House of the Blue Sea (15 page)

“So what did you do, when you left Toronto?”

Sandra used a large round brush to put the base colours into the sky. “I headed west, as many easterners do. It has this magnetic pull for those of us who grew up in Canada’s older, more established regions—the lure of the old west maybe. I bummed around for a bit and then settled in Calgary, got a perfect, low-stress job working for an architectural firm and painted in my spare time. I was a bit of a fixture along the Bow River with my easel and paint box. The runners and cyclists all knew me by name. It was a good time, very freeing.”

As the afternoon wore on, Sandra stayed focused on her work, sometimes stepping back from the easel with her brush held out in front of her, her gaze travelling between the scene and the canvas. She wore a broad-brimmed hat in an effort to keep the freckles on the bridge of her nose and cheeks from becoming more pronounced. Wisps of hair no longer captured in her braid brushed her cheeks and had to be pushed back over her ears as she worked.

He’d been watching for a while now, maybe thinking she was too caught up in her work to notice. But, it felt okay, even good. She dropped her brush into a container of water and set her palette on the folding table beside her.

“Well? Can I see it?” Mark stood and put his magazines in the sling of blue canvas he’d been seated on. He’d been surprisingly well behaved. For the past hour he’d only interrupted her once to point out a group of four Brown Pelicans gliding above the crest of a wave like surfers.

Sandra closed her paint box and began rinsing her brushes. “I suppose. But keep in mind it’s not finished.”

Mark came around to her side of the easel and raised his sunglasses to his forehead. He took two steps back and then one forward, leaning in and then back again.

“Well ...?” Sandra was trying to focus on her clean-up but his long silence was causing her to fidget.

“It’s tremendous, finished or not. You have captured the soul of Mar Azul. Paul will love it. I love it. Very well done.” He turned to her with a broad smile.

“I haven’t quite worked out the blues, over here, where the light hits the water ...” Sandra gestured to the bottom right corner of the painting.

“Spoken like a true artist. The work can
always
be better. You should try watching yourself on the screen. At least your work doesn’t have you larger than life and talking.”

“Do you really find it difficult, seeing yourself on the screen?” Sandra closed her paint box and placed her brushes in their roll-up bamboo carrier.

“Oh God yes, horribly, especially once the critics have had their say. I hear every awkward word, see every poorly executed movement. It’s dreadful stuff.”

“That surprises me.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know. You just seem so, confident.”

“Have you forgotten? I’m an actor.” He grinned at her. “What can I carry for you?”

M
ark went straight to Lorenzo’s sidecar coffee shop. He’d stayed up the night before to catch Nate in his London office and, after another fruitless conversation, hadn’t slept well. A good jolt of caffeine might clear the fog. The Sunday market was extra busy today, and the two tour busses parked down the main street explained why. He pulled his hat further down onto his forehead and wished for the anonymity his beard had afforded. He hadn’t been recognized often in San Leandro, but two bus-loads of tourists were bound to contain at least a few
Jane Eyre
fans. He dreaded that inevitable question: S
o what will we see you in next?
He didn’t yet have a name for the script he was waiting on, or even a description of the role, and this time he’d keep his mouth shut until there was something on paper. After Janzen grabbed that last part, the tabloids had been all over the story of his being passed over for another actor. Vultures—delighting in the misfortune of the same person they were in love with the week before.

“Lorenzo, my friend.” Mark held out his hand to the coffee vendor who was leaning against the seat of his motorcycle.

“Amigo. So very good to see you. What can I get you this morning?”

“Let’s go with the espresso. Make it a double.”

“Would you like a swirl of caramel or chocolate on the top?”

“You know, a bit of sweet sounds good. I’ll have the caramel.”

Lorenzo drizzled syrup on top with a flourish. “There you go, one double espresso.”

Mark took the paper cup and gazed at a caramel star floating on the surface of his coffee. “A star?”

“My sister Daniela tells me you are a movie star.” Lorenzo gestured toward a young woman behind the counter of a nearby fruit stand. She was filling a bag with avocados and didn’t notice she’d become the topic of conversation.

“She did, did she? Do you think I should go over and say hello?”

