He’d been watching for a while now, maybe thinking she was too caught up in her work to notice. But, it felt okay, even good. She dropped her brush into a container of water and set her palette on the folding table beside her.
“Well? Can I see it?” Mark stood and put his magazines in the sling of blue canvas he’d been seated on. He’d been surprisingly well behaved. For the past hour he’d only interrupted her once to point out a group of four Brown Pelicans gliding above the crest of a wave like surfers.
Sandra closed her paint box and began rinsing her brushes. “I suppose. But keep in mind it’s not finished.”
Mark came around to her side of the easel and raised his sunglasses to his forehead. He took two steps back and then one forward, leaning in and then back again.
“Well ...?” Sandra was trying to focus on her clean-up but his long silence was causing her to fidget.
“It’s tremendous, finished or not. You have captured the soul of Mar Azul. Paul will love it. I love it. Very well done.” He turned to her with a broad smile.
“I haven’t quite worked out the blues, over here, where the light hits the water ...” Sandra gestured to the bottom right corner of the painting.
“Spoken like a true artist. The work can always be better. You should try watching yourself on the screen. At least your work doesn’t have you larger than life and talking.”
“Do you really find it difficult, seeing yourself on the screen?” Sandra closed her paint box and placed her brushes in their roll-up bamboo carrier.
“Oh God yes, horribly, especially once the critics have had their say. I hear every awkward word, see every poorly executed movement. It’s dreadful stuff.”
“That surprises me.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. You just seem so, confident.”
“Have you forgotten? I’m an actor.” He grinned at her. “What can I carry for you?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mark went straight to Lorenzo’s sidecar coffee shop. He’d stayed up the night before to catch Nate in his London office and, after another fruitless conversation, hadn’t slept well. A good jolt of caffeine might clear the fog. The Sunday market was extra busy today, and the two tour busses parked down the main street explained why. He pulled his hat further down onto his forehead and wished for the anonymity his beard had afforded. He hadn’t been recognized often in San Leandro, but two bus-loads of tourists were bound to contain at least a few Jane Eyre fans. He dreaded that inevitable question: So what will we see you in next? He didn’t yet have a name for the script he was waiting on, or even a description of the role, and this time he’d keep his mouth shut until there was something on paper. After Janzen grabbed that last part, the tabloids had been all over the story of his being passed over for another actor. Vultures—delighting in the misfortune of the same person they were in love with the week before.
“Lorenzo, my friend.” Mark held out his hand to the coffee vendor who was leaning against the seat of his motorcycle.
“Amigo. So very good to see you. What can I get you this morning?”
“Let’s go with the espresso. Make it a double.”
“Would you like a swirl of caramel or chocolate on the top?”
“You know, a bit of sweet sounds good. I’ll have the caramel.”
Lorenzo drizzled syrup on top with a flourish. “There you go, one double espresso.”
Mark took the paper cup and gazed at a caramel star floating on the surface of his coffee. “A star?”
“My sister Daniela tells me you are a movie star.” Lorenzo gestured toward a young woman behind the counter of a nearby fruit stand. She was filling a bag with avocados and didn’t notice she’d become the topic of conversation.
“She did, did she? Do you think I should go over and say hello?”
“She would like that very much. She and her friend Sofia are always going to the cinema. They know all the stars.”
Mark took a sip from his cup and closed his eyes for a moment. “Mmmm, terrific coffee, Lorenzo. Gracias.” He lifted the cup in a salute.
He walked over to Daniela’s fruit stand. She had her back to him, rearranging the bins of lemons, limes, oranges, and grapefruit. She was tiny, less than five feet tall, and her black hair hung down her back in a braid that reached her waist.
“Buenos días, Señorita.”
Daniela turned with a big smile, prepared to meet another of the day’s customers. “Señor Jeffery!” Her eyes widened and went to her brother, sitting on his motorcycle, grinning at her. She looked back to Mark. “Buenos días.”
