House of the Blue Sea (33 page)

Sandra eyes darted away then, down to her bare feet on the step. When she turned back to him, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. “You, Mr. Jeffery, have inspired a multitude of feelings in the short time I’ve known you.” A slow, jazzy tune began to play. Sandra stood up and held her hands out to him. “Dance?”

A “multitude of feelings” left a lot to interpretation, but he felt he had his answer in her expression and body language. He took her hands and rose to his feet, following her to the dance floor. The song was an old ‘50s classic, You Don’t Know Me, and he pulled her close, his hand at her back and her palm resting against his. “Isn’t this one an
American
classic?” he asked.

She looked up at him as they danced. “I believe you’re right, but by one of my favourite Canadian singers, Michael Bublé. Do you know him?”

“As a matter of fact I think I inherited one of his CDs from my ex-wife.”

“Part of the divorce settlement?”

“Yes, she got the vacation home in the south of France and I the Michael Bublé CD.” He spun them in a slow circle.

“Sounds like you got the best of the deal then.”

“If I’d still owned that villa when I needed time away I would have gone there instead of here, so at this moment I would say,” he pulled her closer, “yes indeed.” He looked down into her eyes, the patio lanterns ringing the sandy dance floor reflecting in them like colourful stars. He searched her upturned face for an invitation to kiss her but she lowered her chin and rested her head on his shoulder. He could feel her forehead against his neck, her hair brushing his ear. They danced that way, saying nothing, for the rest of that song and the next.

Mark tried to remember the last time he’d felt so content to be with another person. He couldn’t. Relationships had been calculated and secondary for so long, he’d forgotten the pleasure of being with someone who made you feel complete, made you feel like the moment was enough.

The second waltz ended and Mark dropped Sandra into a low dip, his hand holding her firmly just below her shoulder blades. Her eyes widened and she let out a sharp “Oh!” as her hair touched the sand. When he pulled her upright again, she was laughing and she stepped back from him, still holding his hand. “That was fun. Thank you for not dropping me on my head.”

“Entirely my pleasure.” He gave a slight bow.

Ian came from behind Sandra and said something in her ear that Mark couldn’t hear over the music. She let go of Mark’s hand and he thought he was losing her again, but instead she turned and put her hand on Ian’s shoulder, leaning in to speak to him. Ian nodded as he listened. When she was finished he offered Mark a half smile before giving Sandra a light kiss on the cheek and turning back into the dancing crowd. He was immediately pulled into a group of three women dancing together.

Sandra turned back to Mark and before he could ask her what had transpired between them she said, “Well? Up for a few more tunes ... or are you getting tired?”

“Tired? Are you joking? Do you know how many hours of dancing might be involved in filming one short dance scene?”

“I do not.”

“Well, quite a few, particularly when you’re slow to learn the steps.” He took her hand, lifting it up and over her head, sending her into a spin.

***

T
hey danced together the rest of the night and Mark did his best to remember the various steps he’d learned over the years. It had been a long time since he’d used them outside a movie set and here he didn’t have the benefit of a choreographer. Sandra was tireless and seemed content to have him as her steady partner, breaking periodically for a song that just didn’t seem danceable or when the need for a drink or snack arose. They’d been pulled into more than one group dance during numbers that everyone seemed to know the words to, everyone but the token Brit of course. Even Lorna seemed familiar with the lyrics. But no one questioned his presence at the party and he never felt out of place or unwelcome. He’d always heard that Canada was a friendly place to visit and it seemed they carried their sense of hospitality with them when they travelled.

By one o’clock, the party was winding down and those remaining were lounging around the outdoor fire pit, swapping stories about their shared homeland. Jeremy told a story about a herd of beavers causing a road block that had the rest of the group laughing and glancing Mark’s way. He assumed they were wondering if he was buying it, but he’d seen
Men with Brooms
. Nice try. Around two, the last of the guests made their way down the beach toward San Leandro, leaving five around the fire: Jeremy, Doug, Sandra, Ian and Mark. Sandra sat in a low canvas chair, her bare legs stretched out toward the fire and a light shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Ian had kept his distance since the conversation on the dance floor and now sat on the opposite side of the fire. Mark couldn’t help but wonder what she’d said to him.

