House of the Blue Sea

by Teresa van Bryce

  “I do, but I didn’t bring it. When I have it with me I tend to take photos instead of sketching, and I prefer to work from sketches.”

  “Well, I did bring a camera. So if you’d like some photos to back up your drawings, I can take some for you. Can you come and take the wheel while I get us anchored?”

  Sandra took her place at the wheel, holding the boat steady while he pulled the anchor from the locker at the bow and dropped it overboard. “Okay, put it into reverse, but just idling.” Sandra did as she was instructed. “And now into neutral.” She felt the anchor catch and the boat begin to swing sideways. “Right. I think we’re there. Lunch!” Mark brushed his hands together and returned to the cockpit.

  “You really have done this before.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you agreed to go sailing on the open sea with someone you doubted had ever been on a boat?”

  “Well, I figured you’d been on a boat but, you know, just acting. Crazy, eh?

  “Aha! There it is.”

  “There what is?”

  “The ‘eh’. I’ve been waiting to hear the ‘eh’ you Canadians are famous for. It hasn’t shown up until now.” He pointed a finger at her.

  “That’s because it’s not nearly as common, or as uniquely Canadian, as its reputation.”

  “Ah yes, the idiosyncrasies of speech, often exaggerated by those of other cultures.”

  “I know, eh.”

  “You’re going to do that all day now aren’t you?”

  “I might ...” Sandra smiled. “So, let’s eat, eh? I’m starving. You got any back bacon in that icebox?”

  Mark chuckled and opened the cooler that was tucked into the front of the cockpit. “I’m afraid not, but I do have some lovely smoked fish if that suits, as well as some cheese, which you selected from the market, some fresh bread, some olives, and ...” He opened the locker behind him and pulled out a dark green bottle. “A bottle of my favourite Italian red.”

  “Sounds yummy ... but it’s been a long time since I’ve sailed so I’m hoping you won’t need a designated helmsman.”

  “Has my friend Paul been telling tales? I promise to drink only one glass. Speaking of, can you go down below and find the wine glasses? Our friend back at the marina told me the boat had a fully stocked galley.”

  Sandra climbed down the steps of the companionway into the cabin of the boat. The blue trim of Ode to Joy’s exterior was echoed inside by her navy upholstery; and the cupboards, the benches, the bunks were all a dark red shade of teak. When Sandra reached the bottom step she was in the kitchen and began her search for wine glasses, or something that would suffice. Aha—tucked in a drawer, two plastic glasses with, what else, blue stems. And beside them, plates. Those might be handy as well. Dishes in hand, she checked out the rest of the cabin, going through a small doorway into the front v-berth. Cozy, but certainly comfortable. She could imagine spending some time on a boat, falling asleep to the waves lapping at the hull. Ah, and the head, something she needed. She set the glasses and plates on the galley table and stepped inside the tiny room, locking the door behind her.

  “Are you lost down there?” Mark called from the companionway just as Sandra exited the bathroom.

  “I was but I think I see the way out now.” She grabbed the dishes and climbed back up to the cockpit, handing them off to Mark as she hit the top stair. “Found the glasses, and some plates. It’s quite nice down there. The boat I sailed on with my in-laws was more of a racing boat, so not well-equipped for living. You have to minimize weight if you want to win.”

  Mark had their picnic laid out on the port bench, a small, brightly coloured piece of fabric underneath it.

  “I love the tablecloth. I’ve seen those in San Leandro at the market. Nice touch—for a boy.” She took the glass of wine he offered.

  He poured one for himself and held it toward her in a toast. “Cheers. To fine weather and fine friends.”

  The plastic glasses clicked together. Fine friends—oddly enough, they did seem to be growing into just that. He smiled at her, the whiteness of the face that had been hidden under his beard beginning to colour in the sun. He had the kind of skin that tanned rather than burned. How nice that must be.

  “So, dig in. A little Italian-style picnic to go with the wine, or vice versa perhaps.”

