House of the Blue Sea

by Teresa van Bryce

  “I don’t know. I find myself wishing his agent or some girlfriend would call and he’d get on a plane back to London or L.A.”

  “He has a girlfriend and yet he’s hanging all over you?”

  Sandra stopped again. “He isn’t hanging all over me, okay? No courting. No hanging.” She continued walking. “As for girlfriends, I don’t know. He and Paul were talking about someone in London named Roxanne.” Sandra remembered walking in on that conversation in Pablo’s and Mark had promptly changed the subject. Whoever Roxanne was, he hadn’t been speaking very glowingly of her. Sandra had done some on-line research and found tabloid photos of Mark with an actress named Roxanne Murphy. It wasn’t clear from the article who she was, just that she’d been spotted “around town” with actor Mark Jeffery. She was gorgeous, of course, with a perfect complexion, long dark hair, longer legs, and thirty-five at best.

  “You okay?” Ian broke into her thoughts.

  “Yes, sorry. What were we talking about?”

  “You apparently need to get out of the sun. We were talking about—well, speak of the devil.”

  Sandra followed Ian’s gaze and there was Mark entering her tent. “Really? Today? I’m just not up for it.” She stopped walking.

  “Do you want me to drive you back to San Leandro? I will.” Ian put his hand on her arm.

  “I would love that, but no I can’t. I told Pascual I would be here for opening day.”

  “Well let’s go find a coffee then.” Ian put his hand on the small of Sandra’s back to lead her across the street. “Maybe he’ll be gone by the time we get back.”

  ***

  There was a line-up at the coffee shop and the barista had been slow so Sandra thought Mark would have moved on by the time they returned to the tent. She walked in and glanced around. Thank goodness. No Mark.

  “There you are!” A British accent from behind her. She turned and there he was, coming through the entrance toward her.

  She made an effort to smile. “Hey, good morning.” He looked as if he was going to embrace her so she stepped forward and shook his hand. She looked to where Ian had been standing but he’d moved to the end of the tent, intentionally no doubt, and was talking with Pascual.

  “How are you?” Mark’s expression was serious as his eyes went to her forehead.

  “I’m fine. Really. It’s not a big deal. A good night’s sleep worked its magic.”

  “And ... things are going well here?”

  “The first hour was quiet but it seems the tourists have gotten over their hangovers enough to get out of bed.”

  “Mm, I know how they feel. I stayed a little late at Pablo’s last night. I didn’t feel like going home, and Paul kept putting beer in front of me.”

  “That Paul, such a terrible influence.” She shook her head.

  “So, I guess I can’t get you a coffee,” he nodded toward her cup, “but I think I’m going to get myself one. Care for a stroll?”

  “You know, Ian and I were just out walking. I should stay here for a bit.”

  “Right. Where is Mr. LeRoy?”

  Sandra pointed as Ian looked up. He started walking toward them.

  “Well, be back soon then.” Mark turned and left the tent.

  Great, now she had Mark and Ian facing off like a pair of hockey players at centre ice. Sandra placed her fingers on the space between her eyebrows. The throb from last night was returning.

  ***

  “Is he going to hang around all day?” Ian asked.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you go ask him?” Sandra said. Mark had returned with his coffee an hour before, studied all of the paintings in the tent and then taken up residence near the check-out counter, chatting with Pascual’s friend Mario, who was helping out with sales. He would glance in Sandra’s direction every now and then and smile with a lift of his chin, like he was trying to reassure her. “I think he’s trying to be supportive.”

  “Supportive? What the hell for? You are quite capable—and, you have me.”

  “Yes I do, and I appreciate your being here, but I can’t exactly ask him to leave now, can I?”

  “You could try it.” He grinned.

  “I think I should lock the two of you in a room together and see what happens.”

  “Brits don’t know how to fight. I’d absolutely win.”

  “And Canadians have such a reputation for being brawlers. He might surprise you; he’s probably had fight training for his work. That’s where he learned to sail.”

  Ian’s eyes went to her forehead. “And I see how good he is at that.”

  “It wasn’t his fault. The skipper doesn’t control the weather.”

