The Mermaid Garden (29 page)

sat around coffee tables having pre-dinner drinks. He found Marina in

front of the fireplace with her four ladies. Pat and Veronica were giving an account of their excursion.

“You should come next time,” said Pat to Grace and Jane. “What we

all need at our age is a little adventure. After all, one is only as old as one feels, and right now, I feel fifty.”

“It’s okay for you, Pat, but Jane gets terribly seasick, and I’m not

that fond of the swell myself,” said Grace, lying back against the cush-ions, sipping champagne. In her cream cashmere and delicate shoes she

didn’t look like she suited the outdoors, let alone the high seas.

“Perhaps if I took a pill . . .” said Jane meekly.

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“Quite,” Pat agreed. “They make wonderful things now. Pills for

every thing.”

“I think we should take a nice walk along the cliff tops tomorrow,”

Veronica suggested. “Then we can all enjoy an excursion together.”

“You can walk to Dawcomb-Devlish,” said Marina. “There are a few

new shops there. Oh, hello, Rafa.”

The artist stood before them in a blue shirt and chinos, smelling of

the usual sandalwood, his hair damp and tousled.

“Good evening,” he said politely. The women smiled up at him ap-

preciatively.

“Do sit down,” said Marina. He took a seat on the club fender.

“What have you done with those crabs?” Pat asked.

“Clementine said she’s going to have them for dinner.”

“All of them?” Veronica exclaimed.

“She’s got a boyfriend,” said Marina in a half whisper.

Veronica raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, some boy from town called Joe. Of course, we haven’t been al-

lowed to meet him.” She glanced at Rafa. It was vital that Clementine

seemed unavailable.

“Typical young people. When my daughter was her age, she had a

boyfriend for over a year before we were introduced,” said Pat.

“I bet once you’d met him you realized why she had kept him a se-

cret,” laughed Grace.

“You’re absolutely right, Grace. He was a shocker!”

“Not the right sort?”

“I’ve always been very open-minded when it comes to my children’s

choices,” Pat replied magnanimously. “I’ve learned to accept that what

makes them happy doesn’t necessarily make me happy. That’s true of

Duncan. Perfectly nice fellow, just not my sort. He’s a journalist.”

“Oh,” said Grace with emphasis.

“So long as they make each other happy,” said Veronica to Marina.

“Yes,” she replied thoughtfully. “That’s all I ever want for her.”

At that moment Jake appeared to take them through to the dining

room. “Will Mr. Santoro be joining the ladies?” he asked.

“No,” said Marina before Rafa had time to think of an excuse. “I’ll

cook him pasta at home. I make a very good tomato sauce.”

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“Our loss, your gain,” said Grace, getting up stiffly.

“You can have him all day tomorrow,” said Marina.

“I suppose you’re used to being fought over,” Pat grinned at Rafa,

remembering Sue McCain and her Argentine lover.

“I’m flattered,” he replied.

“That’s not an answer,” Grace cut in. “But we’ll take it as a yes.”

They all laughed as they followed Jake from the room. Veronica

hung back to walk with Jane, who smiled at her gratefully.

Marina and Rafa walked across to the stable block. A fat pigeon sat

on the clock tower cooing at the weathercock.

“They’re a lively bunch, aren’t they?” said Marina.

“They’re all so different. I wonder what brought them together.”

“Art.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They joined the same art club in London and suffered at the

hands of a monstrous teacher.”

“When are
you
going to paint?”

“I’ve got the whole summer,” she replied evasively.

“You don’t like painting?”

“I’m not very good at it.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s the enjoyment that counts.”

“And I don’t have time.”

“Poor excuse.”

She smiled at him. “We’ll see. Right now, you have your hands full

with the ladies and the brigadier.”

“You’re right about hands full. It will either be a disaster or a great success. The brigadier did not like the intrusion this morning.”

“He’ll warm up, you’ll see. They’re quite an attractive group of

women.”

“To an eighty-year-old,” said Rafa.

Marina opened the door and led him through the hall to the kitchen.

“You have a beautiful home,” said Rafa. “It smells delicious. What is it?”

“Fig,” she replied, pointing to a glass bottle positioned on the hall

table. “Every time I go past I give it a quick spray.”

“It smells very foreign.”

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“I think so, too. I’m glad you like it.” She unhooked her cooking

apron from the kitchen door. “Now, where’s my husband?” She called

out his name. There was no reply. “He’s probably buried in the library, reading. There’s nothing he enjoys more than a good book.”

“And his boat,” Rafa added.

“And his boat.” She sighed. “It doesn’t take much to make
him
happy.”

She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. “Why don’t

you sit down while I make dinner.”

“Can I do anything? I’m good at chopping onions.”

“All right. You chop the onions, and I’ll chop the tomatoes. It’ll be a team effort.”

Rafa pulled out a chair and Marina poured two glasses of wine

and laid the table for three. She placed a chopping board in front of

him and gave him two onions. “These are from the garden,” she said

proudly, sitting opposite with her own chopping board. “We have a

beautiful walled vegetable garden. Mr. Potter is a wizard with a magic

touch. Look at these tomatoes.” She held them up. “Aren’t they lovely

and plump? You wait, they taste so sweet. Tomorrow you must take

time to look around. We have a fabulous greenhouse full of orchids,

and the flowers are at their best this time of year, before everything gets overgrown and out of control.”

Rafa noticed how her eyes shone as she spoke about her garden.

“Tell me about
you
,” he said, peeling the first onion.

“There isn’t much to tell,” Marina replied.

“Have you always lived in Devon?”

