”

“Are you sure? Didn’t you tell me you wanted to be a doctor? Kind of similar, don’t you think? Both involve saving lives.”

Mark nodded without looking up.

“So what happens to the dog, in your dream?” Sandra asked.

“I don’t know. He’s right there, so close I feel his breath on my face. I think he’s dying but I’m not sure how or why and I don’t know how to help him.”

“I think it’s kind of obvious, and quite ironic that your dog’s name was Sig, Sigmund Freud being the father of dream interpretation.”

Mark looked up finally. “Well tell me then, student of Sigmund, what do you see?”

“Well, to be honest I have no idea what Freud would have said about your dream, but I think the dog represents the dreams you had as a boy, the dreams you left behind when you went to acting school instead of medical school. I think Sig is trying to tell you that it’s time to do something or it will be too late to save it, the dream.”

“So I’m supposed to get a German Shepherd and join a search and rescue team?” Mark raised his eyebrows.

“Possibly.” Sandra shrugged her shoulders. “Although I’m sure there are opportunities better-suited to someone of your circumstances.”

“Ah, you mean my age,” he put his hands on his stomach, “and my physique.”

“So sensitive. No, I didn’t mean that. Well, maybe your age a wee bit.” She smiled at him. “But I was thinking more about your position in life, your influence.”

“I’m afraid I don’t feel very influential at the moment. Other than a model for how not to live your life ... or treat your friends.”

“Well, as a starting place, tell me what you liked about acting, when you first started.”

“I certainly liked the attention.”

“I’m sure you did, but what else?”

He thought for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. “I liked having an impact on people and the way they think. It’s why I wanted to do films with substance, not a never-ending stream of romcoms and period flicks.” He poured more tea for himself and offered some to Sandra. She shook her head.

“So, since there are a lot of things you could do that have the potential to impact or change people—art, writing, teaching, counselling, charitable work, health care, I could go on and on— why acting?”

“I was good at it I guess, and the money was extraordinary as time went on.”

“Well, I was a very good curator; I have a memory for historical details that suited the job incredibly well. At the time I left I’d been offered a position with the National Gallery in Ottawa, about as high up as I could go in my career and for a significant salary increase. That was what sent me west. I knew it wasn’t what I wanted and that if I took it I’d be selling out.”

“So that’s what you think I’m doing, selling out?” He asked the question calmly, without anger in his voice.

“No, I only know it’s what I would have been doing, continuing down a course I’d set myself on because I kept being rewarded along the way. Somehow the National Gallery felt like the point of no return, when it should have felt like reaching some kind of pinnacle. I knew I had to leave.”

“And you’ve never regretted it?”

“Not for an instant.”

“Then you’re a braver soul than I’ll ever be,” Mark said.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You’re older now than I was then, and I think that makes it harder. We’re more courageous when we’re young. We don’t feel quite so mortal.”

“Ah yes, mortality. The growing awareness of the mark we leave on the world, or don’t.”

“No pun intended?”

He smiled for the first time since she’d arrived. It seemed her work here was done. “Well, I should get going.” Sandra rose from the armchair. “I have to come up with the ingredients for poutine.”

“Poutine? Isn’t that chips smothered in cheese and gravy?” Mark stood and followed her the few steps to the French doors.

“You know it.”

“And why are you making poutine? Wouldn’t it be simpler to eat at Pablo’s? If you’re homesick I’m sure Paul would even make it for you,” Mark said.

“There’s an all-Canada party tomorrow night, and foolish me offered to make poutine. It was the most uniquely Canadian dish I could think of, but not the easiest to make from a hotel room. Fortunately, Paul has offered me the use of his kitchen for some of the prep work.” Sandra opened the door and stepped out into the sun. She pulled the sunglasses from the top of her head and placed them on the bridge of her nose. “My, it’s bright out here,” she said with a smirk.

“Now you see why I keep the blinds closed.” Mark held his hand to his forehead, shading his eyes.