House of the Blue Sea (28 page)

She spun her stool to face him and gave Ian a firm hug.

“Well, I guess you missed me too?” He chuckled.

“It’s just good to see you; a sight for sore eyes.”
Literally
.

“May I join you? Or, should we get a table? I’m here for dinner.”

They took a small table at the front of the restaurant, only a wooden railing separating them from the beach. “Where on earth have you been?” asked Ian as he settled into the cane-backed chair.

“I decided to go to the ranch for a few days of riding with Alejandro. It was fabulous. You really should come down there sometime. Even if you don’t ride, it’s such a fantastic place, and you’d love Alejandro and Martina.”

“And, you never know, you might even get me on a horse.”

“Now
that
I’d like to see. Have you ever ridden a horse?”

“Once. No, twice, at my great uncle’s farm near Quebec City. Dolly was a work horse, but she didn’t mind packing a few kids around. I was the oldest of the cousins so I rode in front and did the steering. So you see, I’m an experienced horseman.”

Sandra laughed. “Well, you’re all set then.” She was feeling better already. Ian was smiling at her from across the table, filling the hole Mark had torn in her earlier.

She saw Paul coming toward their table. She prayed he wouldn’t say anything about her early return to Mar Azul.

“I see you’ve found a dinner companion,” he said, looking at Sandra. “Good.” His eyes searched her face.

“Yes, and a welcome one.” She glanced at Ian.

Paul took their order and started to leave but then turned back and spoke directly to Sandra. “So ... you’re good here then?”

“Yes Paul, I’m good here. Thank you.”

Paul moved on to the next table and began reciting the special to the couple seated there. “What was that about?” Ian asked. “Are you good here. Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Oh, he and I were talking earlier and I was feeling like staying in my room. I think he’s just making sure I’m okay. You know how he is.”

Ian’s eyes went to Paul who was writing down the couple’s order and nodding. “So, you weren’t feeling well?”

“No, not really, but I just needed a short rest. I’m fine; and even better now that you’re here.” She glanced around at the tables neighbouring theirs. “There are always so many couples in this place. It’s nice to have someone to share a table with.”

“Where’s your friendly neighborhood celebrity? I thought he might be skulking around. He was in here all Sunday night from the time I arrived for setup until closing.”

“I’m not sure where he is tonight.”

“Oh, I somehow thought you two might be—”

“No, we’re not. We spent some time together, but that’s all. I think he found me a bit too ordinary for his tastes.”

“What did I say? Arrogant prig! Ordinary? What, because you don’t make the pages of the tabloids?”

“I shouldn’t have said that; please forget I did. Let’s leave it at I’m not planning on spending any more time with him. Okay?”

“Okay, but I’m here to listen if you need to talk about it.”

“Thank you, but tonight, I’d rather talk about anything else. I don’t want to waste the best table in the place.” She swept her hand in the direction of the sea.

“Done. The best table and the most beautiful woman; how lucky am I?”

Ian was perfect salve for all that was hurting. She could tell he wanted to know more, and he could probably see she’d been crying at this close range, but for now she simply wanted to enjoy the evening and forget Mark had ever walked into her world.

Paul arrived with their drinks, a margarita for Sandra and a beer for Ian. “I had Arturo throw an extra splash of tequila in there ... in case it was needed.” He looked at Sandra. “Oh, and I’ll bring your dinner, but don’t forget our deal.”

“I won’t. Later.”

Paul moved on to another table.

“Deal?” Ian asked.

“Nothing, just a little joke between us.”

“I see.” Ian didn’t sound convinced. “You two have something going on?”

“No, of course not.” She was hoping Paul would go back to the kitchen and let Elena serve their table. “We started a discussion earlier that he wants to finish. Nothing important. So, what’s been happening with you?”

***

T
he restaurant was emptying as it neared eleven o’clock but Sandra felt reluctant to leave the comfort of the beachside table for two. “I think I’m going to have some tea. Can you stay?” she asked Ian.

“After a lifetime of playing gigs my clock is permanently set on late to bed and late to rise. So tea, sure. Does he have Red Rose?”

“Sorry, only in Canada.”

“Pity.” They both laughed. “You know, that reminds me of an idea I had.” Ian said. “What do you think about an All-Canada party, here in Baja?”

