“Have you eaten breakfast?” Mark asked.
“No, not yet. A full stomach makes yoga more difficult, bending around the extra bulk.”
“I can imagine.” Mark placed a hand on his belly. “Paul makes a delicious omelette. Join me?”
“You know ... I ...”
“At home I typically dine with the gulls but Paul chases them off his patio and I hate to eat alone.”
She met his eyes and then slowly nodded her head. “Okay ... but none of those addictive omelettes. What sort of crack does he put in there anyway?”
Mark laughed. “No one’s sure. We don’t want to ask in case it’s something illegal.”
“I’ll stick with my fruit and granola.”
“Of course you will. Bloody health fanatics—bastards! Always making the rest of us feel like schleppers.”
“That is why we do it.”
“I knew it! At last one of you is willing to confess. I’ll leave you to pack away your mat of torture and see you downstairs.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
With the tube of her yoga mat tucked under one arm and water bottle in hand, Sandra headed for her room to put things away and retrieve the painting. At least I didn’t make a complete ass of myself this time but I’m sure I look a mess. What’s with stopping by so early in the morning? Doesn’t he know women, especially older women, need prep time before seeing other members of the human race? Sandra stepped into her room and threw her yoga things on the bed before turning to look in the full length mirror. Okay, not completely hideous, but maybe a bit of make-up would help, and a long shirt to cover up my backside in these tights. Breakfast? Why on earth did I agree to breakfast? Is it remotely possible that I can function like a normal person with Mark Jeffery watching me eat? Sandra dusted a bit of powder on her face and added some bronzer to the tops of her cheekbones. Her ponytail had released wavy strands from its binding, leaving them to dangle around the sides of her face. Hmmm ... tidy or leave it be? It looks natural, leave it alone. She pulled a button-up cotton shirt from the closet and slipped it on over her t-shirt and tights. “Better,” she said aloud, forcing a smile at her reflection. “I look like I’m on vacation, which I am.” The smile left her face and was replaced with a furrowed brow. Buck up, girl. He’s just a guy. She turned to leave, the hotel room door swinging closed behind her before she remembered the painting. Right, he’s here to purchase art.
The breakfast patio was situated on the south side of the hotel with beautiful views of the sea, the beach, and the mountains in behind. It didn’t offer the rooftop’s 360-degree view, but was one of Sandra’s favourite spots in the building. The side against the wall of the lobby was filled with flowering plants in bright pots, and ceramic art in the shape of starfish and other sea creatures swam on the white wall, all pointed toward Cortez. Once Pablo’s was open in the afternoon, the half-dozen tables and chairs were stacked in the corner and sunbathers dozed on canvas loungers, working on their take-home tans.
Mark was sitting with his back to her looking out at the water. She walked toward him, keeping the painting facing her body. The flutter in her belly and the moisture on her palms reminded her this was not just a guy she was meeting. Like it wasn’t nerve-wracking enough putting her work out there for scrutiny—really, Mark fricking Jeffery? She inhaled deeply, willing the nervousness to subside.
“Are you ready for the big unveiling?” she asked as she approached his table.
He turned in his seat. “Ready. Do we need a drum roll?”
“No, but I might need a drink. I’m remembering why I don’t sell my paintings.”
Mark crossed his legs and placed his hands around the top knee. He smiled, probably trying to look reassuring, but the Mark Jeffery smile was anything but comforting under the circumstances.
“Okay, here goes.” Sandra turned the painting and held it in front of her, a flat hand pressed into each side of the canvas. She closed her eyes. Silence. She opened one eye and then the other.
Mark was looking at the painting but she couldn’t read his expression. “It’s splendid. You’ve done a superb job of finishing it, and it’s ideal for the spot I have in mind.” He raised his eyes to her face.
“Well ... good ... I’m glad,” she said.
“Do you still need that drink?”
“It’s actually a bit early for me, even in Mexico.” She set the painting on one of the extra chairs, her shaking hands rattling it against the wicker. Taking the seat opposite Mark, she jammed her hands underneath her thighs. Stay still, damn it!