  Mark sat next to the picnic and Sandra sat across from him on the open bench, loaded plates in their laps, wine glasses perched on the top side of the hull.

  “How are you feeling about the art show, now that the pieces are finished and delivered?” Mark asked.

  “Quite good, I think, but still nervous.”

  “Will you go, to the show?”

  “I told Pascual I’d be there for the opening tomorrow. He’d like the artists there every day but I don’t think I’ll do that. I’d rather be painting and I don’t want to paint in public.”

  “I was planning on going at some point. Can I give you a ride?”

  “Thanks,” Sandra examined the food on her plate, “but Ian has offered to take me. He has some things to do in La Paz, and he’d like to see the show.”

  “Right. Not a problem.” Mark took a swallow from his glass and began piling smoked fish onto a slice of bread.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, looking past one another at the surroundings.

  Sandra spoke first. “So, have you received that script from your agent yet?”

  “It’s gone back to the writers for a few changes. Nate says it should be here within the week.”

  “And ... things are still looking promising?”

  “According to Nate the directors and the executives want me in the role. Last time around, I was the director’s pick but not a safe enough bet for the movie execs—and the men who hold the money have the power.”

  His features had darkened. Sandra wondered if she could ask the next question without getting tossed off the boat. “What do movie executives consider a ‘safe bet’?”

  “In this case an actor with Oscar potential, which I, apparently, am not.” His plastic glass hit the boat surface hard enough to splash wine over the top. It ran down the inside of the cockpit, leaving a dark trail on the bright white gelcoat. He picked up the napkin from his lap and wiped up the spill before turning to Sandra. “Apologies. As you may have noticed in prior meetings, this is a subject that makes me rather snappish.”

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I just find that problems sometimes lose their power when we get them out in the open, and I’m happy to listen if you’d like to talk.” She hoped her voice carried more confidence than she felt. She’d decided to ignore Paul’s advice and not stay on safe subjects today. It wasn’t her style to avoid something that so obviously needed to be aired.

  He looked at her across the boat, the thoughts visibly swimming behind his eyes. “You’re still willing to listen, despite my behaviour—the chair tossing, the table slamming,” he gestured to where the faint outline of red still showed on the white hull, “the wine spilling?”

  “Maybe I’ll hold your wine glass when I ask a question.” She reached for his glass and he pulled it back.

  “I think I can manage to be civil. I’ll try to be more stereotypically British and keep my feelings under my hat.”

  “No, I think you need to express what you feel, but try using words instead of ... gestures.”

  “Like I’m doing radio rather than telly.”

  She laughed. “If that works for you, sure.”

  “I’ve never been good at talking about how I feel, or knowing what it is, for that matter. I guess as a British male that shouldn’t surprise me. It just seems that after thirty-plus years of expressing the feelings of dozens of characters, I should be better at it, and certainly better at keeping it from coming out sideways.”

  “I’m not an actor, so I can’t say how it works for you, but for the rest of us, acting is precisely the way we hide what we feel. We pretend to be someone else—someone stronger,
someone who doesn’t care, someone ... different.”

  “So you think the acting keeps me from knowing my own thoughts and feelings?”

  “It might. If your introspective energy gets focused on getting inside the head of another person, what’s left for you? But I’m speculating.” Sandra popped a stuffed olive in her mouth.

  Mark leaned back against the hull and faced her. It was difficult to tell what he was looking at behind the dark glasses but she felt his eyes on her. She shifted in her seat and rearranged the food remaining on her plate.

  “You know, that rather makes sense. I feel different when I’m in character, more real, oddly enough. I found that especially true of acting on the stage.”

  Whew. Sandra exhaled and felt her courage building. “So you were in theatre?”

  “I was, and I enjoyed it very much, that instant and spontaneous feedback from the audience, the possibility of bettering the performance with each night’s presentation.” Mark eyes were drawn to a gull circling overhead.

  “And do you still perform on the stage?”

