House of the Blue Sea

by Teresa van Bryce

  “Some people go for the hundred-mile diet, I’m inclined to hundred-mile travel. It’s environmentally friendly.”

  “And that’s why you do it ... right.”

  “There’s just so much here in my own backyard, why go to all the trouble of packing a suitcase or getting on a plane. I don’t get what all the fuss is about.”

  “The fuss is about summer weather in February. Shorts. Flip-flops. Suntanning. Dining on a patio without the need for a parka—”

  “And ... and,” Trisha pointed her finger at the camera, “... sleeping on a mattress other than my Kingsdown, not having access to my closet, leaving behind Molly and Maxwell, entrusting my gallery to Felix. Not to mention jamming myself into a flying sardine can with a hundred different kinds of viruses. If I want warm temperatures and skimpy clothes I’ll go to the spa, thank you. And afterward, I’ll pick up a gourmet lunch-to-go from Sunterra Market and eat it in the Devonian Gardens in downtown Calgary!”

  “And is there a beach with white sand and rolling surf in your Devonian Gardens?”

  “No, but there are over five hundred palm trees.”

  “I’m sure there are. I get it. You don’t like to travel.”

  “I disagree. I just don’t like to travel long distances. But, if I did, San Leandro would be the first place I’d visit.”

  “Well, thank you for that. You’re always welcome, even if you can only come for a few days. The La Paz airport is less than an hour away and I’d be happy to come and pick you up.”

  “I know you would, and I appreciate it. But, right now I should be getting back to the gallery. I’ve left Felix on his own for three hours and my palms are starting to sweat. Don’t sell all of your Baja paintings because I’m determined to have a few hanging in my gallery ... or maybe a full showing?” Trisha panned her hand across the screen. “‘Images of Baja, by local artist Sandra Lyall.’ I can see the posters now.”

  “I’m sure you can, as clearly as you see me getting together with Ian LeRoy. I hope you’re enjoying the imaginary life you’re creating for me, but I prefer my real world. I’m all right, you know. Quite content.”

  “I know you are, sweetie. Good to talk to you. I’ll be checking in Tuesday night after your rendezvous with Mr. Jeffery.”

  “He’s buying a painting!”

  “Of course he is.” She winked. “Bye now!” Trisha’s face disappeared from the screen.

  “You can be such a pain in the ass!” Sandra said to the Skype logo in the middle of her monitor. “... but in a good way.” She smiled and headed for the shower to remove the salty remnants of the Sea of Cortez.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was after sunset by the time Sandra wandered downstairs to the restaurant. She hadn’t been able to tear herself away from the sky’s end-of-day drama any sooner. She’d have to remember to thank Paul for the perfect room location.

  Pablo’s Grill and Lounge was situated on the ground level of Mar Azul and was open to the beach—one of the things Sandra loved most about Mexican architecture, the inclusion of the outdoors. Back home, restaurants had seasonal patios with doors or windows that opened out in good weather, but in Mexico, eating establishments were often as much outdoors as in, with courtyards, glassless windows and absent walls. Pablo’s had been a large stone deck before Paul decided to turn it into a restaurant/lounge and the rough stone flooring and beds of vegetation remained. There were walls on three sides with the fourth open to the sea and the white plaster was adorned with art that Paul had collected during his years in Mexico, most of it from artisans in the area—metal geckos, ceramic suns, brightly coloured paintings.

  Each table for two or four housed a small brass lantern which provided most of the light in the restaurant and those who had trouble reading the menu in the low light were given additional lanterns. Sandra had once seen a couple with four lanterns on their table, and still the man was using a flashlight, just to make a point, it seemed. Most of Paul’s guests appreciated the warm but basic feel of Mar Azul. The bar was Paul’s own work of art, a simple wooden structure on the south side of the lounge covered with treasures from the sea, all gathered by Paul and his guests on beach walks—shells, coral, bits of glass, driftwood and dried starfish.

