House of the Blue Sea

by Teresa van Bryce

  “I do. And I know you tried to speak with me before. I’m sorry I wasn’t able—”

  “Please don’t apologize to me for anything. I feel dreadful enough.” He set his cup down and took a long, slow breath before lifting his eyes to Sandra’s. “My behaviour the last time you were here was unforgivable and boorish and I am terribly, terribly sorry. Whenever I think about the unkind words that came out of my stupid, arrogant mouth, I ... you, of all people, didn`t deserve a bit of it.” His head dropped forward into hands propped in prayer position, his index fingers pressing into the space between his eyebrows. “I was angry with Nate, with myself, and I directed it at you.” He lifted his head and his eyes met hers again. “Please, forgive me.”

  Sandra had always considered herself an understanding person, but could she forgive him his words? “Of course,” she said.

  “Thank you. I don’t believe those things I said. Please know that I don’t. I can’t imagine where they came from. As you know, my life has been in a bit of a state lately but it’s no excuse. I have nowhere to lay blame but here.” He patted his chest with his hand.

  “I believe you. Thank you,” she said.

  Their two chairs were angled toward each other and to the shuttered view of the sea, close enough their hands could touch if they both reached out. They sat in silence, each sipping their tea, Sandra glancing at Mark every so often. He held his cup in both hands, his eyes fixed on it, his gaze drifting to the tea service whenever he lifted the cup to his lips.

  Sandra spoke first. “You know, to paraphrase Jane Eyre, from this distance you’re looking rather alarming, Mr. Jeffery.”

  He snorted, nearly spitting tea. “I’m quite certain I am.” He set his cup down and ran both hands through his tangled curls. “Any better?”

  “Not really. Sorry. Did you lose your razor again?”

  He rubbed a hand over the growth on his face. “I can go shave if it would make you more comfortable.” He sounded serious.

  “No, of course not.”

  He looked around the room and then back at Sandra. “I’m leaving in a few days. I’ve accepted my fate and taken the part. I’m off to London to finalize things and then to America to begin filming.”

  “I see. And you’re happy with that decision?”

  “Happy? Good God no, but what choice do I have?”

  Sandra was afraid to say what seemed so obvious to her but had launched him into a fury only a week ago.

  “I can tell you have something to say. Out with it. Go ahead. I promise to remain civil,” Mark said.

  “Only what I’ve said before. Don’t do something that goes against your better judgement and instincts.”

  “And throw away a thirty-year career? Because that’s basically what it comes down to, tossing success out the window.”

  “Is what you have right here, right now, success? An agent who doesn’t know who you are or what you want and is trying to get you to do something to pad his own bank account? If you’re right, and he believes you’re second rate, then get rid of him. If you don’t believe in your own worth, no one else will, and people like Nate will only drag you down. There is more to you than what he sees.”

  “And what more is that then? The bit that’s around my mid-section, this extra chin I’ve been developing, or maybe the crow’s feet next to my eyes.” He pointed a finger at the side of his face. “I’m sure he can see them just as well as everyone else can ... including all the wonderful friends I have, who seem to have forgotten I’m alive and don’t give a fig that my life is crashing down around my ears. In fact, it’s more like they’re afraid they’ll get some on them if they get too close.”

  He’d leaned forward and his voice was getting louder but Sandra remained in her chair, holding his gaze. “I give a fig,” she said quietly.

  “And look how I treated you.” Mark’s head dropped forward and he ran his hands through his hair again, pulling at it. “The thing is, I don’t want this part.” His eyes met hers, their darkness filled with pain. “The frightening thing is, I’m not sure I want any part.”

  “So what is it that you do want?”

  “And that is exactly the bloody question I’ve been wrestling with and still don’t know the answer to. I’ve thought about doing something completely different, although I don’t know what that would be. Problem is, when you’ve got people following your every move, it’s difficult to walk away from your work.” Mark leaned toward her, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me, when you left your job as a curator you set out to do something entirely different, reinvent yourself. Is that about right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how many magazines and newspapers printed the story of your departure? How many people speculated unkindly about where you’d gone and why? How many headlines reported your has-been status? How many reporters called your friends and family to dig out your hard luck story so they could splash it all over the tabloids?”