“She would like that very much. She and her friend Sofia are always going to the cinema. They know all the stars.”

Mark took a sip from his cup and closed his eyes for a moment. “Mmmm, terrific coffee, Lorenzo. Gracias.” He lifted the cup in a salute.

He walked over to Daniela’s fruit stand. She had her back to him, rearranging the bins of lemons, limes, oranges, and grapefruit. She was tiny, less than five feet tall, and her black hair hung down her back in a braid that reached her waist.

“Buenos días, Señorita
.
”

Daniela turned with a big smile, prepared to meet another of the day’s customers. “Señor Jeffery!” Her eyes widened and went to her brother, sitting on his motorcycle, grinning at her. She looked back to Mark. “Buenos días.”

“Do you speak English?” he asked.

“A little only.”

“Lorenzo tells me you like movies. Ah ...” he dug for the word, “
la pelicula
?”

“Sí
, muchisimo
.” Her olive face was developing a pink hue. She looked down at her hands that she’d twisted into her apron and quickly pulled them free, smoothing the fabric.

“And you’ve seen some of my movies?”

“Sí, I think ...” She held up three fingers. “
Está bien.
”

“Well, thank you. It’s always a pleasure to meet a fan of my work.” He held out his hand to shake hers.

She hesitated but then put her tiny hand into his, shaking it with enthusiasm.

“Those oranges look nice. Perhaps I’ll have four,
cuatro naranja
, and a bunch of the grapes.” He pointed, when her eyebrows scrunched at the word grapes.

“
Sí, sí
.” She pulled a pink, plastic bag from a box behind her and picked through the oranges for four of the best, adding the largest bunch of grapes to the top. She tied the bag closed and handed it to Mark.

“These look perfect.” He placed the fruit in his canvas shopping bag.

Daniela stood looking up at him, continuing to smile.

“What do I owe you señorita?
Cuánto
?”

“Oh ...
sí
.” She blushed again. “
Cincuenta pesos, por favor
.”

Mark placed five coins in her outstretched hand. “Gracias.”

He headed down the market, turning once to see her still watching him. She waved and smiled. It wasn’t always bad running into fans. It helped when they didn’t speak enough English to ask questions.

Next task, a picnic for a sailing excursion. His eyes scanned the row of vendors, looking for food items that would pack well but not feel like a brown bag lunch. He recognized her hat before he saw her face. He’d spent the better part of yesterday afternoon watching that hat. Her face had been only partially visible above the back of the canvas but the hat was always in full view, its brim tilting up, dropping down, turning to the side, stepping back. It was a simple straw hat with a wide brim, wide enough to shade fair skin from the sun, and it sported a leather band emblazoned with turquoise and silver.

She was down near the end of the row of stalls looking at leather bags and belts, speaking to the boy in the booth. The boy was smiling and talking, his hands as animated as his face. Mark wondered what Sandra had said to him. No doubt she’d asked him precisely the thing that would get him talking. She was wearing a long skirt today, its white folds hanging loose from her hips. The hem was intentionally uneven and showed off her new La Paz sandals. She’d been right, they were her style. Her arms were bare, a blue tank top tied halter-style behind her neck, and her pale skin was bright in the sunlight. Wasn’t she worried about sunburn?

Sandra made a purchase from the boy, placing it in her shoulder bag and turned to continue down the market. Her eyes browsed the tables and tents as she walked, not noticing Mark standing in the middle of the laneway. He was enjoying watching her and wondered if he should find a less conspicuous location. Before he could move, she stopped four stalls down from where he stood, her eyes going to the jewelry on the table: bracelets, rings and necklaces in silver and turquoise.

The elderly woman in the stall got up from where she was working and greeted Sandra. He couldn’t make out their words amid the sounds of the busy market but the Mexican woman was speaking and holding up various pieces for Sandra to examine. Sandra lifted a heavy silver chain with a long pendant from the table, letting it hang from her right hand as her left examined the stone set in silver. The vendor pulled a mirror from under the counter and held it in front of her as Sandra put the chain around her neck, fastening it behind.