“Yes, I’m very sheltered, really. I haven’t traveled much. We put all

our energy and money into this place; there was no time to see the

world.”

“Surely you’ve been to Europe?”

“Oh yes, the usual places: Italy, France, Spain, and Portugal. A week

or two here or there. But I’ve never put on a rucksack and gone where

my desire leads me. I’d love to do that. But I have too much commit-

ment here, and it’s where I feel safe.”

“Do you feel unsafe when you leave it?”

She paused her knife over the last tomato. “Yes.” The honesty of her

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reply surprised her. She had known Rafa no more than two days, hardly

sufficient time to trust him enough to divulge her fears. Yet, there was an intimacy in his eyes, an understanding, that drew her out of herself.

“You’re not content just to scratch the surface of people, are you?” she said with a smile.

“Human nature fascinates me.” He grinned bashfully. “I’m unable to

stop myself . . .”

“Doing what?”

“Searching.”

“Are you searching for something in me?”

“Yes. You’ve created this beautiful place, in such good taste. Where

does it all come from?”

She placed her hand on her heart. “Here,” she replied softly.

She stood up and filled a large saucepan with water. After sprinkling

a little salt into it, she put it on the stove to bring to the boil.

“I’m afraid I upset Clementine this evening with my fascination,”

he confided.

“Oh?”

“I think she’s very cross with me.”

“Well, expect it to last a few days then. When Clementine shuts

down, the door stays closed for a long time.” She poured olive oil into a frying pan and warmed it on the hob.

“I like her. I regret what I said.”

“What did you say?”

He hesitated, aware of making the same mistake again, with Marina.

“I simply told her not to let her past ruin her present. That nothing is ever black and white. The more experience she has, the more wisdom

she has to judge her life and the people who have shaped it. The more

tools she has to understand people’s motivations.” He sighed. “I was

trying to encourage her to detach emotionally and see it from an adult’s perspective.”

Marina grew serious. “You’re talking about the divorce.”

“Yes. It was none of my business. But I see a wounded creature, and

I want to make it better.”

Overwhelmed by a surge of gratitude and sympathy, Marina felt a

sudden compulsion to touch his shoulder. She reached out and patted

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it. “You’re very sweet, Rafa. But it’s such a sensitive subject. I wouldn’t go there, if I were you.”

“I realize that now.”

“You know, Clemmie was three when her parents divorced. She

doesn’t remember what life was like when they were together, but she

has an idealized image of what she
thinks
it was like. The truth is very different.” She poured Rafa’s chopped onions into the olive oil. They

sizzled noisily. “I don’t think that’s the problem, Rafa. But it’s easier to blame other people than to take responsibility for her own troubles.”

“Memories in themselves are not problems—we can all learn from

the past. They only become a problem when we allow them to take

us over completely and make us unhappy. Then our past becomes our

prison.”

Marina turned around. “How do we get out of our prison?”

“By focusing on the present.”

She turned back to stir the tomatoes into the onions. “By focusing

on the present,” she repeated broodingly. “By focusing on my home.”

Just as she was straining the spaghetti, Grey strode into the hall.

“Something smells good,” he exclaimed, putting his book on the hall

table.

“Spag,” Marina replied from the kitchen. “I’ve invited Rafa to give

him a break from the ladies.”

“Splendid.” He walked into the kitchen and gave Rafa a pat on the

shoulder. “I’m glad to see that Marina has given you a glass of wine.

It’s looking a little depleted, though.” He filled the young man’s glass before pouring one for himself. “Has Rafa told you about our crabbing

expedition?”

“Pat and Veronica got there first.”

“I think they had a good time.”

“They did.”

“Where’s Clemmie?”

“Gone to have dinner with Joe.”

“She proved quite an accomplished crabber,” he said, sitting down

and stretching his long legs under the table. “I was pleasantly surprised.”

“Oh, I think Clemmie can do anything she puts her mind to,” said

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Marina, placing the bowl of steaming spaghetti in the middle of the

table. “She just doesn’t know it.”

“You were very sweet to her, Rafa,” said Grey. “You made it fun.”

Rafa helped himself to some spaghetti. “But you are wrong, Grey,”

he replied with a shrug. “
She
made it fun for me.”

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17.

Clementine lay in Joe’s arms, dismayed to discover that her fury had

accompanied her there. She recalled the conversation with Rafa

word for word, and smarted with indignation. While Joe had been

making love to her she had been distracted, content to give in to her

longing, confusing the momentary high of orgasm for love. But now, as

she lay against him, his arms wrapped around her body to anchor her to

the present, she was pulled back into the familiar dark.

She considered his words: that her bitterness was
her
problem but that it didn’t have to be. All she had to do was look at the divorce from Marina’s point of view. Her anger mounted at the suggestion that Marina’s love for her father justified the hell she had put them all through.

As if love exempted her from any responsibility. The trouble was Rafa

didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t know what sort of

woman Marina had been before she set her sights on Grey and raised

herself a few rungs higher on the social ladder. It was all very well standing on his pedestal, playing the philosopher, but down on the ground

things weren’t so neat and tidy.

“I should go,” she said to Joe, climbing out of bed.

He looked at his watch. “Midnight. But you’re not a pumpkin.”

“I will be if I don’t get my sleep. I’ll be a grumpy, inanimate veg-

etable.” She pulled on her clothes. “The last thing I need at eight in the morning is Submarine marching in and opening my curtains.”

“That’s the trouble with living at home. You should move in

with me.”

She stopped dressing. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course. It’s not much, but it’s home.”

“That’s a great idea. I won’t have to face Submarine every day, nor