House of the Blue Sea (6 page)

P
aul looked up from his desk. “You’re here early. And I see you found your iron.” He nodded his head in the direction of Mark’s slacks.

“Funny. Perhaps you should have gone into comedy. And good morning, by the way.”

“Can I get you a coffee? I assume that’s why you’re here, a little jolt to get your day started.”

“I’d love a coffee, but I’m actually here to buy a painting.”

“Right. Yes. Sandra mentioned you’d be by to look at that piece. It’s turned out very well.”

“I’ve no doubt. She’s talented.”

“She is, although she doesn’t seem to know it. Canadian humility, I guess.” Paul wagged his finger at Mark. “And don’t you be taking advantage of that.”

“Of course not. I’ve offered her what I think is quite a fair price.”

Paul glanced at the clock on the wall. “She’s normally up on the roof about now. I’ll go tell her you’re here.”

“No, you carry on. I’ll wander up.”

“Well, she might not appreciate that. She’s up there at this time of the morning because no one else is.”

“I’m sure it will be fine. I’ll just let her know I’m here and come back down for a coffee. She can take her time getting the painting.”

“The thing is ...” but Mark didn’t hear the rest. He was out the lobby door and on his way to the stairs.

As he climbed to the roof, first to come into view were Sandra’s feet with toes pointed and reaching up into the yellow-blue of dawn. He stopped, questioning whether or not he should proceed. Curiosity got the better of him. Each step brought her more completely into view—straight legs wrapped in short white tights, a pale green cotton tee falling away from her midsection, shoulders squared and arms framing the back of her head with hands gripping below her blonde ponytail. He stopped on the last step, waiting. The minutes ticked by and Mark wondered if he should go quietly back down the stairs or say something. He chose the latter.

“Hello.”

Sandra’s legs veered right before bending and forming a landing pad for the rest of her.

“I’m sorry, I seem to have startled you again.”

“You do have a way of sneaking up on people.” She smoothed the hair away from her face. “I didn’t expect you so early.”

“Yoga. That’s a healthy way to start the day.” He was suddenly conscious of how his belly pushed out the front of his shirt. He sucked it in.

“It helps to balance the margaritas and Paul’s cooking when I’m here.” She pulled her feet underneath her and stood, adjusting clothing as she went.

“Do you practice every day?”

Her t-shirt had ridden up her torso during the headstand and she gave it a few quick tugs to draw it down over her slim waistline. “Most days, but sometimes it’s too tempting to lie in bed and listen to the surf.” She was smoothing her hair again, and pulling at the legs of her tights. “I never seem to be able to get to it later in the day. It’s a morning-or-not-at-all kind of thing.” Her eyes met his and her cheeks flushed.

He dropped his right foot down one stair. “I don’t mean to interrupt. Paul said you were up here, he didn’t tell me what you’d be doing.”
Although he may have tried.
“I can go have a coffee while you finish.”

“I am finished. I like to end with a headstand. It gives me a little rush to launch me into the day. And it’s supposed to help me stay young looking.” She smiled for the first time and patted her cheeks with both hands.

“I’ll have to get you to teach me then. Looking in the mirror can be a rather shocking event these days.”

“Give me a minute to put away my things and grab the painting. Meet you in the lobby?”

“Have you eaten breakfast?” Mark asked.

“No, not yet. A full stomach makes yoga more difficult, bending around the extra bulk.”

“I can imagine.” Mark placed a hand on his belly. “Paul makes a delicious omelette. Join me?”

“You know ... I ...”

“At home I typically dine with the gulls but Paul chases them off his patio and I hate to eat alone.”

She met his eyes and then slowly nodded her head. “Okay ... but none of those addictive omelettes. What sort of crack does he put in there anyway?”

Mark laughed. “No one’s sure. We don’t want to ask in case it’s something illegal.”

“I’ll stick with my fruit and granola.”

“Of course you will. Bloody health fanatics—bastards! Always making the rest of us feel like schleppers.”

“That is why we do it.”

“I knew it! At last one of you is willing to confess. I’ll leave you to pack away your mat of torture and see you downstairs.”