  Sandra nodded, considering his words.

  “Because that’s what happens to a celebrity. When we disappear, even intentionally, we must have done it because we’ve crashed and burned and, even if we didn’t, they’ll report it that way. Why? Because they like to see us fail. It sells magazines.” He leaned back with a thump that moved the chair backward an inch.

  “I can see how that would happen. But you know, I would have done it anyway. I felt trapped in my job. I’d never chosen it and, once my father was gone, I had no reason to continue; not that he was a good reason to do it in the first place.”

  “So even if you knew your life would be portrayed as a complete fall-out, you’d have walked away.”

  “I would have. As for the tabloids, I’ve only experienced them as a reader, but people forget very quickly. And, those who are true fans, like my friend Trisha or Pascual’s wife, will still sit and watch Jane Eyre, fall in love with your Mr. Rochester and cry their eyes out, just like they did the first time—or second, or third. That’s the beauty of what you’ve done for the last thirty years, no matter where you go, or what you do next, the best of that work will live on.”

  Mark was silent for a moment. She could almost hear the thoughts turning like rusty cogs and wheels. “Thank you for that.” His voice wavered on the last word. “I’ve been having this recurring dream, about a dog, an Alsation of all things.”

  “Didn’t you tell me you had a German Shepherd when you were a child?”

  He nodded slowly as he explored the back of his left hand with the fingers of his right. “Sig.”

  “And do you think it’s Sig in the dream?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably. In the dream, the dog needs saving and I seem to be his last chance.”

  “Dogs can mean all kinds of things in dreams, according to the experts,” Sandra said. “What does Sig represent to you?”

  “I don’t know ... childhood maybe, strength, unconditional love. He was my father’s dog, but in truth he was mine.” Mark was smiling slightly, still examining his hands. “I used to imagine we were a search and rescue team on missions of great importance. I recall we once rescued Queen Elizabeth.” He chuckled but then his face fell. “But he got old and died before I was ten.”

  “And what happened to the dream of being a search and rescue guy?”

  “Nothing. It was just a boyish game.”

  “Are you sure? Didn’t you tell me you wanted to be a doctor? Kind of similar, don’t you think? Both involve saving lives.”

  Mark nodded without looking up.

  “So what happens to the dog, in your dream?” Sandra asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s right there, so close I feel his breath on my face. I think he’s dying but I’m not sure how or why and I don’t know how to help him.”

  “I think it’s kind of obvious, and quite ironic that your dog’s name was Sig, Sigmund Freud being the father of dream interpretation.”

  Mark looked up finally. “Well tell me then, student of Sigmund, what do you see?”


  “Well, to be honest I have no idea what Freud would have said about your dream, but I think the dog represents the dreams you had as a boy, the dreams you left behind when you went to acting school instead of medical school. I think Sig is trying to tell you that it’s time to do something or it will be too late to save it, the dream.”

  “So I’m supposed to get a German Shepherd and join a search and rescue team?” Mark raised his eyebrows.

  “Possibly.” Sandra shrugged her shoulders. “Although I’m sure there are opportunities better-suited to someone of your circumstances.”

  “Ah, you mean my age,” he put his hands on his stomach, “and my physique.”

  “So sensitive. No, I didn’t mean that. Well, maybe your age a wee bit.” She smiled at him. “But I was thinking more about your position in life, your influence.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t feel very influential at the moment. Other than a model for how not to live your life ... or treat your friends.”

  “Well, as a starting place, tell me what you liked about acting, when you first started.”

  “I certainly liked the attention.”

  “I’m sure you did, but what else?”