  Ian watched Mark for a minute and then put his arm around Sandra’s shoulders, leaning in to whisper in her ear. “I think he’s into you.”

  Sandra pulled away from under his arm. “Oh stop it. Just because you chase every skirt you see doesn’t mean all men do.”

  “So that’s what you think of me, a philanderer. I see. Well, I’m going to wander, maybe pick up a girl or two. Back in a bit.” Sandra watched him go, his sandy hair catching the sun as he stepped outside. She looked back to Mark and saw he was watching her again.

  ***

  Ian had his left hand on the wheel and his right resting on the gear shift of his VW bug. “I can see why you’re getting frustrated with Mr. Jeffery. He’s like a stray dog, hanging around all day, inviting himself along for lunch. He needs to get a life, or find where he left his and get back to it.” They were on their way home to San Leandro, the sun setting behind the hills.

  “Don’t be so hard on him. He was pleasant enough,” said Sandra.

  “Sure, pleasant, but still irritating—indeed, Mr. LeRoy, delightful, Sandra—what a prig!”

  Sandra couldn’t help but laugh at his fairly accurate impersonation. “Now, now, be nice. It’s the way he speaks. It doesn’t make him a prig.”

  “On the contrary, Ms. Lyall, I do believe you are mistaken.” He was still speaking with a posh British accent.

  As they crested a hill, the Sea of Cortez came into view below. It was always startling to see the brilliant blue water appear in the midst of so much dry land. The air from the open window caressed her face, its coolness signalling the onset of evening.

  ***

  It was dark by the time Sandra sat on her patio eating leftovers from lunch in La Paz and drinking a glass of wine from the bottle she’d purchased that afternoon. She was hiding and she knew it. Mark had mentioned he’d be in Pablo’s tonight and she didn’t have the energy for him. A day of constant people and questions about her work on top of the palpable tension between Ian and Mark had drained her dry.

  The lights of Pablo’s radiated from under its rooftop and the solar lights lining the entrance looked like a small landing strip from above. There was just enough light to see the white of the foam on the waves as they ascended the beach, their rhythmic sound relaxing, almost hypnotic. She loved this place but she felt the need to get away. Pascual was pushing her to spend more time at the art festival, Ian was behaving like her over-protective big brother, and Mark felt like some great hovering bird of prey. After two weeks at Mar Azul she’d normally be well into mañana mode, but instead she was more wound up than when she’d arrived.

  Sandra took a sip of the deep red wine, stretched her hands around the smooth bowl of the glass and closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair. There was the surf again, returning her to the peace she had found here and her memories of other visits. A tear escaped from under her eyelid and rolled down her cheek, its saltiness coming to rest on her lips. She set down her glass and wrapped her arms around herself, imagining she could feel Nick’s warmth in the breeze and hear his voice in the waves.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mark was smiling as he walked along the beach toward Mar Azul. In the time he’d been staying in San Leandro, he’d always driven the short distance to Paul’s hotel but this morning he felt like walking. The sun was beginning i
ts rise out of the sea as he left home and shorebirds were feasting on the morning buffet left behind by the tide. He was planning a dinner party and needed to extend an invitation to his guest of honour.

  When Sandra hadn’t shown up at Pablo’s the night before, Mark resisted the urge to go knock on her door. At least he assumed she was in her room, if she hadn’t stayed out with her friend Ian after the art show closed. Friend. Hmm. It was obvious the blonde bard was after more than friendship. For Mark, Sandra had started out as a pleasant distraction from his troubles but the day on the boat changed all that. When he saw her go over the side his heart nearly stopped, and the surge of emotion he experienced when he pulled her back on deck and held her close took him completely by surprise. Since then he’d wanted to be in her company, even when Ian was glaring at him, even when she seemed to be avoiding him.

  Had she avoided him last night? She may have just been tired. He’d stayed at Pablo’s until almost eleven o’clock, nursing two glasses of wine all evening, hoping she’d come in for a nightcap or a cup of tea. He and Paul had chatted about the art show and made plans to attend on Thursday morning. Paul hadn’t seen the completed painting of Mar Azul and wanted to have a chance to buy it before the weekend crowd arrived.