Sandra watched him, his eyes travelling over the painting.
Mark turned toward her and slapped his hands on the table top. “So, to business. Will a cheque do? If not, I don’t have enough cash in-pocket but can certainly get it when I next go to La Paz.”
“A cheque won’t do, I’m afraid.” Mark’s eyebrows lifted. She continued, “But neither will your cash. It’s a gift, for your new house.”
“No-no-no, that’s not what we agreed to.”
“I know, but, I’ve given it some thought and, since I’ve had the pleasure of viewing your work on the screen, you should enjoy mine on canvas. It’s a fair exchange.”
“But you probably paid the going rate to go to the cinema?”
“Truthfully, I’m not much of a theatre-goer. I enjoy most of my movies on DVD or television, so I’m not a great contributor to your industry. Sorry.”
“Oh, no need to apologize to me. Neither am I.” Mark leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “You know, I’m kind of surprised that you’ve seen my work. You strike me as more of a film festival person than a fan of romantic comedies or period dramas.”
Sandra pulled her now steady hands out from under her legs. The conversation was helping her to relax. “I think people generally take art too seriously. If it’s not for enjoyment, then for what? Serious or complex movies can be enlightening, but there’s nothing quite like a good romantic story. It’s kind of like appreciating a gourmet meal and fine wine but also liking a good hamburger with an ice cold beer.”
Mark chuckled. “You have a point. Although I’m not sure how I feel about my life’s work being compared to a burger and a beer.”
“I don’t mean that romantic comedies and period pieces don’t have impact. I think they do, if they’re done well.”
“Well, that’s a relief, although I’m not sure I agree with you.” Mark seemed to be contemplating his hands, now interlaced and resting on the table top.
“Have I interrupted the negotiations?” Paul asked as he walked toward them from the lobby.
“You have in fact,” Mark said. “I’m just in the process of refusing the rather ridiculous offer made by Ms. Lyall.”
“She’s asking too much, is she? Good girl, Sandra. Old money bags here can afford it.”
“On the contrary, she’s trying to give me the painting, the one I’ve offered fourteen hundred dollars for.”
Paul shook his head at Sandra. “Oh no, you don’t want to do that. I’ve heard the stories about him negotiating movie contracts. He deserves the same lack of mercy.”
“I see ...” Sandra lowered her eyes across the table at Mark. “But I haven’t changed my mind. I told him at the beginning that I don’t typically sell my paintings—how many have I given you now, Paul?—so gift it I will. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
“But I am just a poor hotelero ... no comparison.”
“Take it or leave it.” Sandra looked back at Mark.
“You drive a hard bargain, my Canadian friend, and I see no choice but to accept your terms. But ... on one condition. I owe you dinner, here at Pablo’s, or in the village if you prefer.”
“Make him cook.” Paul interjected.
“He’s a good cook?”
“Quite. He’s responsible for a couple of the favourites on Pablo’s menu, and he should have to work harder than simply paying the tab.”
“All right, dinner the
n, home cooked, nothing out of a package, and I do enjoy a nice red wine.” Sandra extended her hand across the table to Mark. When he took her hand she felt her face flush with warmth as their eyes met. Right. She’d almost forgotten who she was talking to.
“Glad I could help broker the deal.” Paul pulled out his pad and pen. “Now, what can I get you for breakfast?”
“I’ll have your Florentine omelette and I believe the lady will have something intended to make me feel terribly guilty about every delicious bite.”
“Ah, the usual then. One breakfast sundae coming up. And to drink?” Mark ordered black coffee and Sandra, the caramel macchiato.
“And so the lady does have a weakness,” said Mark.
“Oh yes, more than one, I’m afraid,” said Sandra.
“Don’t tell him that, you’ll just send him digging for the others.” Paul left them for the kitchen.
