House of the Blue Sea (9 page)

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be able to find everything I need.”

“Señora Lyall!
Hola
.
Bienvenido
!” A small man came from behind a shelf of sketch books and canvas boards. He was wearing a loose shirt covered in random splotches of paint, looking somewhat like a Mexican version of Rembrandt with his hair curling out from under his red beret. “I was thinking it was time for you to come back to Baja.”

“I see you don’t need any help communicating,” Mark said in a low voice, putting on a smile.

“Pascual. So good to see you. This is my ... friend ... Mark.”

Pascual came forward and shook Mark’s hand. “But you are Señor Rochester, no?” Pascual’s gaze went from Mark to Sandra and back again, his eyes wide.

“Yes, Mark Jeffery. You’ve seen
Jane Eyre
?” Sandra was surprised.

“Oh yes, many times. It is Antonia’s favourite.”

“I didn’t know Antonia spoke English.”

“She doesn’t, well, very little, but the picture has the voices en Español.”

“Now that I haven’t seen. How do I sound in Spanish?” Mark asked.

“Well, you sound ... very much like a Mexican.”

Mark and Pascual both laughed.

Pascual looked to Sandra. “Will you be coming to the art show, amiga? It is starting in one week.”

“Art show? What art show?” Mark asked.

Every year the art council in La Paz put on a show at the end of February for area and visiting artists. Paul had tried to convince Sandra to put a painting in the exhibit for the past couple of years but she had declined.

“Perhaps this year you will allow us to include one of your pieces? Paul tells me they are very good.”

Mark leaned toward Pascual. “I can attest to that. I own one of Ms. Lyall’s paintings, purchased it yesterday, and I understand she’s got another underway.”

“Perfecto!” Pascual clapped his hands together. “You can enter that one.”

“
That one,”
she lowered her eyebrows at Mark, “is barely started and I’m not sure it will be good enough to put on display.”

“Are you involved with the art show?” Mark asked.

“
Sí
, I am a member of the committee, as is my wife.”

“Well consider Ms. Lyall a participant then, with at least one piece. Mine is not for sale but I’d be happy to include it for display.”

Pascual turned to Sandra. “Even better! With two pieces I can include you in the Visiting Artists tent. And maybe by one week you will have a third?”

“She just might.”

“Excuse me,” she said looking at Mark. “I haven’t agreed to one piece and you’ve got me down for three?”

“Simply trying to be helpful. Put her down for three, Pascual.”

“Don’t put me down for anything. Mr. Jeffery is overstepping his bounds.”

“Please, Sandra. I would be delighted to show the work of a talented Canadian artist. Please reconsider.”

“You’re breaking the man’s heart, señora.” Mark mocked a sad face. “Do you know Pascual, that Ms. Lyall here never sells her art, only hoards it in her cellar?”

“No,
que lastima
! Art is to be enjoyed.”

“You hear that? He says it’s a shame.”

“The two of you are ganging up on me.”

“If that’s what it takes ...” Now Mark was grinning.

“All right!
One
piece.” She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“Plus mine makes two. The beach scene is no longer yours so I will enter it myself if I have to.”

“Don’t you have a rule about that, Mr. Jeffery entering a piece that he didn’t paint but simply owns?”

“We have very few rules—”

“One of the things I like about Mexico,” Mark cut in.

“—but we do have a rule that all art must have been created here in the La Paz area.”

“There you have it. My painting qualifies,” Mark said. “I saw her painting it on the rooftop at Casa del Mar Azul.”

“Okay then, I will contribute two paintings,” she turned to Mark, “under duress!”

“Duress, señora?”

“It means she’s thrilled, and will very likely bring a third piece.”

“
Muy bueno
! You have—what do you English say?—made my day.”

***

I
t was difficult to get out of Pascual’s shop but Sandra finally gathered together the supplies she needed and they returned to the street. It was quiet, which suited Sandra just fine. She was not one for crowds, particularly when she was on a shopping mission. She never had fit the shopping-loving stereotype imposed on her gender.

“So, what’s next on your list?” Mark asked, eyeing her handbag.

“The list is actually up here,” she tapped a finger to the side of her head, “and don’t you have a list of your own?”

