House of the Blue Sea Read online

  Outside, the squawking of the gulls hit a new crescendo. “Shut up you blasted birds! Get off my verandah!” Mark picked up a shoe and hurled it at the open window, tearing a corner of the screen from its plastic frame. “Messy, noisy, winged demons!” The seagulls continued, seemingly unperturbed by the sudden appearance of flying footwear. He threw the second shoe, striking the wall next to the window. “Flying vermin!”

  Mark leaned forward and pulled a shirt from the stack of clothing on a chair next to the bed. Holding it in front of him, he appraised its level of wrinkled-ness and sniffed each of the armpits. “Good enough for this day.” With the buttons still fastened, he pulled the shirt over his head as he stood and shuffled toward the living area. His left arm shot through the sleeve opening just as he walked through the bedroom doorway, slamming his hand into the frame. “Damn!” He yanked the garment the rest of the way on and surveyed his throbbing hand, exploring it with the fingers of the other. No blood, nothing broken. He could still hold a cup of coffee.

  There was no familiar aroma of Jamaican Blue drifting from the kitchen and no orange rescue light on the coffee machine. He walked to the counter and smacked the side of the machine, hoping for one small miracle in an otherwise dismal morning. Nothing. His eyes drifted left to the scene in the kitchen. Empty wine bottles stood upright on the counter like the last surviving soldiers of the battle surrounded by casualties: oyster shells, a half-eaten plate of fish and rice, a wine glass stained red, a cell phone, and paper, lots of paper. Reams of type-covered paper were strewn everywhere—on the counter, the floor, the stove top, even in the sink.

  He stood amidst the rubble and turned a slow circle. Right. Best get this ruddy mess cleaned up. But first, must have coffee. He opened the cupboard and observed the space on the shelf that normally housed a bag of coffee beans. “Damn it!” He slammed the door and stood staring at it, daring it to open and again reveal its dearth of coffee. He squeezed his eyes tight and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. The gesture seeming to trigger the first pleasant thought in his day: Paul would have coffee on.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sandra had risen early to get started on her first painting of the trip, setting up her easel and paint box on the upper deck of the hotel. The rooftop offered a better view and more privacy, but the breeze was up this morning and she didn’t want it pushing canvas and easel face-first onto the floor. A group of visitors from Denmark had just checked out and the hotel was temporarily quiet, reducing the chance of an audience. She didn’t really mind people watching her work, but she was aware of how it changed her focus, especially in the early stages of a painting. She would inevitably worry that the person looking over her shoulder was critiquing her unfinished work and her tendency was then to paint faster, or fill in areas that were undeveloped.

  Just after she’d arrived the day before, Sandra had stood on her balcony and watched a man and a woman on the beach, walking toward one another—her long, brown hair cascading out of her sun hat onto her shoulders, his shirt hanging open and catching the wind. Arturo had arrived just then with the luggage so she’d not had a chance to see if the two people had come together, if they knew one another. She somehow felt they had, but there were other late afternoon beach-goers who could have belonged to each of them. In her painting it was morning and they had the beach to themselves, their expressions hidden by her sun hat and his down-turned face. In the sea Sandra had captured that particular blue of tropical waters, the azure of Cortez, and in the sky drifted salmon-toned clouds, coloured by the rising sun.

  “It’s very good.”

  Sandra dropped her brush, sending it clattering to the concrete floor.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She picked up the brush, leaving a splotch of blue paint on the white-washed floor, and turned to see who belonged to the voice.

  He was tall, over six feet, and stood at the top of the stairs with his hands in his pockets. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes, and his hair was an unkempt mass of brown curls above a face overgrown with many days, or likely weeks, of untended beard. If he was a guest here at the hotel perhaps the airline had lost his luggage? The man’s appearance was in stark contrast to his very proper English accent.

  “It’s not a problem. It’s acrylic and will clean off.” Sandra wiped up the smear of paint with her rag. “I didn’t hear you come up. I was ... absorbed in my work.”

  “It’s very good—your painting.” He inclined his head toward her canvas. “Is it for sale?”

  “Sorry, I don’t sell my work.”

  “Oh. So what do you do with it then? Isn’t selling rather the point?”

  She shook her head. “No, not for me. It’s more about the process, the learning. Mostly I keep my paintings—some I hang, the others are stored.” Sandra glanced at the painting and then down at her feet. She was feeling a bit awkward at this line of questioning by a complete stranger. “A few I give away to friends or family.”

  “I see. So you wouldn’t make an exception; just this once? I’ve recently moved into a house in the village and the walls are unbearably dull.”

  Something behind the mat of facial hair seemed familiar. Did she know this guy? Maybe he’d stayed at the hotel before. Paul frequently had British guests. Her mind rolled back over her previous four visits but no one came to mind that fit the man before her.

  “Have I offended you?” he asked.

  “No, not at all. I’m flattered. Really. It’s just that I’m not sure what I’d even charge ... if I were to sell it to you. And, it’s not finished ...” She gestured toward the canvas with her paintbrush.

  “I can come back. Paul is a friend so I’m here often.” He pronounced it of-ten, rather than the North American version of the word that dropped the “t”. “As for price, I would be willing to offer you $1,500 American, if you think that’s fair.”

  Sandra was stunned; $1,500 sounded like a generous price for an unknown artist’s work, from a man who looked like he might have to scrounge up the change for his next cup of coffee. Although, he did say he’d recently acquired a house, and his sunglasses looked expensive. Maybe the scruffy dude thing was just a look ... and a smell. Nothing quite like the odour of last night’s alcohol coming out through a man’s pores.

  “That sounds like a lot of money for an unfinished piece. I’m not sure I’m comfortable—”

  “I’ve purchased a lot of original art, and for a piece this size, $1,500 is quite fair. But, if $1,400 would ease your conscience ...” His head bowed forward and he peered at her over the tops of his sunglasses.

  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.

  ***

  “Mark 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 h
er 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.