  Although two kilometres outside the village of San Leandro and forty-five minutes from La Paz, Pablo’s had become a popular place for vacationers and locals to dine and share a few drinks. With space for only thirty or so guests in the hotel, the outside customers made Pablo’s a profitable addition to Paul’s business, and tonight was a perfect example. The hotel was quiet but the restaurant was more than half full. Paul had originally planned to call the place something more sophisticated, but with the locals referring to him as Pablo, the Spanish version of his name, it seemed a simple and natural fit. Now Pablo’s was known for miles around for its eclectic menu, live music and warm atmosphere, and was full most nights of the week.

  “Table for one?” Paul came from behind the bar to greet her.

  “Unless you know a tall, dark stranger who would like a dinner companion.”

  “Well, he’s not particularly tall and he’s quite fair—but your friend Ian should be here sometime soon. He’s playing tonight.”

  She clasped her hands together. “I was hoping to see him. He hasn’t been in touch for a few months and I wondered if he’d run off with a band of minstrels, or maybe a Mexican señorita.”

  “That’s unlikely. I think our Ian is quite settled in San Leandro and has left his wandering ways behind.” Paul gestured to the main part of the restaurant and then to the row of empty bar stools. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “You know, I think I’d rather talk to Arturo than myself tonight, so how about a seat at the bar.”

  “It’s also close to the stage.” Paul smiled and pulled a high, cane-seated stool from under the bar. “Arturo has gone to fetch up some more wine. He’ll be back any minute to fix you a margarita. Plenty of salt?”

  “Absolutely. You remember!”

  Paul chuckled as he stepped back and draped a napkin over his arm, his tone suddenly formal. “The special tonight is a Pescado a la Veracruzana—catch of the day in tomato sauce with jalapeños, capers and olives—served with an asparagus salad, and hearts of palm risotto.” He placed a menu in Sandra’s hands. “I’ll send Elena over to take your order when you’re ready.”

  He bowed his head and left through a door behind the bar that led to the kitchen. Chief cook and bottle washer, that was Paul’s title. And desk clerk, maître d’, bellboy, maintenance man, and holder of any other job that needed doing. Mar Azul was successful enough that he could hire out some of his tasks, but the hotel was a labour of love for Paul and he liked to be involved in everything. Fortunately, he did have help in the Flores family, who made up the bulk of the staff.

  Paul had originally hired Carmelita Flores as a maid when he purchased the hotel ten years before and in the past five years, since the restaurant opened, she’d been working in the kitchen as well. At sixteen, her daughter Elena was hired to serve during the dinner hours. A year later, Carmelita’s son Arturo came on board to help with luggage and other assorted chores around the place. When Sandra had first seen Arturo behind the bar last winter, following his eighteenth birthday, he’d been glowing with pride.

  “Señora Lyall. Welcome back to Baja.” Elena held a tray in her left hand and extended her right to Sandra.

  “Elena!” Sandra stood and, ignoring the outstretched hand, gave Elena a hug. “I didn’t think it possible but you are even lovelier than you were last year.” It was true. She was a remarkably beautiful girl. If she wasn’t tucked away in the small village of San Leandro, some modelling or movie scout would have undoubtedly scooped her up by now. She was a smidgen taller than Sandra, around five foot seven, and had the body of a dancer—long legs, graceful movement, a slender figure. Her enormous brown eyes were set into a flawless complexion, and her near-black hair swept across her forehead and cascaded over her sho
ulders.

  “And you are looking very beautiful also, Ms. Lyall.”

  “It must be the dim lighting in here because I looked a bit like a raccoon when I left my room—too many miles and too many restless sleeps in strange beds since I left home.”

  “No, I don’t think it is the lights ...”

  “I’m kidding, Elena. Thank you for the compliment.”

  Arturo had returned and was at the other end of the bar pulling bottles of white wine from a crate. His black hair was cut so it stood up on top, and his upper lip and chin were darkened by the beginnings of a beard. Sandra nodded her head sideways in the young man’s direction. “Perhaps you can ask your brother for that margarita he and I talked about earlier?”

  “Sí señora, and do you know your dinner or do you need more time to select?”

  “I haven’t looked at the menu yet but I’m sure I’ll order the special anyway. It’s always delicious.”

  “The fish special, then,” she smiled, her face lighting up, “and I will ask Arturo for your margarita.”