  “Rarely. I miss it sometimes, but it’s a lot of work, and less money. After a few years in the theatre, I started to get television and movie roles. The feel was quite different from the stage, not nearly the adrenalin, but I enjoyed the challenge of acting without an audience to perform for. Getting the part of Rochester in Jane Eyre was a huge boon for my career. The story is so well-known and loved that we had an instant audience, and Rochester was an interesting and complex character to portray, probably one of the favourites of my career.”

  “But didn’t you say something about romances being a waste of time? I believe it was something to the effect of ‘women swooning ridiculously over an imaginary man’, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes, I believe I did utter some such rubbish. But,” he tapped his temple, “since then I’ve given it some thought—and have reconsidered my position. In truth, Rochester was an enormous opportunity, and quite a challenging role. Unfortunately, I made a shambles of the possibility it afforded me, and here I am, waiting for the phone to ring.”

  “How did you make a shambles of it? I’ve seen you in a number of movies since Jane Eyre, both British and American.”

  “If quantity is the important measure, I’ve done fine. The ‘shambles’ I’m speaking of is misjudging Hollywood. When the offers started coming from America, I jumped at them, no matter what they were. One of them,” his eyes shot skyward, “a dreadful thing I agreed to without reading the script. That was a mistake, one I hope you didn’t have the misfortune of seeing.”

  Sandra did recall one particularly bad movie she’d seen him in about ten years before but decided it was best to remain silent on the subject. She shook her head.

  “I thought that once I had my foot in the door I’d be able to make my way on to better roles, away from the romantic comedies. But, it seems the only way I’m going to climb out of my typecasting is to grow old, which I’m doing a snorting good job of.” Mark raised his glass as if to toast and then took a long drink.

  “We’re all doing that.”

  “We are, but the value of your painting doesn’t diminish because you’re a year older. In fact, it’s likely your talent will grow over time and your paintings become more valuable. Is that not the case?”

  “It’s not quite that easy but, it’s true, artists often improve over time.”

  “As do actors. The problem is that movie-goers want to see people their own age on the screen, or so the execs tell us, and people over fifty tend to spend their time at home.”

  “But we still watch movies.”

  “You’re not over fifty.” Mark pulled his sunglasses to the tip of his nose and peered over the top of them.

  “I will be, in about six months. The big five-o, in October.”

  “Hm, well, you certainly don’t look it.”

  Sandra felt heat rush to her face. It was the first time he’d said anything about her looks. “But, I believe we were talking about your career,” she said.

  Mark dropped his head back and moaned. “Oh, that tiresome subject. Must we go on? Is this some manner of Canadian torture?”

  “I’m surprised it hasn’t made the newspapers over in the UK—‘Canadians develop most polite system of torture ever!’”

  “Polite? Having me dig into my bad decisions and failures? I’d rather the rack!”

  “I don’t happen to have one of those in my bag and I believe I also left my thumbscrews back at the hotel, but I could come up with some kind of water torture.” She inclined her head toward the back of the boat. “Care for a swim?”

  ***

  Mark lounged at the stern of the boat, his head tilted back, face turned to the clouds drifting by overhead.

  “Are you sure you won’t join me?” Sandra asked as she emerged from the cabin.

  “You’ve just eaten and had a glass of wine. Someone has to play lifeguard. Besides, I’m not much of a swimmer.”

  “Exactly the sort of lifeguard every woman wants, one who can’t swim.”

  Sandra wore a loose white wrap over her swimsuit and was reluctant to take it off. The decision to buy one more bikini before she turned fifty now seemed a terrible idea and she was trying to sort out how to get in the water without him seeing her. It was an impossible feat on a boat and she’d look ridiculous peeling off her beach wrap once she was in the water. Oh well, here goes. She stepped near the bow of the boat, dropped her wrap to the deck and dove in. The water was cool enough to send a shock through her body as it enveloped her, such a contrast to the warm air above. She continued to dive until the water felt even colder before turning back toward the surface. Her eyes were closed but she could see the growing brightness as she kicked her feet and pulled the water down with sweeps of her arms. She burst onto the surface about twenty feet off the boat’s starboard hull and smoothed her wet hair back from her face with both hands.