Sandra stretched her arms over her head and then lifted herself from the chair. “Well, it’s getting late. I think I’ll get started on the clean-up and then head on home.”

Jeremy spoke immediately. “Absolutely not! Doug and I are reserving that privilege for tomorrow morning, complete with Mimosas and Michael ... Bublé that is.” He nudged his partner. “Aren’t we, babe?”

Doug nodded in response, never a man of many words.

“You’re sure?” Ian asked.

“Absolutely. It’s all part of the fun of hosting, but only when it’s the next morning. Cleaning up on the night of would be like changing the bed right after great sex. I can’t imagine!” Jeremy threw his hands in the air.

“Well then,” Sandra continued, “I guess it’s home then. Thank you, all of you,” her eyes travelled around the circle and rested on each of them, “for a very enjoyable evening.”

Sandra headed for the verandah to collect her shoes and Mark wrestled with what to do next. Did she have arrangements with Ian for a ride home? Had she walked? He realized Ian was staring at him, with an expression that said,
Well?
Mark stood and met Sandra outside the circle of the fire as she returned from the house. “Can I walk you home?”

“Thanks, but it’s not far, and it’s the wrong direction for you. If you recall, you came from thataway.” She pointed toward San Leandro.

“I’m quite aware of that but, as you say, it’s not far and, after all that cheese curd and gravy, I’m sure I can use the exercise.” He patted his belly. “Besides, I don’t think you should be walking alone at this hour.”
Or, worse yet, with Mr. LeRoy.

“And what about you, walking alone at this hour?”

Was she concerned or trying to say no? “I’ll be fine. I’ve trained in martial arts you know.” He held up his hands karate style.

“For a movie, I’m guessing.” She raised one eyebrow. “All right then, I’ll take you up on your offer, but I expect to be defended if the need arises.”

“On my honour,” he said, offering his arm.

They walked over to the three men still sitting at the fire. “Mark’s going to walk me home, so I guess it’s goodnight, gentlemen.”

Doug and Jeremy rose from their chairs and said goodnight to the pair with hugs and waited for Ian to do the same. Instead, he stayed in his chair, lifted his hand from where it rested on the arm in a low wave and said without emotion, “Happy trails.”

Sandra seemed unsure how to respond so Mark offered his arm and led her away from the group, walking toward Mar Azul. After a few minutes of silence he said, “Your friend Ian didn’t look very happy.”

“He’ll be fine. I’m not sure when he became so interested in my affairs. We’ve always had such an easy friendship.”

Her attention through the evening had made him bolder. “It might have happened about the time he noticed what an exceptional woman you are.”

“You think?” Sandra laughed. “And just when did
you
notice?”

“Oh, I knew it from the first.” Okay, a white lie.

Her grip tightened on his arm and she leaned into him as they walked.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight. I had fun,” Mark said.

“I’m glad you came. And they made you an honorary Canadian for your Pierre Trudeau impression! I’m not sure our American guest knew who you were but we Canadians were all very impressed.”

He smiled. “There’s nothing quite like a live audience.”

His comment led to a conversation about his experience of the theatre and the move toward film. How he’d initially found work in film so unrewarding compared to the stage, and the storytelling so disjointed. “By the time it’s ready for the screen it’s seamless, but not so during filming.”

“I can see how that would feel very odd. It would be like painting in many pieces and having someone else put them together for me. I can’t imagine how that would be satisfying.”

“So what is it you find satisfying about painting, since I know it’s not the selling or exhibiting.”

“I guess it feels like an expression of myself, like what’s in my soul coming out onto the canvas through my brush. Does that make sense?”

“It does. Acting felt like that in the beginning, on the stage, but not for a very long time now.”

“Which is precisely why I don’t want to sell or exhibit my work. I don’t want it to become something I have to do or am expected to do. It’s wonderful when people enjoy my paintings, but I don’t want to feel their expectations when I paint. I want to create with complete freedom. I’m not sure I could keep that if I were successful in the traditional sense.”