W
ith the tube of her yoga mat tucked under one arm and water bottle in hand, Sandra headed for her room to put things away and retrieve the painting.
At least I didn’t make a complete ass of myself this time but I’m sure I look a mess
.
What’s with stopping by so early in the morning? Doesn’t he know women, especially older women, need prep time before seeing other members of the human race?
Sandra stepped into her room and threw her yoga things on the bed before turning to look in the full length mirror.
Okay, not completely hideous, but maybe a bit of make-up would help, and a long shirt to cover up my backside in these tights. Breakfast? Why on earth did I agree to breakfast? Is it remotely possible that I can function like a normal person with Mark Jeffery watching me eat?
Sandra dusted a bit of powder on her face and added some bronzer to the tops of her cheekbones. Her ponytail had released wavy strands from its binding, leaving them to dangle around the sides of her face.
Hmmm ... tidy or leave it be? It looks natural, leave it alone
. She pulled a button-up cotton shirt from the closet and slipped it on over her t-shirt and tights. “Better,” she said aloud, forcing a smile at her reflection. “I look like I’m on vacation, which I am.” The smile left her face and was replaced with a furrowed brow.
Buck up, girl. He’s just a guy.
She turned to leave, the hotel room door swinging closed behind her before she remembered the painting.
Right, he’s here to purchase art.

The breakfast patio was situated on the south side of the hotel with beautiful views of the sea, the beach, and the mountains in behind. It didn’t offer the rooftop’s 360-degree view, but was one of Sandra’s favourite spots in the building. The side against the wall of the lobby was filled with flowering plants in bright pots, and ceramic art in the shape of starfish and other sea creatures swam on the white wall, all pointed toward Cortez. Once Pablo’s was open in the afternoon, the half-dozen tables and chairs were stacked in the corner and sunbathers dozed on canvas loungers, working on their take-home tans.

Mark was sitting with his back to her looking out at the water. She walked toward him, keeping the painting facing her body. The flutter in her belly and the moisture on her palms reminded her this was not
just a guy
she was meeting. Like it wasn’t nerve-wracking enough putting her work out there for scrutiny—really, Mark fricking Jeffery? She inhaled deeply, willing the nervousness to subside.

“Are you ready for the big unveiling?” she asked as she approached his table.

He turned in his seat. “Ready. Do we need a drum roll?”

“No, but I might need a drink. I’m remembering why I don’t sell my paintings.”

Mark crossed his legs and placed his hands around the top knee. He smiled, probably trying to look reassuring, but the Mark Jeffery smile was anything but comforting under the circumstances.

“Okay, here goes.” Sandra turned the painting and held it in front of her, a flat hand pressed into each side of the canvas. She closed her eyes. Silence. She opened one eye and then the other.

Mark was looking at the painting but she couldn’t read his expression. “It’s splendid. You’ve done a superb job of finishing it, and it’s ideal for the spot I have in mind.” He raised his eyes to her face. 

“Well ... good ... I’m glad,” she said.

“Do you still need that drink?”

“It’s actually a bit early for me, even in Mexico.” She set the painting on one of the extra chairs, her shaking hands rattling it against the wicker. Taking the seat opposite Mark, she jammed her hands underneath her thighs.
Stay still, damn it!

Sandra watched him, his eyes travelling over the painting.

Mark turned toward her and slapped his hands on the table top. “So, to business. Will a cheque do? If not, I don’t have enough cash in-pocket but can certainly get it when I next go to La Paz.”

“A cheque won’t do, I’m afraid.” Mark’s eyebrows lifted. She continued, “But neither will your cash. It’s a gift, for your new house.”

“No-no-no, that’s not what we agreed to.”

“I know, but, I’ve given it some thought and, since I’ve had the pleasure of viewing your work on the screen, you should enjoy mine on canvas. It’s a fair exchange.”

“But you probably paid the going rate to go to the cinema?”

“Truthfully, I’m not much of a theatre-goer. I enjoy most of my movies on DVD or television, so I’m not a great contributor to your industry. Sorry.”

“Oh, no need to apologize to me. Neither am I.” Mark leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “You know, I’m kind of surprised that you’ve seen my work. You strike me as more of a film festival person than a fan of romantic comedies or period dramas.”