“Do you speak English?” he asked.
“A little only.”
“Lorenzo tells me you like movies. Ah ...” he dug for the word, “la pelicula?”
“Sí, muchisimo.” Her olive face was developing a pink hue. She looked down at her hands that she’d twisted into her apron and quickly pulled them free, smoothing the fabric.
“And you’ve seen some of my movies?”
“Sí, I think ...” She held up three fingers. “Está bien.”
“Well, thank you. It’s always a pleasure to meet a fan of my work.” He held out his hand to shake hers.
She hesitated but then put her tiny hand into his, shaking it with enthusiasm.
“Those oranges look nice. Perhaps I’ll have four, cuatro naranja, and a bunch of the grapes.” He pointed, when her eyebrows scrunched at the word grapes.
“Sí, sí.” She pulled a pink, plastic bag from a box behind her and picked through the oranges for four of the best, adding the largest bunch of grapes to the top. She tied the bag closed and handed it to Mark.
“These look perfect.” He placed the fruit in his canvas shopping bag.
Daniela stood looking up at him, continuing to smile.
“What do I owe you señorita? Cuánto?”
“Oh ... sí.” She blushed again. “Cincuenta pesos, por favor.”
Mark placed five coins in her outstretched hand. “Gracias.”
He headed down the market, turning once to see her still watching him. She waved and smiled. It wasn’t always bad running into fans. It helped when they didn’t speak enough English to ask questions.
Next task, a picnic for a sailing excursion. His eyes scanned the row of vendors, looking for food items that would pack well but not feel like a brown bag lunch. He recognized her hat before he saw her face. He’d spent the better part of yesterday afternoon watching that hat. Her face had been only partially visible above the back of the canvas but the hat was always in full view, its brim tilting up, dropping down, turning to the side, stepping back. It was a simple straw hat with a wide brim, wide enough to shade fair skin from the sun, and it sported a leather band emblazoned with turquoise and silver.
She was down near the end of the row of stalls looking at leather bags and belts, speaking to the boy in the booth. The boy was smiling and talking, his hands as animated as his face. Mark wondered what Sandra had said to him. No doubt she’d asked him precisely the thing that would get him talking. She was wearing a long skirt today, its white folds hanging loose from her hips. The hem was intentionally uneven and showed off her new La Paz sandals. She’d been right, they were her style. Her arms were bare, a blue tank top tied halter-style behind her neck, and her pale skin was bright in the sunlight. Wasn’t she worried about sunburn?
Sandra made a purchase from the boy, placing it in her shoulder bag and turned to continue down the market. Her eyes browsed the tables and tents as she walked, not noticing Mark standing in the middle of the laneway. He was enjoying watching her and wondered if he should find a less conspicuous location. Before he could move, she stopped four stalls down from where he stood, her eyes going to the jewelry on the table: bracelets, rings and necklaces in silver and turquoise.
The elderly woman in the stall got up from where she was working and greeted Sandra. He couldn’t make out their words amid the sounds of the busy market but the Mexican woman was
speaking and holding up various pieces for Sandra to examine. Sandra lifted a heavy silver chain with a long pendant from the table, letting it hang from her right hand as her left examined the stone set in silver. The vendor pulled a mirror from under the counter and held it in front of her as Sandra put the chain around her neck, fastening it behind.
The Mexican woman spoke, probably giving a price, and a high one by Sandra’s reaction. She shook her head and started to remove the necklace. The woman reached her hand out to touch Sandra’s arm and spoke again—the counter offer. Sandra shook her head a second time and lay the jewelry back on the table top. Now Mark could hear the vendor, raising her voice as Sandra moved away. “Wait, amiga. I give you good price. Señora!”