  Elena walked toward Arturo, raising her voice to be heard over the noise in the restaurant. “Arturo—una margarita para Ms. Lyall.”

  “Coming right up. I have already prepared your extra-salty glass.” He raised a pale blue stemmed bowl in Sandra’s direction, the salt on the rim looking like the inside of a geode.

  “You’d think I liked a box of salt with each drink! Is it really that much more than the average?” Before Arturo could answer, a voice came from behind Sandra.

  “Sandra Lyall. I heard you were coming.”

  She turned on her stool. “Ian! So good to see you.” He walked toward her with a guitar case in one hand and the other arm outstretched. She hopped off her seat and greeted him with a hug.

  “And you’re looking as ravishing as ever,” he said.

  “Oh please, Elena and I were just discussing my resemblance to a racoon.” Sandra climbed back onto her stool.

  He leaned in, inspecting her face. “Ah yes, I see the resemblance now ... cute.”

  “And I’m told you’re entertaining us on the stage this evening as well as here at the bar?”

  “Well, I’m playing music. Whether or not you are entertained is entirely up to you.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. We’re only as happy as we make up our minds to be. I remember.”

  “And have you made up your mind to be happy?”

  “Indeed I have. Why else would I be here at Mar Azul?”

  “Escape perhaps?” His eyebrows raised.

  It wasn’t the first time Ian had questioned her reasons for coming to Mexico. “No, not this year. This year I’ve come to paint!” She swung her hand in a flourish to the right, almost knocking the margarita from Arturo’s hand. He managed to hang on but not without sloshing lime-green liquid on the bar and the floor. “Oh, Arturo, I’m so sorry. We who speak with our hands are at risk of half empty drinks—old Canadian proverb.”

  Arturo’s brows knit together in confusion. “I will bring a cloth to wipe up, and this drink is on the house.”

  “No, it will not be on the house. It was my theatrics that spilled the drink. A cloth will do, and I’ll wipe it up myself.”

  Ian was grinning at her. “What?” she said, mocking annoyance.

  “Nothing. It’s just good to see you. I’m going to get set up but maybe I can join you for a drink before I go on. Have you eaten already?”

  “I gather you won’t be eating until after your first set?”

  “Am I so predictable?”

  “Charmingly so. I’ve ordered, so if you don’t mind watching me eat I’m happy to watch you drink while I eat.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep my drink at a safe distance from those theatrical hands of yours.”

  Sandra gave him a shove. “Go get your musical gizmos sorted and leave me here to enjoy what’s left of my marg.”

  Ian picked up his guitar case and made his way to the small stage at the front corner of the restaurant. Paul hosted live music as often as he could—some of the musicians were local, some travelling through, and some impromptu performers were guests of the hotel. A short wall behind the stage offered the beach and sea as the musician’s backdrop and meant that patrons could enjoy the view without looking away from the show. Half a dozen palapas each had a string of tiny solar-powered lights around its thatched roof and the pathway leading to the restaurant was lined with solar lanterns hanging on pegs in the ground. Even after dark there was always enough light to see the white foam of the breaking waves beyond the beach. After being here the first time, Sandra had decorated her back and front yards with all manner of solar-powered fixtures, reluctant to return to the darkness of winter.

  Ian glanced up and saw her watching him. He struck a rock star pose and winked at her. He was such a flirt—and he wasn’t hard to look at. Ian was a youthful fifty-four. He wore his red-blonde hair, which showed only a dusting of grey at the temples, tousled on top and long in the back. He often wore a hat when he was performing—a straw fedora with a Guatemalan fabric band—but tonight he’d left his head unadorned, his hair animated by the breeze coming in off the water.

  On stage and off, Ian’s dress was casually tropical: khaki pants or bermudas and a cotton print shirt left untucked. He always wore a small silver stud in his left ear, two or three strings of beads or woven leather chokers around his neck, and an old Rolex wristwatch his uncle had left him. Just once had Sandra seen him dressed up, which amounted to tucking in his shirt and putting on a belt. Ian was the epitome of the Mexican ex-pat, his clothing incorporating the three Cs: comfortable, casual and cotton.