Sandra’s eyes went to her hands clenched in a ball on her lap, wondering what on earth they could talk about until they had food to put in their mouths. The only business they had in common, her painting, had been settled. She could feel his eyes on her. She met his gaze, those brown eyes making her breath shorten for a second; they reminded her of when her father took her gold panning, dark saucers with flecks of gold. “S-so ... Paul tells me you’ve been friends a long time, since high school?”
“We have. He’s a good chap. I still feel badly that things didn’t work out for him.”
“You don’t think they did? He seems happy here and business is good.”
“True, but he didn’t have the success in films that he would have liked.”
“Maybe life had a different path in mind for him. I know I’m glad he’s here. Mar Azul has been a haven for me.”
“Do you honestly believe that, that life has a plan for each of us?” Mark asked, his tone changing.
“Ah ...” Sandra hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess it helps sometimes, when life dishes out events that don’t make any other kind of sense.” Even four years later, just a few words could bring thoughts of Nick flooding in. She spotted a sail on the horizon, making its way south through the waves.
“I think we choose our own path, we just don’t always like where it leads. And other people get in our way or sabotage our progress.” Bitterness had crept into his voice.
“Is that what you think happened to Paul? Other people got in his way?”
“Not specific people, but the way the industry is structured, who it favours, who it doesn’t, the fact that there are many more actors wanting jobs than jobs wanting actors. I think good people fall victim to it, like Paul.”
“He thinks he wasn’t good looking enough, or lucky.”
“Looks and luck are part of the equation, and fitting into one of the boxes they need filled. It happened the box he best suited wasn’t in abundance.”
“So I take it you fit into a box that is more in demand.”
“I did, as in past tense. Age is yet another factor in the equation, and another we have no control over. You see, that’s the wretchedness of it. I can do the best job of playing a particular part, but if I wasn’t given the right looks or I don’t speak with the right accent or I’m at the wrong age, that’s it. When I was in my twenties and thirties and even forties, there were more boxes I could fill. Now there are only a few, but still a mob of us old guys lining up to fill them.”
The darkness that clung to Mark was starting to take shape in Sandra’s mind. She was quite familiar with the challenges of having a career that wasn’t meeting one’s needs or expectations.
“What drew you to acting in the first place?” Sandra asked, already knowing Paul’s version of the story.
“Well, ironically, Paul did. I’m not sure I’d be here if it weren’t for him ... and my mother.”
“Your mother wanted you to be an actor?”
“No, my mother wanted me to be like my older brother. I was determined to be a physician with Doctors Without Borders, travel the world helping people. Then my brother Matthew decided to go into medicine. I’d competed with him in academics, in sport, and every other damn thing throughout my youth, I wasn’t going to compete with him in my career. When Paul said he was going to the drama academy, I thought ‘what the hell’ and went with him. I knew Matthew would never choose such a thing. It was safe territory.”
“And you succeeded—quite nicely it would seem. Was your mother pleased?”
“Funny thing is, she died not long before my first major movie role. She’d seen me on the telly, and she’d always mention it, but still she’d go on about Matthew and his practice and some miracle he’d performed, some life he’d saved. He could do no wrong.” Mark inspected the fingernails of his right hand, smoothing his thumb over each one. “Never make your life choices based on another person’s expectations of you, the moral of my sad story.” Mark drummed his fingers on the table and looked over his shoulder to the kitchen door. “Where is that man with the blasted coffee?”
***
“The omelette is delicious. How goes the granola sundae? Getting through it?” Mark asked, making yummy noises as he chewed the final piece.
“It’s quite tasty, thank you. And there’s no getting through it. You should try it sometime. You might surprise yourself.”
“At my age I’m well beyond surprising myself.” He took a mouthful of coffee.
“Well isn’t that a sad state to be in, and at such a young age.”
“Young? If I were young I wouldn’t be here.” He flung his arm in a half circle.