“And what if you had someone in your life who encouraged your work? Would that create the same kind of interfering expectations?”

Sandra didn’t answer right away, but then spoke with a softness nearly drowned by the sound of the sea. “I did. And no, it didn’t.”

They walked in silence for a time, Mark mulling over her brief and somewhat confusing answer. She’d pulled away from him a little, her arm no longer linked through his, just her hand resting on the crease of his elbow, and then Mark saw the lights of Mar Azul ahead. He’d managed to extend the evening this far but at some point they needed to say goodnight. He felt the tightness in his throat that came each time they parted, the feeling that had him questioning everything he thought he knew about himself in relationships. They reached the walkway leading into Pablo’s, now closed for the night, and Sandra pulled away from him and took a step toward the hotel. She turned to him. “Well, it was a lovely evening. Thank you for the dances and for walking me back,” she said.

Mark stepped closer, encircling her wrists with his hands and drawing her toward him. As he bent his head to kiss her, she looked up into his eyes and he saw fear flash across them. She pulled back then and stumbled, dropping her shoes in the sand. She scooped them up and was on her way to the stairs in one swift move. He wanted to follow her but was rooted to the spot, not sure how to proceed. In his movies the leading man would run after her, take her in his arms, kiss her passionately, but this was real life and she was sending a clear message. What was it he’d done now? He waited for her to turn but she disappeared inside Mar Azul without a backward glance.

“A
nd then?” Trisha was leaning in to the camera on her computer, her face large on Sandra’s screen.

“Stop doing that! It reminds me of a horror film.”

“Horror film? Thanks, friend. Must remember to check my make-up before I head for the gallery. But never mind about that. What happened after he walked you home?”

“I said goodnight and came up to my room,” Sandra said.

“That’s it? After all the cozy dancing to Michael Bublé and a walk arm-in-arm on the beach, no kiss? What is he, gay?”

“No, he’s not gay, and I think he was planning on kissing me goodnight, but I just ... couldn’t.”

“Yes, I’ve often had that same problem with very handsome men that I’ve completely fallen for—oh no, don’t kiss me, keep your distance.” Trisha was pressing her hands toward the screen.

“I couldn’t because of Nick. You know that.”

“I don’t know that, and if I had a way of contacting Nick, I’m sure he’d say the same thing.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“Because he loved you more than anything, and the last thing he would have wanted is for you to be unhappy or lonely or holding back from something because of him.”

“But it was the anniversary.”

“Yes? And? Is March thirteenth never to be lived or enjoyed again in this lifetime?”

“No, of course not, and I think I proved that by agreeing to last night for the party. It was all feeling fine until the end.”

“So now what are you going to do, now that you’ve pushed Mr. Gorgeous away,
again
. Sooner or later he’s going to take you seriously, you know.”

“I know. I just need a day or two to collect myself.”

“Really girl, you must be the most collected person I know. I can’t see how one or two more days will make a difference. It’s time to move on Sandi. High time.”

***

S
andra walked down to the beach after dinner. She’d been half-expecting Mark to appear all day—during her yoga session, at breakfast, on the beach while she was painting, at dinner—and although she felt his absence, she was glad he’d stayed away. Whatever Trisha said, she did need some time to collect herself. She sat down in the sand and dug her toes in, the beach still warm from a day under the sun. She opened her hand, and stared at the two rings that lay on her palm. The tears came without warning, rolling down her cheeks and dropping into the sand between her knees. She knew Trisha was right; Nick would never want her to live without something that made her happy, certainly not on account of him.

She closed her palm around the rings again, feeling the coolness of the metal, the edges digging into her hand ever so slightly. What would he say about all of this? The first time she’d come to Baja it was like his voice was constantly in her head, commenting on the things she saw, keeping her company while she walked on the beach, critiquing her paintings, but four years later she was finding it hard to remember what his voice sounded like. She could describe it to someone—its low, gravelly texture—but she could no longer hear it.