  He thought for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. “I liked having an impact on people and the way they think. It’s why I wanted to do films with substance, not a never-ending stream of romcoms and period flicks.” He poured more tea for himself and offered some to Sandra. She shook her head.

  “So, since there are a lot of things you could do that have the potential to impact or change people—art, writing, teaching, counselling, charitable work, health care, I could go on and on— why acting?”

  “I was good at it I guess, and the money was extraordinary as time went on.”

  “Well, I was a very good curator; I have a memory for historical details that suited the job incredibly well. At the time I left I’d been offered a position with the National Gallery in Ottawa, about as high up as I could go in my career and for a significant salary increase. That was what sent me west. I knew it wasn’t what I wanted and that if I took it I’d be selling out.”

  “So that’s what you think I’m doing, selling out?” He asked the question calmly, without anger in his voice.

  “No, I only know it’s what I would have been doing, continuing down a course I’d set myself on because I kept being rewarded along the way. Somehow the National Gallery felt like the point of no return, when it should have felt like reaching some kind of pinnacle. I knew I had to leave.”

  “And you’ve never regretted it?”

  “Not for an instant.”

  “Then you’re a braver soul than I’ll ever be,” Mark said.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. You’re older now than I was then, and I think that makes it harder. We’re more courageous when we’re young. We don’t feel quite so mortal.”

  “Ah yes, mortality. The growing awareness of the mark we leave on the world, or don’t.”

  “No pun intended?”

  He smiled for the first time since she’d arrived. It seemed her work here was done. “Well, I should get going.” Sandra rose from the armchair. “I have to come up with the ingredients for poutine.”

  “Poutine? Isn’t that chips smothered in cheese and gravy?” Mark stood and followed her the few steps to the French doors.

  “You know it.”

  “And why are you making poutine? Wouldn’t it be simpler to eat at Pablo’s? If you’re homesick I’m sure Paul would even make it for you,” Mark said.

  “There’s an all-Canada party tomorrow night, and foolish me offered to make poutine. It was the most uniquely Canadian dish I could think of, but not the easiest to make from a hotel room. Fortunately, Paul has offered me the use of his kitchen for some of the prep work.” Sandra opened the door and stepped out into the sun. She pulled the sunglasses from the top of her head and placed them on the bridge of her nose. “My, it’s bright out here,” she said with a smirk.

  “Now you see why I keep the blinds closed.” Mark held his hand to his forehead, shading his eyes.

  “Be careful not to turn into a troll. They like dark places too, you know.” She began descending the stairs.

  “Sandra.”

  She stopped and turned.

  “Thank you for coming. You didn’t have to and I know you didn’t want to.” He took a step toward her.

  “I’m glad I came. Really.” She took three more steps before pausing and turning around again. She said the words before she allowed her mind to question her spontaneity. “Would you like to come tomorrow night, to the party?”

  “But I’m not Canadian.”

  “No, but you know what poutine is, and we were part of your empire.”

  “Ah, so the lone Brit at a Canadian party. I’ll likely be strung up as a display of your independence!”

  “Why do you think I’m inviting you?” She lifted the sunglasses from her nose and winked.

  He chuckled. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Well, great. If you decide to come, it’s the fourth house beyond the headland going toward Mar Azul, a pale orange place with a big deck out front. You’ll see the red and white flag stuck in the sand. Eight o’clock.” Sandra continued down the stairs to the beach. She glanced back before rounding the corner of the house and waved. Mark lifted his hand from the railing in response.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The sun had been down more than an hour and all remnants of its light were gone from the sky. Mark sat on his verandah, sipping a cup of tea and looking out at the dark water. He could just make out the white froth on the cresting waves illuminated by shore lights. It had rained in the morning but turned into a hot, sunny afternoon and a warm evening. He looked at his watch. Ten to eight. Sandra and Ian would be getting ready for the arrival of their guests; he envisioned them preparing plates piled high with chips and cheese curd.