“We’ll get to that. Didn’t you mention something about shoes?”

Right, that had slipped out on the drive in. “Sandals, yes.” Sandra stopped walking and looked down at her feet in a pair of faded blue canvas shoes, her baby toes starting to escape through the sides. “As you can see, I’m in need of a new pair of summer footwear.”

“Mmm ... indeed.”

“I didn’t even bother to bring what’s left of my sandals.” She thought of the Mexican sandals she’d bought four years ago on that first trip to Baja. She hadn’t packed any summer things that year and had had to buy everything when she arrived. The sandals were barely holding together these days but she couldn’t part with them, not yet. They’d taken her on such a journey.

“And do you always wait until things fall apart before replacing them?”

“I don’t like buying shoes. I have an unusual foot shape; shoes either pinch or slip. Boots are even worse. When I find something I like, I buy two pair and wear them out.”

“How very practical.”

“Thank you. I think so.” Sandra started walking again.

“But rather dull. You’ll be glad of my help today. I know just the place.” Mark picked up his pace and stepped into the cross-walk.

“I’m sure there’s a shoe store around the corner by the cathedral.” Sandra hung back.

“There is, but they sell Mexican-made shoes only, and I think you may need something European.”

“But I like the Mexican sandals, and I like the price.”

“The shop I’m thinking of has local as well as imported. It will give you a wider variety to choose from. Come on then.” Mark motioned for her to catch up.

***

Z
apatos de La Paz was a block off the waterfront, tucked in between a women’s clothing shop and a store selling Mexican ceramics. How perfect—three interesting shops in one location. Sandra’s kind of shopping. Her mother had been particular about every purchase she made and was willing to travel all over Toronto for the right plums, the best coffee beans, or her favourite kind of underwear. Sandra was more the “one stop and get me out of here” variety of shopper.

The store’s windowed front was floor-to-ceiling shoes displayed on glass shelves with clear plastic stands to raise their heels. Mark held the door open for her. “I bought a pair of shoes here only last week. I’m certain we’ll find something you like.”

Now Mark Jeffery is helping me buy shoes for my oddly shaped feet. Isn’t this a treat.

Like its face, the inside of the store was all glass, a huge aquarium with multi-coloured “shoe fish” swimming in the many full height tanks. A path travelled through the various displays and a small bench sat at the back of the store for trying things on.

“
Buenos días. Bienvenido
. How may we help you today?” The shopkeeper’s English was very good. Her accent sounded as though she’d learned the language abroad.

“The lady is looking for some new sandals, something comfortable ... and fashionable I’m guessing?”

“Yes, and how about I take it from here.” Sandra accompanied her near whisper with a stern look, not wanting the same runaway experience of the art supply store. Next thing he’d have her modelling shoes in the La Paz fashion show, if they had such a thing.

He raised his hands and bowed his head. “Of course. I’m only here if you need a second opinion.”

“We have a nice selection of ladies’ sandals over on this side, all of which are very well made and, I assure you, very comfortable.”

Sandra perused the display of summer footwear in various designs, some with heels, some flat, some adorned with jewels or shells or bits of metal, and others plain. Variety—the blessing and the curse of modern-day consumerism.

“How about these?” Mark pointed over her shoulder to a strappy sandal with a heel.

“I thought you were just a
second
opinion? And really, you think I’d want to run around San Leandro in high-heeled sandals?” But, they were pretty, and the red would go with the dress Trisha had bought her. “These are more my style.” She pointed to a flat-soled shoe with three half-inch leather straps over the instep. Two of the straps were brown, the middle one red, and a vertical strap was decorated with two copper medallions and a red bead.

“Can I try these in a size nine?” Sandra placed a finger on the glass next to the sandal.

“Nine?” Mark raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, size nine. You have an opinion about that too?”

Mark made a zipping motion from one side of his lips to the other.

The sandals were made in Mexico, a selling point, and they were comfortable. She loved the red accents and, even without any kind of heel strap, the shoes clung to her feet, making a day of walking feasible. She checked the sticker on the end of the box and smiled at the low price. “I’ll take two pair please.”

