House of the Blue Sea

by Teresa van Bryce

  When he looked up, Paul was examining his face. “You mean that, don’t you?”

  “I do indeed.” Mark nodded slowly. “I’m afraid I’m coming to understand all too well some of the characters I’ve played, the ones all muddled up over someone who seems less than interested.”

  “Well, I’m enjoying this even more then. Mark Jeffery, arse over tip. How delightful.” Paul was grinning.

  “You are a cruel man for one’s best friend, you do know that.” He pushed his empty bottle toward Paul. “I might as well have another beer.”

  “Might I suggest a walk instead?”

  “A walk?”

  “Yes,” Paul inclined his head toward the entrance, “a walk. For such a worldly individual, you really are quite thick when it comes to matters of the heart. She’s probably not far off at this hour of the evening.”

  “Right, good thought.” Mark stood. “Depending on how this goes, I may be back for that second beer very soon. I forgive you for being such a bastard.”

  Paul laughed. “Go!”

  ***

  The moon was three-quarters full and well above the horizon as Mark left Pablo’s behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the diminished light, he made out the shape of someone walking at the edge of the waves. As he got closer he could see she was holding her calf-length dress up above her knees, kicking the water out ahead of her as she walked. The splashes lit up like diamonds in the moonlight. She stopped walking and stood still as a wave rolled up her legs, climbing to just below the fabric of her dress. She’d seen him and started to move in his direction. When she reached dry sand she let her skirt fall back around her legs and waved.

  As they approached one another, again he had that urge to take her in his arms.

  “Hi,” she said when they were ten feet apart.

  He stopped. “Hello.” It was like he had a scene from one of his romance movies playing over and over in his head, but the actors refused to follow the script.

  “It’s tough to tell in this light but no bruises? No black eye? I thought your little chat with Paul might come to blows the way it was going.”

  He snorted. “No, we got it sorted. We always do.”

  “It seemed he was on a mission of mockery.”

  “Good way to put it.”

  “I hope it wasn’t on my account.”

  “Well, it was.” He met her eyes, not sure how much to reveal. “But not to worry, we’ve come to an understanding.”

  She waited but he didn’t know what else to say. What was he going to tell her, that he’d compared her to vanilla ice cream but changed his mind, or that Paul thought him destined to break her heart? There didn’t seem much he could share that wouldn’t extinguish the tiny flame he was doing his best to shelter.

  “Care to join me for a walk in the waves?” she asked.

  Mark looked down at his socks and shoes.

  “Oh, don’t let those stop you. My shoes are back at the first palapa.”

  “All right.” He bent down and pulled off his shoes and then his socks, stuffing the socks inside the empty loafers and rolling his pant legs up to just below the knees. “Shall we be off then?” He held his shoes in one hand and offered the other to Sandra.

  She hesitated a moment but then accepted it. Her hand felt small and warm in his as they walked the edge of the waves without talking. There seemed so much to say and yet nothing that was ready to leave his lips. He turned his head to observe her walking alongside him, the moonlight casting a shadow over her down-turned face. Her full skirt had become a snug mini the way she had it pulled up around her thighs away from the rising and falling water. She looked up just then, directly at him, her expression difficult to read. He felt her hand loosen its grip for a moment before it tightened again.

  He had to say something. “That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing.” Not exactly profound or heartfelt but it would do.

  Sandra ruffled the fabric of her bunched skirt forward and back. “Thank you. It’s nicer when it’s not balled up in my fist.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It certainly shows off your legs like that.”

  She smiled and he was relieved. Good. She didn’t think he’d jumped from schoolboy to letch. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so careful of every word he uttered.

  “Just don’t go tumbling off into the waves on me, as I know you’re inclined to do,” he said.

  “True. Ian and Tormenta can both vouch for that.”

  “Ian?”

  “Oh, I surprised him with a dip in the ocean when we were out walking one night. I think he was worried I’d drown myself in my rather margarita’d state.”