  “It’s lovely. You should come in.” She called to Mark, still in his seat at the stern.

  He shook his head. “Certainly not. I’ll sit and watch, and keep one hand on the life preserver in case you start cramping up. Nice dive, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” Sandra dove again, swimming just under the surface toward the back of the boat. The softness of the salt water caressed her torso and legs as she swam, and in this underwater haven, with all sound and sight blocked, she found herself again. Mark, the boat, even Nick, all washed away by the healing waters. She wished she could swim to Mar Azul, walk onto the beach and rewind her life to the day she arrived, carrying this sense of peace with her. But, she needed to breathe. She surfaced to find she was thirty feet from the stern and Mark was now standing with one hand shading his eyes, scanning the water around Ode to Joy.

  He spotted her. “There you are! I was trying to recall the single episode of Baywatch I once saw.”

  There would be no rewinding; it was impossible to swim backward in water or in time. She waved to Mark and rolled onto her back, letting her arms trail out to the sides, moving her feet gently to keep her legs afloat. She closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. She’d always been a buoyant person, able to float for hours if she wanted to. Maybe the current would take her to Mar Azul. She was enjoying the day, even the conversation seemed to be going well, but underneath it was that persistent discomfort at being out of her element. She wasn’t sure she was capable of looking at Mark Jeffery as just this guy she knew and hung out with. It was all so surreal, chumming around in Mexico with a movie star. Whose life was this?

  If she believed Trisha, it was oh so simple, just enjoy it! But that seemed easier said than done. And then there were Paul’s words of warning about getting attached, and she couldn’t deny an attraction to Mark, as much as she might try.

  She opened her eyes and righted herself, treading water. He was still sitting at the stern, looking very much the movie star on his yacht—designer sunglasses, good looks and a glass of red wine in hand. He smiled
and gave a low wave. He was her lifeguard so it was good he was keeping an eye, but she’d felt his eyes on her many times through the day and had to wonder what was going on behind those dark glasses. Surely he wasn’t interested in her beyond a casual companion? A tingle ran up her arms to the base of her neck. No, it wasn’t possible. A guy who dated models and movie stars twenty years his junior, attracted to her? Not likely. As she started swimming toward the boat, she realized she would need to climb aboard using the ladder at the stern—right past Mark. A few feet away she stopped, treading water again. “Would you be so kind as to get me a towel? I left it in my bag on the v-berth.”

  Mark set his wine glass down and went below, returning a few minutes later with her towel. He set the towel down on the rear bench, picked up his glass, and took a seat on the port side.

  Sandra climbed up and over the stainless steel rail of the pushpit, aware of him looking in her direction and conscious of her low cut top as she bent to pick up the towel. She wound it around her torso and stepped down into the cockpit. He watched her without saying a word, his hand cradling his glass of wine.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The sails filled as Mark steered the boat south toward La Paz. The wind was behind them now and still light.

  “It won’t be a quick trip back but we should make it by our five pm curfew,” Mark said.

  “Sounds good, Captain.” Sandra’s hair was nearly dry and she tucked it into a pony tail to keep it from blowing forward into her face. She sat near the stern, a few feet from Mark’s position at the helm, looking in their direction of travel.

  “You enjoyed, then?” Mark asked.

  He was standing and she smiled up at him. “It was nice. Thank you for taking me.” Her eyes explored the landscape as they passed by, the desert dark and colourless between the blue of the water and the blue of the sky.

  “And you’d come again?” His hair blew across his cheek and forehead when he turned to face her.

  Part of her wanted to say yes, but as soon as his invitation met her ears, that other feeling returned, the one that crawled up in her chest and tightened its grip. “Sure, if there’s time ... sometime.” She turned her attention to the genoa, its white fabric pulled tight by the wind.