“And she’ll try on a pair of these ... in a nine I believe it was.” Mark was pointing to the red one with a heel. “What? I could tell you liked them. I’m just offering my
second
opinion.”

He was right, as much as she hated to give in. “All right. I’ll try them on. But if they’re not comfortable I’m not buying them.”

“Fine. Fine.” He raised his hands and took a step back.

The shopkeeper brought out a white box and from it produced the larger version of the red display shoe. They were never quite as cute in her size. “These are made in Italy and are very comfortable for a heeled shoe. I have a pair myself.”

Sandra sat down and slid her foot into the curve of the sole. It had arch support, unusual for a shoe with a higher heel. The width was exactly that of her foot and the four connected red straps somehow made her foot look daintier, smaller than its number nine measurement. And, they would go perfectly with her red dress. She buckled the ankle straps and walked one of the store’s narrow aisles toward a mirror. And walkable!

“Well, what do you think?” She turned to Mark who’d taken a seat on the bench.

“I have been relegated to second opinions only. I’ll need to hear yours first.”

“So well-behaved all of a sudden. Well, I like them, and they’re comfortable, and I can’t often say that about dressy shoes.”

“They’re quite lovely. I think you should buy at least two pair.” He was trying to look serious but she could see the mischief in his expression.

She checked the price on the box before turning to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take these as well, please. But just one pair.”

***

W
ith Mark holding the bags of art supplies and shoes, Sandra browsed the ceramics shop, making notes on possible gifts for friends at home and a few new pieces for her own growing collection.

“Why not buy them today since you have your very own Sherpa,” Mark pretended to bow under the weight of the parcels he was holding, “not to mention chauffeur?”

“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it won’t work. I gave you an out when we first got here. You could be sitting on a patio drinking a latte about now.”

“I chose my own fate, you are correct. So, while I am at your service, take advantage. It’s what I would do.”

“I’m sure you would.” He was different today, less edgy, and quite charming, in a pushy way. She was finding it easy to forget she was spending the day with a movie star.

“All right then, English Sherpa, I will take you up on your offer. How much do you think you can carry?”

***

T
hey stepped out onto the bright street, Mark’s arms loaded with two boxes of well-wrapped ceramics, the shopping bags of shoes and art supplies dangling from his hands.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry something? Let me take the bags.”

“Absolutely not. I’d be the laughing stock of my Sherpa order if I let you carry your own parcels. It’s only two blocks to the car.” He set off down the street.

“All right then. Suit yourself. Anyway, that’s it for my list. Should we tackle yours?”

“My list. Right. I guess it’s lunch then!”

“Lunch? That’s your list?”

“It’s the first item on my list. Better to have a go at the rest on a full stomach.”

Sandra recalled her words to Trisha that morning, “I don’t plan to be sitting
anywhere
with him.” But now it didn’t seem like an unpleasant prospect.

L
a Paz’s waterfront featured the five kilometre long el Malecón, with its wide sidewalk, beaches, benches and tourist pier. The iconic Hotel Perla faced the sea. Its lower level, which housed the restaurant and nightclub, open on the street-side. Mark pulled the car into a space half a block past the hotel. Free parking—that was something Sandra seldom found at home. The City of Calgary was always trying to encourage people to come downtown, but without offering anywhere inexpensive to park.

“Have you been to Hotel Perla?” Mark asked as he hopped out of the car.

“I have. I stayed here for a few days on another trip down when I was feeling like being closer to civilization. Great view, but then it’s pretty spectacular at Mar Azul, with less traffic.”

They took the two steps up into the almost street level restaurant. As Sandra wound her way to a table at the front, she could feel Mark’s presence behind her, making her conscious of every step. She settled into a chair that sat sideways to the view and turned her head to look out at the waterfront. The shopping had gone better than expected. She’d been able to relax and enjoy herself. She had to give Mark some of the credit for that, putting her at ease, making it fun. But having lunch with
Mark Jeffery
immediately brought the butterflies to her belly and clams to her palms. What had Trisha said? Be herself? Okay, it was worth a try. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose, drinking in the moist air scented with sea life. “You know what two things I love most about Mexico?”