  “Ah, I see. And he rescued you, no doubt?” Mark felt the muscles tighten around his jaw.

  “He came out after me, but I wasn’t in need of rescuing. He was quite upset with me, actually.”

  Mark had forgotten about Ian. Here he’d run off to Rancho Azteca worrying about the Mexican cowboy when there was someone right here in San Leandro that posed more of a threat. Alejandro was married, Ian wasn’t.

  “So. Ian. You’ve known him long?”

  “Since my first trip to Baja. We’ve been keeping in touch ever since, and of course I see him here in the winter. He’s a good friend.”

  “Seems to me he behaves like more than a friend.” For God’s sake, Jeffery, try to maintain some dignity. He’d never been the jealous sort and had no idea why it was happening to him now. What was it about this woman that brought out these ridiculous adolescent tendencies?

  Sandra didn’t seem to notice. “Ian? No, he’s just a flirt. I’m far too blonde and Canadian for his tastes. He usually has a Mexican girlfriend, but not this year, for some reason.”

  “Perhaps his interests have gone elsewhere.”

  Sandra missed his meaning. “Possibly. He does seem to be focused on his songwriting at the moment. There’s a Canadian country singer who’s planning to record one of his songs. Did he tell you that?”

  “No, but we’re not exactly mates.”

  “Anyway, it could mean big things for his career. He seems to be more and more inclined to be at home these days so a steady stream of royalties would be a big help.”

  “Is he planning to return to Canada?” Mark could hear the tightness in his own voice.

  “I doubt it. He’s far too happy down here. And that, I completely understand. He was talking to me about buying property.”

  “With him?”

  Sandra stopped and looked at him. “No, of course not with me. I told you—he and I are just good friends.”

  “So you keep saying.” He wasn’t caring anymore if she heard jealousy in his words.

  She squeezed his hand and continued walking. “But I’m not interested in buying property in Mexico. I love my home and have no plans to move to Baja. Besides, how could I come here and not stay at Mar Azul?”

  They continued on in silence until they were in front of the hotel. “Well, I have a painting to get to in the morning so I think I’m going to call it a night. Thank you for the walk.” She let go of his hand as they moved up the beach, smoothing the fabric of her dress down over her legs. When they reached the palapa, he sat down to brush the sand from his feet before putting on his socks and shoes. He stood and offered his arm and she put her hand through the triangle it made at his side, dangling her sandals from her free hand. They walked up the stairs past Pablo`s and stopped outside the entrance to the guest area.

  Again, the movie played in his head, this time the goodnight kiss scene. Sandra pulled her arm from his and stepped toward the door. “So, good night then. I guess I’ll see you Wednesday for dinner.”

  He wanted to move toward her but his feet refused to move; once again, the screenplay falling apart. “Yes, Wednesday.” At least there’s that, he thought, as she turned and disappeared into Mar Azul.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Even though it was feeling very much like a first date, something she’d been avoiding for years, Sa
ndra was looking forward to dinner at Mark’s. Officially, it was payment of a debt, but she knew there was more to it than that, on both sides. She felt she’d crossed some sort of threshold when he’d offered his hand on the beach and she’d accepted. A man offering his arm seemed like chivalry, a hand felt intimate. And it had been nice, even romantic, walking hand-in-hand with him through the waves in the moonlight. She couldn’t deny it anymore; she was drawn to him and it wasn’t just a movie star crush. In fact, the more she got to know him, the more he became Mark the man instead of Mark Jeffery the actor. She was still feeling nervous about the evening, but mostly due to the date factor, not because of who or what he was in life.

  Sandra enjoyed the walk to San Leandro, so Mark had offered to drive her home at the end of the night. It was a good area, quite safe, but a lone woman on a beach at night was still vulnerable. The beach was quiet now in the late afternoon; vacationers were settling in for dinner or cocktails. There were a number of homes along the stretch between Mar Azul and San Leandro, all fairly small and in keeping with an environment that felt more remote than touristy. Sandra spotted a man and woman seated at a table in front of an orange stuccoed house. There was a white tablecloth and what looked like fine dinnerware and a bouquet of red roses. It appeared they were celebrating something—maybe an anniversary? It had been a long time since she’d had anything to celebrate with a man, unless you counted her brother’s fiftieth birthday.