It was then that Sandra saw him, standing in the middle of the market, holding his shopping bag in one hand, his empty coffee cup in the other. He must have appeared a bit of a stooge, like a boulder in a stream, shoppers spilling around each side of him. She walked toward him, her head tilting back enough to allow the sun to touch her face below the brim of her hat. In spite of the shade offered by the wide brim, freckles trailed across the bridge of Sandra’s nose and onto her cheeks, more visible today than they had been when he’d first met her a week ago. “Good morning,” she called as she approached.
“Good morning. Looks like you weren’t able to make a deal.” Mark inclined his head toward the jewelry stand.
“You were watching me?”
“Just for a moment.” He lied. “I heard her calling after you.”
“Ah yes, she was ready to make a very good deal—for her—on her overpriced jewelry. It’s nice, but not that nice. Paul warned me about this one. Wonderful craftsmanship, but too pricey. I can probably buy the same necklace in La Paz for half the money. At least I’m going to give it a try.” She pointed to the empty cup in Mark’s hand. “Getting your morning fix?”
“Indeed, and a very good one it was. Have you been to Lorenzo’s motorcycle coffee bar?”
“Motorcycle?”
“I’ll take that as a no. If you fancy a coffee I’ll take you there now.” Mark offered his arm to her.
“I’ve had my morning macchiato but the motorcycle part sounds intriguing.”
She still hadn’t taken his arm and he was beginning to feel awkward standing there with his elbow pointing at her. Force of habit really, to offer a woman his arm. When your life was filled with premieres, film festivals, and cocktail parties, it just went with the territory. Her eyes met his and he hoped his discomfort wasn’t showing on his face.
“Sure, a coffee, why not,” she said, as she took his arm.
“And after that you can help me choose some delectables for tomorrow’s sailboat picnic.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The sky was clearing when they pulled into the marina. The towering clouds to the northeast and their curtain of rain were now making their way south to the Pacific. They’d left Mar Azul around eight o’clock, Sandra’s three completed paintings wrapped and lying in the back seat of Mark’s convertible. Pascual had been thrilled with her contributions to the show. Of course, he was inclined to be complimentary, but his enthusiasm seemed genuine. He and his volunteers would be setting up the show all day and Sandra’s work would be included in the Visiting Artists tent. She`d be in good company with another fifty-plus paintings sharing the space, each artist providing three to five pieces, depending on size. She didn’t know the artists in the area but she hoped her work wouldn`t look amateurish displayed next to theirs.
The charter boat owner was waiting for them at the marina and went over all of the rigging and equipment with Mark, showed him how to operate the radio and provided charts of the area. “So you are fine from here, amigo?”
“I think we should be. Gracias.” Mark shook the man’s hand and began loading their bags into the cockpit of the boat.
He looked up at the sky and then to Sandra standing on the dock. “You see, I told you the weather would be fine.”
“It does look promising. And where are we headed Capitan?”
“To a lovely wee bay with pristine white sand beaches I’m told, and possibly dolphins.”
“Dolphins. I like that.” Sandra stepped onto the boat. She’d almost cancelled today’s trip many times but, now that she was here, she was glad she’d come. In the end she’d taken Trisha’s advice to stop worrying so much and enjoy the attention. And besides, she’d loved sailing back on Lake Ontario. “So, you said you haven`t sailed here before.”
“I have not. But ... I have spoken to someone who knows these waters very well, a fisherman in San Leandro. Locals are always the best source of information.”
“But you have sailed before?”
“Yes.” He eyed her over the tops of his sunglasses from his kneeling position at the back of the boat. “Skeptical bloody Canadian. Would you like to see my RYA card?”
She laughed. “No, I believe you, but my sailing experience is from the Mesozoic period so you won’t be able to count on me for a lot of help.”
“Do you remember how to pull on a line?”
“I might.”
“Well that should be about all the help I need. You, fair lady, can sit back and enjoy the ride.”
