The Mermaid Garden (8 page)

ture of amusement and delight.

“Morning, Brigadier. Marina, the Biscuit has arrived,” he said.

“Why the funny look?” she asked, her stomach churning with an-

xiety.

“What funny look? He’s in your office.”

“And? Is he . . . normal?”

“I’d say he’s not normal at all.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“Just go and meet him.”

“What’s this about a biscuit?” interrupted the brigadier. “Sounds

good to me, especially if it has a little milk chocolate on the top.”

Marina reached the hall to find Shane, Jennifer, Rose, Heather, and

Bertha standing in a huddle by the reception desk, giggling like a group of silly schoolchildren. When they saw Marina, they sprang apart

guiltily. The air was charged with excitement, as if Father Christmas

had come seven months early and was waiting in her study.

“Would you like me to bring you some coffee?” asked Heather, her

cheeks aflame.

Marina narrowed her eyes. “Well, let’s see what he wants.”

“Looks like a coffee drinker to me,” said Bertha.

“And what brings
you
into the hotel, Bertha?” asked Marina.

“Run out of Cif,” she replied with a snigger. “Timing couldn’t be

better.”

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“Then why don’t you go and get some from the cupboard. Heather,

come with me, and the rest of you can get back to work.”

It was with some optimism that Marina walked into her office. By

the blushes glowing on the faces of her staff it was obvious that the

artist was attractive. That didn’t surprise her: Argentine men were no-

toriously good-looking. However, she was not prepared for the quiet

magnetism of Rafael Santoro.

He stood by the window, looking out over the sea, hands in pockets,

lost in thought. In a pale suede jacket, blue shirt, and faded denim jeans, he was of average height, broad-shouldered, and athletic. She guessed

he was in his thirties, for his face was weathered, his chin bristly, his light brown hair falling slightly over a forehead that was broad and

creased with frown lines. When he heard her at the door, he seemed

to hesitate a moment before turning, as if collecting himself. She took in his patrician nose and the strength of his jawline, and felt her spirits swell with admiration. He was undoubtedly handsome. He turned and

looked at her, and she was immediately struck by his eyes. They were

brown like fudge, and deep set, but it was the expression in them that

made her catch her breath. It was almost familiar, and she stumbled on

her words.

“It’s . . . it’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, too,” he said, extending his hand. His ac-

cent was as soft and warm as caramelized milk. She took his hand and

felt the warmth of his skin travel all the way up her arm.

“I think you’re the first Argentine to set foot in the Polzanze,” she

said for lack of anything better to say.

“That surprises me. South Americans love to travel.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to welcome you,” she said, averting her eyes a

moment. His gaze was too heavy to carry. “It’s nice to hear a foreign

accent for a change.”

“I would imagine a place of great beauty like this would attract peo-

ple from all over the world.”

“You flatter me.”

“I mean to flatter you.” His comment was delivered with such casu-

alness that she did not take it for flirtation.

She smiled politely. “Thank you.” She liked him already. He didn’t

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have Jake’s shallow good looks, but the lines and imperfections of a

man who had experienced life in all its shades and textures.

“I hope you weren’t hoping for an
English
artist.”

“Not at all. I have no preferences so long as the person is right for

the position.” She noticed the silver buckle on his belt, engraved with his initials: R.D.S.

He grinned, his skin creasing into deeply carved laughter lines

around his mouth and eyes. “A present from my father.”

“It’s lovely. Let’s sit down.”

He sat on the sofa, and Marina sank dreamily into the armchair. She

had quite forgotten Heather, who remained in the doorway, transfixed,

a blush soaked into her skin.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” Marina asked, remembering herself.

“I’d love a fruit juice.”

“I’ll have one, too. Orange juice, freshly squeezed,” said Marina.

Heather looked surprised. “Shall I bring some nice biscuits?”

“Good idea, Heather.”

“A little ice in your juice?”

“No, thank you,” he replied.

Her blush deepened. “Anything else?” She made not the slightest

movement to leave.

“Just the door, Heather,” said Marina deliberately. “Close it be-

hind you.

“So, what’s an Argentine doing in Devon?”

“You might well ask. I’m a long way from home.”

“Very.”

“I work for an advertising agency in Buenos Aires, on the creative

side. I do all the artwork. My father died, so I decided to take a sabbat-ical.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He was very old. I am the youngest child of five, by twenty years.”

“Quite an afterthought.”

“Something like that. Anyway, I decided to travel. So, I have passed

the last couple of months traveling around Europe.”

“Painting?”

“Yes. It’s a good way to take time to see the places properly.”

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“You must have a wonderful collection by now.”

“I do. But I’m afraid I don’t keep them all. I can’t travel around with suitcases full of pictures.”

“Of course not. So, what do you do with them? Don’t tell me you

throw them away?”

“No. That would be too painful. I’m attached to each one, in a way.

So, I leave them in hotels, restaurants . . . or I give them away.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“It’s easy to be generous. They cost me nothing.” He shrugged. “And

anyway, they aren’t worth much. I’m not famous. I’m not even well

known.”

“If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re probably right. I came to Devon by chance and found it so

beautiful I decided I would stay. As I was trying to work out how that

would be possible, I saw your advertisement in the local paper. I would like to remain here for the summer.”

“Then return to Argentina?”

“Yes. Back to Buenos Aires.”

“I have never been to Argentina.”

“It is beautiful, too. Judging from your good taste here at the hotel,

I would say you could not fail to love it.”