  His thoughts returned again to Sandra’s invitation the day before. Was she just being polite or did she genuinely want him to go? He wondered if it was a good idea, whether he was game for an evening of Ian LeRoy. Ian was probably a good chap—Sandra liked him—but something about the guy grated on Mark, and now there was the added discomfort of whatever Ian might know of last week’s cock-up. Mark took another swallow of tea and closed his eyes. He listened to the rumble of the surf and felt its fine mist on his face. There was so much more he’d wanted to talk about yesterday, beyond the dismal state of his career. It bothered him that she had gone away thinking all of his gloom was a result of Nate and the movie nonsense. Well, there’d be time to talk later. No harm in taking it slow and careful. He would be better off to stay home tonight and arrange to see her another time, without the distractions of Ian and a room full of Sandra`s fellow Canadians.

  But, then again, it was a nice evening for a walk. He looked at his watch—eight o’clock on the nose. He thought of Sandra and how she’d looked when they walked on the beach that night, the moon on her face and her skirt hiked up around her thighs. He remembered the warmth of her hand when he held it and how his stomach danced when he thought about kissing her goodnight. Maybe he’d wander down the beach and see if he felt like going in when he arrived at the house Sandra had described. He ran his hand over the whiskers on his face and realized he’d need to clean up if he was going to a party.

  ***

  As Mark drew closer he could hear the music and voices fading in and out with the ebb and flow of the surf. A large Canadian flag was stuck in the sand in front of a pale orange house, and the long, covered verandah was strung with tiny red and white lights. He stopped and stood for a moment outside the circle of light extending from the house and squinted at the twenty or so people mingling on the verandah. There was a blonde woman, but her hair hung long and straight, and another who was about the right shape and size, but with darker hair than Sandra’s. He also didn’t see Ian LeRoy, which meant they were both inside, together, as he so often found them.

 
On his way over it occurred to him that Ian and Sandra may have become more than just friends in the past week and the last thing he wanted was to walk in on them draped around one another. He moved a bit closer, just inside the reach of light. No one seemed to notice him. From this closer vantage point, he could see the kitchen was on the right side of the house and a window spilled light out onto the adjacent palms. Maybe I’ll go and have a quick peek before announcing myself.

  Mark crept around to the side of the house, staying beyond the lighted area of sand, and looked in through the kitchen window. There were four people inside: three men, one of them Ian, and Sandra. All seemed to be busy with various tasks—one at the sink, another at the stove, a third operating the blender. Sandra was cutting something, her back to the window. She was wearing a red dress that hung to about mid-thigh in a loose skirt, the fabric climbing a third of the way up her back to two spaghetti straps that crossed and disappeared around her neck. On her feet, the sandals he’d convinced her to buy. She turned just then and he stepped back into the safety of darkness. Being caught peeping through the kitchen window wouldn’t make for a very charismatic entrance.

  He retraced his steps back to the place on the beach that made a natural entry point and walked toward the stairs leading onto the verandah. He marvelled at a string of patio lanterns in the shape of maple leaves hung across the entrance. Did Canadians travel with such things? He smiled and nodded at those congregated outside, not recognizing any of the faces. He was hoping to find Paul here but he was quite likely busy at the restaurant. It seemed Mark would be on his own tonight, taking a flyer, and hoping not to crash and burn. He stopped outside the open door to the house, took a deep breath and rubbed his hands on the back of his trousers before entering. Sandra was rinsing off a cutting board at the centre island and was the first to see him. “You made it! Welcome to little Canada ... or,” she glanced at Ian, “petit Canada.” She grabbed a towel and came toward him, drying her hands.

  He froze in place, not knowing how to greet her. What was appropriate for two friends who’d moved toward dating, had a falling out and now seemed to be friends again? What did etiquette demand? Fortunately, his body had more sense than his head in the moment and when her arms encircled him in a hug, he hugged her back and brushed a kiss across her cheek. She smelled like lavender with a hint of strawberries. She took him by the arm toward the gentlemen in the kitchen.