  Mark had driven home with the top down on the BMW, the trumpet bush filling the air with its musky perfume. Where the road ascended the headland, he could see the cluster of lights at San Leandro down below and the white froth of the surf shining as the moon climbed into the sky. He pulled over to enjoy the scene and imagined Sandra taking in the same view. It was tempting to go back to Mar Azul and bring her up here to share this with him, but he knew that was a bad idea. She could be long asleep or soaking in a bath or, yes, avoiding him. It was then he remembered he’d agreed to cook dinner, in payment for her painting. Perhaps it was time, time to invite her to his home, time to acknowledge she had become more than a pleasing distraction.

  ***

  “She’s gone? Where? I thought she was here until March ... or April.” Mark realized he hadn’t asked Sandra how long she was staying. It hadn’t seemed important until now.

  Paul looked at his friend with eyebrows raised. “She is staying until April, but she’s gone off horseback riding for a few days. Why are you so concerned about her whereabouts?”

  “I’m not. I was planning to invite her for that dinner I owe her, for the painting.”

  “Ah, I see, and that’s it?”

  “Yes, dinner.”

  “No, I mean that’s all that’s going on?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Mark jammed his hands in his pockets and began circling the small lobby, glancing up at Paul every so often.

  Paul stood behind the reception counter continuing to sort the guest cards into piles. “You’re going to wear a path in my carpet,” he said without looking up.

  “Oh blast. I should have gone to see her last night.”

  Paul laughed. “Is that so? Maybe it’s time you tell me what’s going on. Hm?”

  “There’s nothing going on. I simply wanted to invite her for dinner.”

  “Mm. Well, she’ll be back, in a few days I think. She spends some time at a ranch every year when she’s here. I thought she was going there middle of March but I may have misunderstood. She left this morning around sunrise, riding hat in hand.”

  “Riding. So, horses.”

  “Yes, horses. You know, the big hairy creatures, with long legs and noses.”

  “This isn’t funny,” he shot back at Paul.

  “I think maybe you need a coffee, or perhaps you’ve had one too many of those already. I have a lovely herbal tea called Chill.”

  “Go ahead, have your fun with me. I’m only surprised she didn’t mention she was going. I just saw her yesterday.”

  Paul laughed again. “I’m sorry, but you’ve been telling me you have no interest in this woman—what was it you compared her to, vanilla ice cream?—yet here you are pacing my lobby and snapping at me because she’s gone away without telling you.”

  “I owe her a dinner and am trying to make good on it. I may be called away to work any day and I don’t want to leave owing a debt.”

  “Oh please. This has got to be the least convincing performance of your career.”

  Mark stopped his pacing and glared at Paul, who stood grinning. He could be so infuriating. “So, art show tomorrow then? Pick you up around nine?” Without waiting for Paul to answer, Mark stalked out of the lobby and hurried down the beach toward the village.

  ***

  “So you’re not going to tell me?” Mark asked. He and Paul were seated out front of a beverage tent at the art festival.

  “I don’t know. It’s somewhere on or toward the East Cape I think. There’s a guy there, a horse trainer, an American if I remember correctly.”

  “You’re telling me she’s run off to spend time with an American cowboy?”

  “She’s gone off to ride horses under the guidance of a trainer is how I would put it, but then I’m not a jealous pillock.” Paul picked up his bottle of beer and took a drink. “We’ve been friends a long time, Mark. Why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

  Mark stared at a painting being displayed out front of the neighboring tent. It was a Mexican village scene with small adobe buildings in a rainbow of earthy colours. Paul waited, his eyes on Mark’s face.

  “I’m just sorting that out myself. I’ve been having these—feelings—I can’t quite explain.”

  “About Sandra Lyall.”

  “Yes, about Sandra.” He looked back at Paul. “She’s come to mean something to me, even though, as we’ve both pointed out, she’s not exactly my type.”

  Paul leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, but is it possible it’s a kind of rebound effect? You lost a big part, your ex-wife remarried, you’re not satisfied in your relationship with Roxanne. It’s like the rebound trifecta.”