  At the top of the headland Sandra sat down on the bench. To her right stretched the mile of beach past the vacation homes and Mar Azul, to her left the bay of San Leandro, and straight ahead the Gulf of California. Mainland Mexico rested somewhere beyond the horizon, the curve of the earth hiding it from view. Looking at the ocean from a high vantage point always reminded Sandra of the earth’s vastness and, despite the feeling it brought of being a small part of a very large system, it gave her a sense of her own power. Powerful, that was a good way to head into the evening.

  She pulled Paul’s hand-drawn map from her shoulder bag. It showed the trail as it went over the headland and down into San Leandro Bay. Amusing, since she’d walked the trail to the village many times and certainly didn’t need a map to find her way there. Paul was so meticulous. It looked as though Mark’s place was a short distance from the main beach area, the house right on the water, third place down from where the main street of the village dead-ended at the sea, and golden yellow. It would be hard to miss. She tucked the map into her bag and set off down the trail.

  ***

  Third house—golden yellow—must be the place. There was a staircase off the beach leading to a wide deck but she wasn’t sure if the French doors would take her to a main entrance or a bedroom. Showing up in his bedroom might be awkward; better to go around the back and find the door off the street. A narrow stone pathway took her up past the house, flowering shrubs crowding in on both sides. The scent of the generous pink blossoms reminded her of a perfume her aunt used to wear too much of. The smell was quite pleasing when it wasn’t wrapping itself around her in a bear hug. A tile staircase climbed to the second level and the wrought iron railing was hung with ceramic pots, each an explosion of red, purple and yellow flowers. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the heavy wood door. No answer. She looked around for a doorbell but, seeing none, she knocked again, more firmly this time.

  “Yes, yes, I said come in,” she heard Mark call from inside the house.

  Surprised by his tone, Sandra hesitated. Maybe he was just in the middle of some difficult task in the kitchen. She squared her shoulders and turned the doorknob.

  When she stepped inside, the smell of something burnt met her nostrils and the air was thick with smoke. Ah, that may explain the tone. The kitchen was to her left, in the back corner of the house, and the main living area was open to it across a counter. French doors led from there onto the high deck she’d seen from the beach. The house, while not large, was appealing, with its wooden open-beam ceiling and red tiled floors. The walls were a sunshine yellow, less gold than the exterior of the house, and the kitchen cupboards a sky blue.

  Mark had his back to her, focusing on something on the stove. He didn’t turn around when she came in. She stopped half way between the entrance and the kitchen. “Hello.”

  He still didn’t turn around. “Blast!” He picked up whatever was burning on the stove top and threw it into the sink, pan and all.

  “Not going well?” Sandra tried to keep her voice cheerful.

  “Is it that bloody obvious?” Whatever he’d put in the sink was steaming and spitting and when he turned on the tap it got worse.

  She was trying not to laugh. “Can I help?”

  “You can help by not standing there gawking at this cock-up that was supposed to be our dinner!” He went back to the stove and was stirring something in a large saucepan.

  Still amused, she said, “We could always go over to the hotel for something. Maybe clean this up later?”

  He whirled around. “So that’s your solution, is it? Just walk away and do something different?” It was then Sandra heard the slur in his speech, the sound of a voice steeped in alcohol.

  “I’m sorry. Have I missed something? Are we still talking about dinner?”

  He stared at her, a tomato sauce covered spoon in his raised hand. The sauce ran down the handle of the spoon onto his wrist. “Bugger and blast!” He threw the spoon into the sink with the still steaming pan and wiped his hands on a towel that lay bunched up on the counter. Beside the towel was an empty wine bottle and a half full glass of red wine. It seemed he’d gotten a head start.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Do I seem okay? Is this what okay looks like where you come from?” He held his hands out wide to give her a good view.

