The Mermaid Garden

by Santa Montefiore

  “Oh, I forgot. Sorry. Silly name I call my stepmother because she’s so devious, like an enemy submarine.” She laughed, expecting him to do the same. But he didn’t. He just looked uncomfortable. Clementine was embarrassed. She wished she hadn’t said it.

  She opened the front door and showed him through the hall to the kitchen. “Why don’t you put it on the kitchen table?” He did as she asked, but when she looked at him, his whole face had changed. She knew she had to say something to justify her comment. She so needed him to laugh again. “Look, I’m sorry I was rude about Marina. But you don’t know her like I do.”

  He shrugged stiffly. “Your relationship is none of my business.”

  “Then why are you offended by my nickname for her?”

  “I’m not offended.”

  “Yes, you are. Look, you’ve gone all strange.”

  “I like your stepmother.”

  “And it’s okay to like her. You’re a man, it’s no surprise. But I have a complicated relationship with her.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s a problem because you’re allowing it to be one. It doesn’t have to be a problem at all.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He sighed and leaned against the sideboard. “You have the power of choice, Clementine, and you are choosing to hold on to old grievances.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Of course you can. The past no longer exists but in your mind. You can choose to let it go whenever you like.”

  “I can’t.”

  “It is not who you are now.” She frowned crossly. “Have you ever stood back and looked at the situation through her eyes?”

  She lowered her voice. “I don’t think I have to understand her point of view at all. She’s the one who stole my father and caused my parents to divorce.”

  “Which was devastating for you at the time, of course. But nothing is ever quite that simple. Have you ever sat down and asked her what happened, woman to woman?”

  “My mother told me the whole story.”

  “How could she? She only knows her portion.”

  Clementine felt her fury mount. “She knows enough. She was there, for God’s sake.”

  “No, she wasn’t.” He smiled at her sympathetically. “I’m not suggesting you forget the past, just that you accept it and let it go so that it doesn’t ruin your present. You cannot change what happened, but you can change the way you view it. There is always more than one side to every story. You are not a child anymore. You should try to understand it with compassion rather than cast blame and continue to feel wounded.”

  “You know nothing about it, Rafa. You’re way out of line here,” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She folded her arms defensively. “I think you should go.”

  “Listen, Clementine, I can see that you are bitter. I’m only telling you that you don’t have to be. It’s your choice.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, I’ll go.” He made for the door. When he turned back, he smiled at her sadly. “Enjoy the crabs.”

  Clementine watched him leave, seething with rage and self-pity. How dare he come into her family and tell her how to behave? She had clearly misjudged him. From a few well-chosen words in the church she had believed he understood her. From the way he looked at her she had believed he was attracted to her. But now, on reflection, she realized he looked at everyone in the same way. Perhaps he was a typical Argentine man after all, out to seduce for the sheer pleasure of the sport. Shouldn’t she know better? Looks were only skin deep.

  She was distracted by the ringing of her mobile telephone. Joe’s number was displayed on the screen. She sighed with resignation. At least Joe was kind. He didn’t glare at her when she told him about her stepmother, or try to make her see Marina’s point of view. As if that was important, or of any interest to her! Above all, Joe was in love with her.

  “Hi, Joe,” she said. “Fancy a crab for dinner?”

  “Your place or mine?”

  “Which do you think?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Okay. Come over as soon as you can. I’m hungry.”

  As he wandered back to the hotel, Rafa realized he had acted foolishly. His father had always told him not to try to put the world to rights. As a young man he had always been drawn to the lame duck, the wounded dog, the broken spirit, but a person accepted help only if he reached out for it. Clementine believed she was content where she was. She didn’t want to be rescued, and anyway, he had his own problems. He’d make it up with her in the morning then never touch the subject again.

  After returning to his suite for a bath and change of clothes, he went downstairs. There were a few guests chatting to Jake in the hall, and he could see through to the drawing room where small clusters of people 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 cushions, 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.

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

  “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 appreciatively.

  “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 allowed 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 secret,” 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.”

  “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.”

  “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 commitment 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 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 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 Marina, placing the bowl of steaming spaghetti in the middle of t
he 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.”

  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 vegetable.” 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 that arrogant Argentine.”

  “Who’s the Argentine?”

  “He’s Submarine’s artist-in-residence, come to teach old biddies how to paint for the summer.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “He’s full of himself. Typical Latin man, thinks he can seduce anything in a skirt.”