“As long as you’re not planning to bring in snow.”

“No, I think I’ll leave the weather where it is, but have everything else Canadian—food, drink, music ...”

“Beavers and maple leaves?”

“Them too.”

“Sounds like fun. We could have it right here at this table, or maybe one of the tables for four,” Sandra said.

“Oh no, we are far from alone. Do you know how many Canadians are around San Leandro either as permanent residents or snowbirds? A pile.”

“I didn’t know that. I’ve met a few here at Mar Azul but they’re usually only staying for a week or two. Do you think you’ll remember what we eat and drink in Canada?”

“Well, super-Canuck, I guess I’ll get you to help me out there, since you think me so un-Canadian.”

“Would we hold it here at Mar Azul?” Sandra asked.

“We could, but it might be better suited to a house party. My place is pretty small but there’s a couple who winter in one of the beach houses between here and the village, Doug and Jeremy. Maybe you’ve met them? They come in here quite often.”

“Mid-forties, one blonde, one greying brown, fit looking?”

“That sounds like them. Good guys, Canadian enough to meet your standards,” he smirked, “and the house is great.”

“So, when?”

“I’ve got a gig in La Paz mid next week, so how about Friday, the thirteenth.”

“The thirteenth ...” Sandra looked out toward the water.

“You’re not superstitious are you?”

She turned back to Ian and attempted a smile. “No, it’s fine. The thirteenth is a perfect day for a party.”

––––––––

M
ark’s head was pounding as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the convertible. He’d been trying to get in the habit of walking to Mar Azul, but it wasn’t even a consideration this morning. He took a swallow of coffee from his travel mug and slid it into the holder beside the console. A bouquet of flowers rested on the seat beside him, picked from the small flower garden the landlord kept behind his house. Mark didn’t spend much time back there anyway. Might as well put the flowers to good use.

He’d followed Sandra’s advice and opened another bottle of wine after she left, but it had done nothing to erase the words he’d spoken to her, they were all too clear; “sheltered world of ordinary”.
Where in hell had that come from
? Sandra was far from ordinary, and far from deserving the things he’d said to her last night.

The road was quiet, as it often was in the morning; only one vehicle passed him as he drove the short distance to the hotel. He pulled into the parking area and took another drink from his coffee, hoping to pull some strength from the bitter brew. He picked up the flowers and got out of the car, standing for a moment and listening to the sound of the waves hitting the beach. Last night could have ended so differently.

The lobby was empty when he walked in so he stuck his head out onto the breakfast patio. Three tables of diners, none of them Sandra, and Arturo serving. Arturo walked over to Mark when he’d finished taking the customers’ orders. “Buenos días. You are here for breakfast?”

“No, not very hungry this morning. Have you seen Sandra Lyall around?”

“Not since an hour ago when she ordered breakfast. Would you like I should call her room?”

“No, no, that’s all right. Is Paul here?”

“Sí. He is in the kitchen. I’m going there now if you’d like to come.”

Paul was at the grill when they entered the kitchen. He looked up from his work. “I need to talk to you.” He pointed a metal flipper at Mark. “Arturo, can you handle things here or should I call Carmelita to help?”

“Got it covered, boss.” Arturo gave Paul a salute. He was very capable, and pleased anytime he had the opportunity to prove himself to his employer.

“You’re a star, amigo.” Paul walked past Mark and motioned for him to follow. “Come with me.”

“I feel I’m being summoned to the principal’s office,” Mark said as he followed Paul up the stairs to his suite. He still clutched the bouquet of flowers in his hand.

Paul’s suite was on the same level as the guest rooms but at the back of the hotel overlooking the parking area and the hills. It was a small, one-bedroom unit with a refrigerator, sink and microwave serving as the kitchen. He’d never had need of anything more with the full commercial version just down the stairs. A cushioned blue and white sofa and a large-screen television filled one side of the living area with a desk and chair opposite.

“Sit. Let me put those in some water before they’re even more pathetic looking.” Paul took the flowers from Mark, pulled a large coffee mug from the cupboard, and filled it with water. “Sit,” he said, without turning from his task.

Mark took a seat on the sofa, knowing what it was about but not knowing where it was going. He almost wished Paul would just hit him and get it over with. It might make them both feel better.

Paul turned and leaned against the short counter, placing his hands behind him at its edge. “So, what the hell did you do?”