“They say it is full of Italians who speak Spanish and want to be

English.” She laughed, relaxing into her chair. He had such an appeal-

ing face she wanted the interview to go on and on. She knew already

that Rafa Santoro would be spending the summer at the Polzanze,

whether he could paint or not.

“I suppose that is quite accurate, where I am concerned, at least. Al-

though I don’t think I’d want to be English. I’m happy being who I am.”

At that moment the door opened and Heather entered with a tray

of juice and biscuits, followed by Harvey, keen to see what all the fuss was about. He had ordered the quartet in the hall back to work, knowing that Marina would hate them to be standing idle, especially Bertha, who was as lazy as a sow in sunshine.

“Meet Harvey,” said Marina, eyes brightening at the sight of him.

He shook Rafa’s hand and grinned down at him. Marina recognized

his approval at once and felt her spirits soar. “Harvey has been with

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us since we bought this place eighteen years ago. He’s my Man Friday.

I couldn’t have made a success of this without him.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Harvey protested, a twinkle in his eye. “There’s just no one else on the premises who can change lightbulbs like I can.

Even at seventy-five.”

“You don’t look seventy-five, Harvey.”

He winked at Rafa. “It’s that kind of flattery that keeps me climbing

ladders and clearing drains.”

“Did you bring any of your work to show us?” Marina asked.

“Of course.” Rafa pulled a brown leather bag onto his knee and un-

zipped it. He withdrew a sketch pad and placed it on the coffee table.

Marina leaned forward eagerly. “May I?”

“Please.”

She opened the first page. “Perfect,” she breathed, gazing on a water-

color of a river, painted with flair and warmth. A flock of birds was

taking to the air, some still in the water, others already reaching for the skies, and she could almost feel the spray as they agitated the water

with their feet. The next was a sketch of old women gossiping in a

market, their faces full of expression, from bitterness to pride. “You are very versatile.”

“I have to be, in my business. I might draw a cola bottle one day, a

landscape the following day, a caricature the next. It is never the same.”

“Where did you learn to draw?”

“Nowhere special.”

“You were born with the gift.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re lucky.”

He grinned at Harvey. “But I’m not good at clearing drains.”

Marina flicked through the whole book, her admiration growing

with each new picture. “We would love you to spend the summer with

us,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

Rafa looked pleased. “I’d like that very much.”

She looked a little embarrassed. “We can’t pay you, I’m afraid. But

you’ll have your board and lodging for free. All we ask is that you are available to teach the guests to paint. We’ll provide all your materials, of course.”

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“When would you like me to start?”

She clapped her hands in delight. “Next month. Shall we say, the

first of June?”

“First of June.”

“Come the day before to give yourself time to settle in.”

“I look forward to it.”

“So do I,” she replied, pleased that he looked happy with the ar-

rangement. “You don’t know how hard it has been to find you.” Then

her thoughts turned to Clementine. At last, the girl would have some-

thing to thank her for.

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4.

Clementine staggered into work in a pair of skinny jeans and pumps,

a thick gray sweater hanging almost down to her knees. It was

spring, but she felt cold to her bones. She didn’t know what hurt more, her morale or her head. Sylvia sat at her desk in a tight dress and stilettos, painting her nails red. Mr. Atwood’s partner, Mr. Fisher, was

already in his office talking on the telephone. She was relieved she had got there before her boss, though she didn’t imagine she was going to

be of much use.

“Oh, deary dear,” said Sylvia, shaking her head. “You don’t look

well.”

“I feel terrible.”

“Go and get a coffee.”

“I’ve already had one at home.”

“Then get another. Mr. Atwood will be in shortly, and he’ll be want-

ing a skinny latte and a blueberry muffin. If you have them waiting for him on his desk, he’ll forgive your sickly pallor.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“Yes, lovely, you do. You shouldn’t wear foundation at your age.

When you’re pushing thirty like me, you can pile it on with a shovel.”

Clementine flopped onto her chair and switched on her computer.

“I can’t remember much about last night.”

“What
do
you remember?”

“Joe.” She closed her eyes, hoping he might go away.

“Isn’t he lovely? So handsome. You two really hit it off, which puts

a smile on my face this morning as I was the one to set you up. I think he’s smitten. I’ve never seen him behave like that before.”

“Behave like what?”

“He was all over you.”

“Was he?”

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“Oh, yes.” Sylvia grinned. “It’s usually the other way round, and he’s

having to fend them off.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it. He’s quite a catch, you know.”

“I’m sure he is. A big fish in a small pond.”

“Nothing wrong with a small pond. Better than a small fish in a big

pond.”

“I don’t know. Regardless of the pond, I’m not sure about the fish.”

Sylvia knitted her eyebrows. “Now you’ve lost me.”

“I remember going to his place. I remember you and Freddie

dancing.”

“Freddie loves to dance.”

“Then I remember his sofa.”

Sylvia laughed throatily. “I bet you do. That sofa’s seen a lot of action in its time.”

“That makes me feel so much better. Thank you.”

“You know what I mean. He’s no monk.” Sylvia held her nails up and

waved them in the air to dry. “And you’re no angel.”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“You don’t regret it, do you? The secret of life is not to regret any-

thing. Waste of time. You had fun, didn’t you?”

“I can’t remember.”

“You looked like you were having fun when we left.”

Clementine felt her spirits dive. “I feared you’d left.”

“I’m no voyeur, Clemmie. Besides, me and Freddie had business of

our own to see to. Mmm, now there’s a man who knows how to plea-