The Mexican woman spoke, probably giving a price, and a high one by Sandra’s reaction. She shook her head and started to remove the necklace. The woman reached her hand out to touch Sandra’s arm and spoke again—the counter offer. Sandra shook her head a second time and lay the jewelry back on the table top. Now Mark could hear the vendor, raising her voice as Sandra moved away. “Wait, amiga. I give you good price. Señora!”

It was then that Sandra saw him, standing in the middle of the market, holding his shopping bag in one hand, his empty coffee cup in the other. He must have appeared a bit of a stooge, like a boulder in a stream, shoppers spilling around each side of him. She walked toward him, her head tilting back enough to allow the sun to touch her face below the brim of her hat. In spite of the shade offered by the wide brim, freckles trailed across the bridge of Sandra’s nose and onto her cheeks, more visible today than they had been when he’d first met her a week ago. “Good morning,” she called as she approached.

“Good morning. Looks like you weren’t able to make a deal.” Mark inclined his head toward the jewelry stand.

“You were watching me?”

“Just for a moment.” He lied. “I heard her calling after you.”

“Ah yes, she was ready to make a very good deal—for her—on her overpriced jewelry. It’s nice, but not that nice. Paul warned me about this one. Wonderful craftsmanship, but too pricey. I can probably buy the same necklace in La Paz for half the money. At least I’m going to give it a try.” She pointed to the empty cup in Mark’s hand. “Getting your morning fix?”

“Indeed, and a very good one it was. Have you been to Lorenzo’s motorcycle coffee bar?”

“Motorcycle?”

“I’ll take that as a no. If you fancy a coffee I’ll take you there now.” Mark offered his arm to her.

“I’ve had my morning macchiato but the motorcycle part sounds intriguing.”

She still hadn’t taken his arm and he was beginning to feel awkward standing there with his elbow pointing at her. Force of habit really, to offer a woman his arm. When your life was filled with premieres, film festivals, and cocktail parties, it just went with the territory. Her eyes met his and he hoped his discomfort wasn’t showing on his face.

“Sure, a coffee, why not,” she said, as she took his arm.

“And after that you can help me choose some delectables for tomorrow’s sailboat picnic.”

T
he sky was clearing when they pulled into the marina. The towering clouds to the northeast and their curtain of rain were now making their way south to the Pacific. They’d left Mar Azul around eight o’clock, Sandra’s three completed paintings wrapped and lying in the back seat of Mark’s convertible. Pascual had been thrilled with her contributions to the show. Of course, he was inclined to be complimentary, but his enthusiasm seemed genuine. He and his volunteers would be setting up the show all day and Sandra’s work would be included in the
Visiting Artists
tent. She`d be in good company with another fifty-plus paintings sharing the space, each artist providing three to five pieces, depending on size. She didn’t know the artists in the area but she hoped her work wouldn`t look amateurish displayed next to theirs.

The charter boat owner was waiting for them at the marina and went over all of the rigging and equipment with Mark, showed him how to operate the radio and provided charts of the area. “So you are fine from here, amigo?”

“I think we should be. Gracias.” Mark shook the man’s hand and began loading their bags into the cockpit of the boat.

He looked up at the sky and then to Sandra standing on the dock. “You see, I told you the weather would be fine.”

“It does look promising. And where are we headed Capitan?”

“To a lovely wee bay with pristine white sand beaches I’m told, and possibly dolphins.”

“Dolphins. I like that.” Sandra stepped onto the boat. She’d almost cancelled today’s trip many times but, now that she was here, she was glad she’d come. In the end she’d taken Trisha’s advice to stop worrying so much and enjoy the attention. And besides, she’d loved sailing back on Lake Ontario. “So, you said you haven`t sailed here before.”

“I have not.
But
... I have spoken to someone who knows these waters very well, a fisherman in San Leandro. Locals are always the best source of information.”

“But you have
sailed
before?”

“Yes.” He eyed her over the tops of his sunglasses from his kneeling position at the back of the boat. “Skeptical bloody Canadian. Would you like to see my RYA card?”

She laughed. “No, I believe you, but my sailing experience is from the Mesozoic period so you won’t be able to count on me for a lot of help.”