  Mark studied the beer bottle between his hands. “I don’t know. I feel like my whole fucking world has been turned upside-down and for some reason she’s the only thing that feels, well, still upright. What I do know is that I want to spend time with her, that I panicked when I watched her go over the side of that boat, and the idea of her making eyes at some ... some ... cowboy ...”

  “Perhaps she’s more your type than you know. I didn’t think I was destined for anything but acting, but here I am content as a Mexican hotelero. Sometimes happiness is found in unexpected places.”

  “All right then, let’s say that’s the case.” Mark leaned forward. “What the bloody hell do I do now?”

  “I’d say you wait until she returns from her ranch visit and you tell her how you feel. You said you were planning to have her over for dinner. Seems like a perfect opportunity.”

  “And if she doesn’t feel the same? I often get the distinct impression she’s just tolerating me.”

  “That is possible. She’s rather down-to-earth and you can be a bit of a toff.” Paul smiled. “But, you’ll have to take that chance. We all have to learn to face rejection at some point, even the great Mark Jeffery.”

  Mark watched a middle-aged couple walk by hand-in-hand, the woman leaning into the man’s shoulder as she laughed at something he’d said. “I seem to be taking a crash course of late.”

  “I’d say it’s about time you caught up with the rest of us who have been in lifelong programs of study. I must have my PhD in Piss Off by now!”

  Mark snorted. “And how do you survive it? I thought I was going to go mad after I got dumped for Janzen ... or turn boozer.”

  “I’d say you did a bit of both, mate. It’s as you said, you survive it. I can’t tell you much else.”

  Mark drank down the last of his beer and clunked the bottle on the table top. “Right then, I’ll give it a go. I will drive down there and pay Ms. Lyall a visit.”

  Paul rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Oh hell, did you not hear what I said? Wai
t until she returns. You’ll just frighten her if you show up there, not to mention set yourself up for complete embarrassment.”

  “What’s that delightful American expression? ‘Go big or go home’. I believe it suits the occasion.”

  “But how you proceed should suit her as well as you.”

  “I haven’t known her long, but I’d say I know this much about Ms. Lyall, that a grand gesture would please her more than you think.” Mark placed his hand over the left side of his chest. “There’s a woman of passion under that quiet, Canadian exterior.”

  “Oh please, enough with the drama.” Paul stood and pointed a finger at Mark, “If this goes sideways, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  ***

  With few towns or other established areas in the East Cape region, the research had been easy enough. He still wasn’t certain he had the right place, since the web site showed a Mexican national as the owner and head trainer, but Alejandro Torres had spent many years in America, only returning to Mexico five years ago. He raised Azteca horses and specialized in a discipline called western dressage at his facility south of La Ribera. Mark was familiar with dressage but not the cowboy version of it. Somehow he’d imagined Sandra doing something more traditional, and less western.

  The road was quiet as he rolled through Los Barriles. He’d gotten an early start, unable to return to sleep after waking at six. Sandra had been gone for two days and he was feeling anxious about what he might discover at Rancho Azteca. The horse trainer was about Mark’s age, good looking, successful, and quite a catch for someone with an interest in horses. He’d been hoping to find some bandy-legged old cowboy on the website, and a bio for a Mrs. Torres. It wasn’t Mark’s style, putting himself in awkward situations, but he knew he’d only pace his beach house until Sandra returned and then struggle to find a way to ask her about Alejandro anyway. Better to face it head on and get it over with. He was prepared for possible rejection at the end of this journey.

  Two hours and three cups of coffee later, Mark pulled onto the dirt road indicated by his GPS. The sign at the turn read “Rancho Azteca 3 km”. His hands were moist on the steering wheel and he had to take deep breaths to keep his stomach from climbing into his chest. He stopped after two kilometres and stared ahead at the road, the engine purring in the quiet desert. He was tempted to turn around. Why was he putting himself through this? For what? Go back to your life, Jeffery, and let this woman to her own. Five minutes went by, then ten, and still he sat and stared at the road, one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift. He didn’t want to turn back and yet he couldn’t drive forward. What if she were on some kind of romantic getaway with this Alejandro? What if he walked into the middle of something desperately uncomfortable? How to extricate himself in that event?