  “I’d have to say, definitely no.”

  He turned to look back at the water-filled pan, blackened chunks of something unrecognizable floating in it.

  “It’s just dinner, Mark. We’ll find something to eat.”

  “It’s not the blasted meal, for Christ’s sake!” He continued to stare into the sink.

  She waited, watching him, wanting to offer some kind of comfort but, at the same time, afraid to move or speak. “So, what is it then? What’s happened?”

  He spun and pointed to a manuscript lying on the floor; it was open and standing like a pup tent next to the dining room table. “You see that?”

  She nodded.

  “That is the script I’ve been waiting for. Do you remember? The masterpiece that was going to lift my career from the gutter and launch me to Oscar stardom? The one my feckless agent assured me was the perfect part for me?”

  “I take it it’s not what you were expecting.” Sandra walked over and picked up the script. The cover read One More Chance. There’s a bit of irony.

  “What I was expecting? No, I’d have to say I wasn’t expecting that piece of absolute rubbish, a dreadful waste of the paper it’s printed on. They should have saved a tree and not bothered!” He turned back to the stove for a moment and then whirled around again. “And to top it off, the role they assured me was equal to the one I had ripped out from under me?—supporting flunky to a couple of near-teenagers. They want me to play the loser father, a character who is so far-fetched and annoying the audience will undoubtedly fast-forward through every one of his scenes if they’re fortunate enough to be watching at home!”

  “So, can’t you just say no?”

  Mark picked up his wineglass and took a large swallow. “Oh, of course, so simple. I did! I called him immediately and do you know what he said to me? He told me I might not be offered anything better and the clock is ticking. The clock is ticking! So, basically, he’s saying I’m second rate and my career is over.”

  “I don’t think he was calling you second rate, maybe just trying to protect your career. That is his job isn’t it?” She tried to sound as conciliatory as possible.

  “Oh, and precisely when did you become an expert on
the movie industry and what the job of my agent might be?” He set down his glass and placed his hands on the counter top.

  Okay, wrong approach. She attempted to recover. “All right, I know nothing about your business. All I’m saying is that he might just be trying to do his job—”

  “He’s trying to cover his own ass is what he’s doing. If I don’t work he doesn’t get paid! And that, that ...” Mark pointed at the script in Sandra’s hands, “insult, happens to pay very well. Why anyone would put money up for this crap baffles the hell out of me.”

  His intensity seemed to ease a bit on the last statement; she forged ahead. “So, tell him no, again,” she placed the script on the table, “and wait for something that suits you.”

  “Well isn’t that great counsel coming from the artist who has no ambition or desire to do anything more than sit on a beach and paint pretty pictures—for herself! She’s giving me advice on something she knows bugger all about, advice that, followed, could very well end my career. What the hell do you know of my life?”

  Sandra felt the heat rush to her face. She placed a hand on the table to steady herself. So, this is what he thinks of her. She wasn’t sure whether she should stay and argue or run for the door. The door was more appealing, but then she remembered Trisha’s words from their call this morning: “Don’t let him frighten you.” This probably wasn’t what she had in mind when she’d said it but the advice seemed to fit the situation. “I don’t see how attacking me is going to help you. I—”

  “Attacking you? So now this has become about you, has it? My wretched life is in shreds and you want me to be polite. Is that how you deal with things in Canada? Everyone is polite and all the problems magically disappear?” He waved his hands in the air above his head, the volume of his voice building. “Or is that just how it works in your own little sheltered world of ordinary?”

  Sandra stood and stared at him. She felt her chest tightening and the tears welling up. No, she would not cry and let him see that he’d hurt her. “Well, excuse me Mr. Rich and Famous. I can’t imagine why I thought you would take my comments as those of a friend, rather than some ordinary drone trying to tell you what to do with your illustrious career. I’ll leave you to your self-pity and go back to my sheltered world where people are fucking polite!”