Ode to Joy was a Cal 34, an older boat but well-maintained, her rigging and sails recently upgraded. They untied and motored out of the harbour, the gulls squawking overhead and a gentle breeze off the nose of the boat. La Paz passed by them on the right, the waterfront pathway dotted with strolling tourists, each of them a different splotch of colour from Sandra’s vantage point. She pulled her sketch book from her bag and did a quick drawing of el Malecón—its buildings, statues and palm trees, and the people wandering its pathway.
“The beginning of another painting?” Mark asked from behind the wheel.
Sandra continued to focus on her sketch. “Possibly. I like the colourful little tourists against the city backdrop. It was thoughtful of them to wear such a variety of colours ... not that I couldn’t brighten them up a bit if they were all dressed in brown.”
“Ah yes, the artist’s prerogative.”
Sandra flipped the page and started a second sketch. Her pencil moved rapidly, her eyes going from the page to the shore and back again. She could see masts up ahead, bright white against the hill behind them. She turned another page and began drawing the resort marina as it came into view.
“Now, I don’t want to interrupt an artist at work, but I would like to put the sails up soon, now that we’re out of the harbour.”
“No problem ...” Sandra added shading to some areas of her sketch and closed the book, tucking it back into the pocket of her duffel. “Done! At your service, Skipper. What can I do?”
Mark switched on the autohelm and they set about raising the main sail and genoa, the crisp white triangles reaching up into the Baja blue sky. When the sails were set and Mark was back at the wheel, Sandra’s sketch book was out again. This time she sat at the bow of the boat, her back pressed into the pulpit, the front of the foresail against her shoulder.
“I thought you didn’t do people.” Mark called from the back of the boat.
“I don’t really. You’ll just be a shell of a person, without features.”
“Ah ... I’m the perfect subject then.”
She returned to her drawing. It was an opportunity to look at him without noticeably staring—one benefit of being an artist. He looked so relaxed today. His white short-sleeved shirt was untucked and blowing in the breeze. He wore a pair of blue and white plaid shorts and his bare legs and feet were brown against the white deck of the boat. Sandra went back to her sketch and tried to capture him on the paper. His untameable hair was at its best this morning, the wind turning it into a moving mass of brown curls around his head. Every now and then he would pull his fingers through it to move it from his face, making it stand up all the taller above his forehead.
“Are you sure I’m just going to be a shell. It seems as though you’re looking a
t me rather intently.”
“It’s the sunglasses that make it seem that way.” She tapped the side of her glasses with her pencil. “Just a shell. Absolutely.” Sandra looked down at the image evolving on her lap. She’d never been good at drawing or painting people but it was something she wanted to work on. A movie star seemed like a good place to start; with his square jaw and symmetrical features his face wasn’t so different from architecture, and she’d drawn plenty of buildings. And then there were those broad shoulders, muscled arms, gorgeous hands—definitely not a tough subject to keep your eyes on. If Trisha were in her head right now she’d be so proud.
They travelled that way for an hour or more, Mark at the stern with his hands resting on the wheel, and Sandra at the front of the boat, sketching him, the boat, the sails, the changing landscape and the rolling waves of the sea.
***
They reached their destination two hours after setting sail. Without the chart and the directions from the fisherman, the bay would have been invisible with its narrow entrance between two fingers of land reaching out into Cortez. Once inside, the water went calm, like they’d dropped onto a quiet lake.
“It’s beautiful,” Sandra called back to Mark from her position at the bow. They’d taken the sails down before attempting the entrance. The water was deep and without rocks, according to the chart, but the width made Mark err on the side of caution. Steering accuracy was more easily achieved under power.
The dark hills of rock and acacia shrub rose up from the water all around the bay, with sandy expanses of the palest beige at their base. The water grew shallower as they motored further in, its colour changing from indigo to turquoise. Sandra let her eyes drink it all in, trying to capture the colours for her canvasses. “What a marvellous place to paint.”
“Did you bring your paints?” Mark dropped the engine to an idle.
“No, only the sketch book. I’ll have to try to remember the colours.”
“Do you not own one of those new-fangled inventions—a camera, I believe they’re calling it?”
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