  Ian double-checked his cables and gadgets, placed his guitar in its stand, and stepped off the stage. He walked over and pulled up a stool next to Sandra’s. “So, you’re back again. Sooner or later you’ll be shopping for Baja property.”

  “I don’t see that happening. I’m much more fervently Canadian than you are.”

  “Now what does that mean? I’m about as Canadian as you get—I speak both official languages, can skate almost as well as I can walk, can’t eat oatmeal without maple syrup and I own a box of toques. Top that ... eh.”

  Sandra laughed. “Right, and your childhood pet was a beaver. So tell me then, super-Canuck, when was it you last lived in Canada?”

  “I have a house there now, the same house I grew up in.”

  “Yes I know you own a house, but when did you last live there?”

  “All right. I admit it’s been a few years, but I do have a box of toques.” Ian took a swig from the bottle of Corona that Arturo had set on the bar. “Not that I have much opportunity to wear them down here.”

  “Now, let’s be honest. You’ve been in Mexico more than a few years. And I seem to recall you lived in the US before that and wasn’t there a stint in the UK? So, I rest my case. I am much more Canadian than you are.” She held her glass toward him in a toast.

  “Fine. I proclaim you queen of the frozen north!” He clinked his bottle to her glass.

  Elena arrived with Sandra’s meal, placing it on the bar in front of her. Sandra leaned over the plate and inhaled, taking in the blend of tantalizing aromas. “If it tastes as good as it smells ... mmm.” She draped a white linen napkin on her lap and picked up her fork.

  “Looks delicious. Fish?” Ian asked.

  “Pescado a la Veracruzana was what Paul called it, I believe.” She flaked off a bite-sized piece from the filet, scooped up some of the sauce and put it in her mouth. “Oh my, heavenly,” she said as she chewed, the fish seeming to melt in her mouth. Ian was watching her. “Would you like a taste?”

  “No, simply enjoying your enjoyment of it.” He turned himself on his stool to face her. “So, how do you like my new face art?” He showed one profile and then the other. He used his face like a canvas, one week sporting a full beard, then maybe a goatee or a mustache, or combining the two for a Van Dyke. At present, a small chin beard connected to a moustache, forming an oblong
shape of reddish-blonde hair.

  “It looks good, but I’m sure I’ve seen this one before.”

  “Not exactly, but maybe something close to it. I don’t expect most people to notice the intricacies of my work, but you? You’re an artist. Speaking of, how’s the painting coming?”

  Sandra considered telling Ian of the movie star offering to buy her first painting of the trip, but decided she’d hold off until it was a done deal. “Picking up, but still slow-going when I’m home. It’s why I’m staying here longer this year. I’m much more inspired painting outdoors next to the ocean. Photos are limited to what the camera captured. Outdoors, especially in such a fantastic setting, I get the smells, the sounds, the feel of the day.” Her hand was painting the air in front of her as she spoke. “The painting becomes much richer.”

  Arturo approached from the other end of the bar. “Would you like another margarita Señora Lyall?”

  “Yes please. Half a glass is not nearly enough. And please stop calling me señora. Sandra will do fine.”

  Arturo reddened. “And Ian? Otra cerveza?”

  “No, thanks. I have to play in ...” Ian looked down at his watch, “three minutes. You’re staying?” he asked, looking at Sandra.

  “Of course. I haven’t heard you sing in almost a year, at least not live. I have your CD but it’s not the same.”

  “Charmer. I’ll be back to reclaim this stool during my break.” Ian patted the bar stool and turned toward the stage, winking to her over his shoulder as he ambled away.

  He turned on the microphone and leaned in to it. “Welcome to Pablo’s, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Ian LeRoy and I’ll be keeping you company this evening. I’m happy to take requests. Just place a slip of paper in the bucket on the side of the stage, along with a twenty dollar bill.” He was joking of course, unless you wanted to hear “Margaritaville”. He started off his set with an instrumental piece, the notes uniting with the sound of the sea to create a bewitching blend of music and nature. Sandra adored Spanish guitar and Ian was becoming quite accomplished. Impressive. She must remember to tell him.