“What did she tell you?”

“She told me absolutely nothing, that’s the problem. But she didn’t need to. The look on her face when she came back to the hotel said it all. So, again, what the hell did you do?” Paul’s face was reddening.

Mark sat forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. He looked down at his hands. “I was pissed off at Nate, I had too much to drink, and I took it out on her.” He paused, waiting for Paul’s reaction. “I can tell you’re not surprised.”

“Should I be? You know, somewhere in there you’re a good guy—I wouldn’t still be here if you weren’t— but Christ, you can be one self-centered, inconsiderate son-of-a-bitch. What did you say to her?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get that from her.”

“I was going to, in the bar last night, but she was sitting with Ian LeRoy and I couldn’t very well bring him into it.”

Mark dropped his face into his hands. “Well isn’t that great. Mr. LeRoy there to pick up the pieces. I imagine she’s filled him in on the whole unfortunate incident. ”

“So why don’t you fill me in?”

Mark hadn’t cried since he was a boy but he was feeling very close to it now. He told Paul the whole story: the script, the conversation with Nate, the too much wine, and the details of his argument with Sandra. Paul stood, expressionless, shaking his head from time to time. When Mark finished, he leaned back into the couch, letting his head drop back and his eyes close.

Paul started to clap. “Bravo Jeffery; stellar performance. So, what are you going to do for an encore?”

“I’d like to start by talking to her, apologizing of course.” He pointed to the mug of flowers. “Give her those.”

“And you think that will do it?”

“No, I don’t, but it’s all I’ve got for the moment. It’s a place to start.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you what, even though I’d rather just punch that screen idol mug of yours, I will take her the flowers and tell her you’re here and would like to speak with her.”

Mark jumped up from the couch and went to Paul, grabbing his right hand and shaking it between his two. “You’re a good mate, Hutchings. I owe you one.”

“One? Are you kidding me? I’ll add it to your forty-year tab.” He picked up the cup with the flowers. “This was the best you could come up with, huh?” He shook his head and left the suite.

Mark stood in the middle of the living area, hands jammed in his pockets, watching the door. The minutes crawled by into what felt like an hour. He started to pace. On his sixth or seventh pass, the door opened, but it was Paul, alone, and he was still carrying the flowers, an orange lily drooping over the side of the mug. “Sorry old friend, she doesn’t want to talk to you,” he set the flowers on the counter, “and she doesn’t want these.”

Mark dropped back onto the couch with an audible out breath. “What did she say?”

“Well, she was very polite.” Mark flinched at the word polite. “She said she doesn’t feel you have anything to say that she wants to hear. She’d basically like you to leave her alone.”

“You were gone for at least ten minutes. She must have said more than that.”

“It was less than three, and she didn’t say much else. Sorry ...”

“But?

“But what did you expect? Sandra Lyall is an independent woman who knows what she wants—and what she doesn’t. And I’d say, what she definitely doesn’t want is to be mistreated by you, or any other wanker who thinks she’s not good enough for him. You blew it. Admit it. Move on.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Come on Jeffery, it’s not like your heart is broken. I’ll admit you nearly had me convinced you had real feelings when you set off for the horse ranch,” Paul shrugged his shoulders, “but it’s only ego, and it will heal the next time a woman throws herself at you or your agent calls with an appealing offer. Let this fish go. Let her enjoy the rest of her holiday. Find yourself some other form of entertainment.”

“Is that what you think?” Mark stood up. “That Sandra was some kind of meaningless form of amusement for me?”

“What else?”

Mark took two long strides to put himself right in front of Paul. He glared at him, fists clenched at his sides. “That’s just the thing. I don’t bloody well know, and it seems now I never will!” He slammed the door behind him as he made for the stairs.

***

W
hen he returned home, the house seemed emptier than usual, even though he was accustomed to being there alone. He surveyed the mess from the night before: the empty wine bottles, the red stained glass, the pan of burnt offerings still in the sink. He just didn’t have the energy for cleaning. The script lay on the table where Sandra had left it, the worthless instigator of the entire train wreck. Mark picked it up and flipped through the pages without seeing them. He stood for a moment and again came the burning sensation in his eyes. He stalked across the kitchen to the rubbish bin and hurled the bundle of pages through its spinning lid.