Oops, she’d managed to prod another of his prickly spots. Oh well, have to talk about something and bold seemed a better strategy than bashful. Trisha and Nick would both be proud. “Yes, young. And what on earth is wrong with here? The sun, the sea, the palm trees swaying in the breeze—to most people this is paradise.”
“Paradise is entirely relative. One person’s paradise is another person’s hell.” The word hell seemed spat out.
He’s just a man, Sandra, don’t be intimidated. “So ... why are you choosing to be here, if this is hell?”
“And how is that any of your bloody business?” He jumped to his feet, throwing his light wicker chair onto its back. He stared at her, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
She didn’t know how to respond. She dropped her eyes to the table and picked up her ceramic coffee mug, sipping the warm liquid, the sweetness of caramel blending with the bite of coffee bean on her tongue. She could feel his stare like two burning points on the top of her head. Maybe if she closed her eyes, there would be an empty chair across from her when she opened them, an upright chair, and her morning would be normal, and peaceful.
“Mark! Are you leaving already, mate?” Paul to the rescue. Thank God. “You haven’t had your second cup of coffee yet, or your third.” Paul spoke as one might to a hostage taker—everyone stay calm and we’ll all get out of this alive.
Mark’s hands relaxed and he leaned over to pick up the chair. “I’m sorry. I ... I ... didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“More coffee, Sandra?” Paul asked.
“You know, I should get going.” Sandra pulled the napkin from her lap and laid it on the table. Breakfast had gone from awkward to excruciating and she had no wish to stay any longer. “I’d like to get started on another piece today, since I’m going to La Paz tomorrow.”
“No. Stay for another cup. Please.” Mark’s tone had softened.
She didn’t want to—but his eyes—like the pain of the world rested in them at that moment. Her mouth wouldn’t form the word no. “All right.” Sandra turned from Mark to Paul. “Another macchiatto then, this time the hazelnut, please.” If she was staying she was going to need something pleasurable to distract her.
“Great.” Mark said with an audible out breath. “I’ll have one of those as well.”
***
“Well, that was quite delightful.” Mark said, looking down at the bit of foam resting in t
he bottom of his empty cup.
“I can’t believe you’ve not tried one before. Paul makes some incredible specialty coffees. He’s got about six different lattes on his menu, three macchiatos, a cappuccino, and all of them addictive.” The conversation had remained superficial and pleasant for the twenty minutes it took to drink their second cups.
“I’m rather a ‘give it to me black and strong’ guy in the mornings. It’s more of a drug than a beverage.”
“I see. Well, I’d best get to that empty canvas.” Sandra slid her chair back and stood up. “Thank you for breakfast, and enjoy the painting.”
“Perhaps you’d like to come by at some point to see it in its new home? I do owe you a dinner.”
“Sure, maybe.” Sandra nodded and turned to go.
“Can I give you a ride to La Paz tomorrow?” he blurted.
Forty-five minutes in a car each way—she wasn’t sure she was up for that. She turned back to face him. “Thank you, but I’m just going to hop on the bus. I wouldn’t want to mess with your day. I’m only running a couple of errands, shopping things.”
“Me as well. And my day is generally unplanned so, you see, you can’t mess it up.”
She met his eyes, unsure of what to say, how to politely say no. She couldn’t believe she was being invited on a road trip with Mark Jeffery and did not want to go. Trisha would kill her. But she had a stiff neck and sore head after an hour-long breakfast with a rich and famous companion. A full day? She couldn’t imagine.
“I should be glad to have your company.” He was standing now, looking into her face.
Damn those sad, over-sized eyes. It was a trick of nature, the same one used by puppies and babies. So much for her puppy dog weakness only applying to actual dogs. And how did he cover the distance between ogre and charmer so quickly? Again she found the word “no” eluding her. “Okay. If you’re sure it would be no trouble, a ride would be ... nice.”
“Great.” Mark’s smile lifted the corners of his mouth, pushing his cheeks into two round pouches just below those girl-swallowing eyes. “Then I’ll swing by around ten to pick you up? Does that give you enough time in the morning?”
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