Sandra pulled her now steady hands out from under her legs. The conversation was helping her to relax. “I think people generally take art too seriously. If it’s not for enjoyment, then for what? Serious or complex movies can be enlightening, but there’s nothing quite like a good romantic story. It’s kind of like appreciating a gourmet meal and fine wine but also liking a good hamburger with an ice cold beer.”

Mark chuckled. “You have a point. Although I’m not sure how I feel about my life’s work being compared to a burger and a beer.”

“I don’t mean that romantic comedies and period pieces don’t have impact. I think they do, if they’re done well.”

“Well, that’s a relief, although I’m not sure I agree with you.” Mark seemed to be contemplating his hands, now interlaced and resting on the table top.

“Have I interrupted the negotiations?” Paul asked as he walked toward them from the lobby.

“You have in fact,” Mark said. “I’m just in the process of refusing the rather ridiculous offer made by Ms. Lyall.”

“She’s asking too much, is she? Good girl, Sandra. Old money bags here can afford it.”

“On the contrary, she’s trying to
give
me the painting, the one I’ve offered fourteen hundred dollars for.”

Paul shook his head at Sandra. “Oh no, you don’t want to do that. I’ve heard the stories about him negotiating movie contracts. He deserves the same lack of mercy.”

“I see ...” Sandra lowered her eyes across the table at Mark. “But I haven’t changed my mind. I told him at the beginning that I don’t typically sell my paintings—how many have I given you now, Paul?—so gift it I will. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

“But I am just a poor
hotelero
... no comparison.”

“Take it or leave it.” Sandra looked back at Mark.

“You drive a hard bargain, my Canadian friend, and I see no choice but to accept your terms. But ... on one condition. I owe you dinner, here at Pablo’s, or in the village if you prefer.”

“Make him cook.” Paul interjected.

“He’s a good cook?”

“Quite. He’s responsible for a couple of the favourites on Pablo’s menu, and he should have to work harder than simply paying the tab.”

“All right, dinner then, home cooked, nothing out of a package, and I do enjoy a nice red wine.” Sandra extended her hand across the table to Mark. When he took her hand she felt her face flush with warmth as their eyes met. Right. She’d almost forgotten who she was talking to.

“Glad I could help broker the deal.” Paul pulled out his pad and pen. “Now, what can I get you for breakfast?”

“I’ll have your Florentine omelette and I believe the lady will have something intended to make me feel terribly guilty about every delicious bite.”

“Ah, the usual then. One breakfast sundae coming up. And to drink?” Mark ordered black coffee and Sandra, the caramel macchiato.

“And so the lady does have a weakness,” said Mark.

“Oh yes, more than one, I’m afraid,” said Sandra.

“Don’t tell him that, you’ll just send him digging for the others.” Paul left them for the kitchen.

Sandra’s eyes went to her hands clenched in a ball on her lap, wondering what on earth they could talk about until they had food to put in their mouths. The only business they had in common, her painting, had been settled. She could feel his eyes on her. She met his gaze, those brown eyes making her breath shorten for a second; they reminded her of when her father took her gold panning, dark saucers with flecks of gold. “S-so ... Paul tells me you’ve been friends a long time, since high school?”

“We have. He’s a good chap. I still feel badly that things didn’t work out for him.”

“You don’t think they did? He seems happy here and business is good.”

“True, but he didn’t have the success in films that he would have liked.”

“Maybe life had a different path in mind for him. I know I’m glad he’s here. Mar Azul has been a haven for me.”

“Do you honestly believe that, that life has a plan for each of us?” Mark asked, his tone changing.

“Ah ...” Sandra hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess it helps sometimes, when life dishes out events that don’t make any other kind of sense.” Even four years later, just a few words could bring thoughts of Nick flooding in. She spotted a sail on the horizon, making its way south through the waves.

“I think we choose our own path, we just don’t always like where it leads. And other people get in our way or sabotage our progress.” Bitterness had crept into his voice.

“Is that what you think happened to Paul? Other people got in his way?”

“Not specific people, but the way the industry is structured, who it favours, who it doesn’t, the fact that there are many more actors wanting jobs than jobs wanting actors. I think good people fall victim to it, like Paul.”