“The marina is a short walk down this way. Care for a stroll?” Mark asked. “I’m rather an admirer of the floating craft.”
The remainder of lunch had passed without incident. She’d gone back to Paul’s recommendation and kept the conversation away from career and ex-wife. Twice they’d sat across a table from one another, twice he’d had some excessive display of anger. Driving was fine, shopping went well. Maybe the key was to keep him moving. A walk sounded like a reasonable idea and she was wearing her new and comfy sandals. What the hell. “Sure. I haven’t seen the marina.”
The two-lane roadway running in front of La Perla had parking on one side and La Paz’s famous Malecón with its wide sidewalk on the sea side. They ambled southwest on the paving stone walkway, red stones flowing through the grey ones in bands, the palm trees like sentries every fifty feet. White wrought iron benches placed at regular intervals seemed more befitting of a Victorian garden than a Mexican resort town, but they provided great stopping places for tourists wanting to enjoy the view or rest their feet. Mark seemed content to walk without conversation, whether out of discomfort or lack of anything to say Sandra didn’t know or care. Between his stardom and his temper it was fatiguing spending the day with him, and the walk along the Malecón was a refreshing reprieve. She loved the waterfront here, and being outdoors always helped to ground her.
Mark broke the silence. “The marina is beyond the end of the walkway, but we can take the street the last bit.”
Masts came into view as they rounded the corner past a large condo complex. “Sticks,” Sandra said, more to herself than to Mark.
“I’m sorry?”
“Sticks, it’s what my ... friend used to call them—sailboat masts. He thought they looked like a bunch of sticks all in a group like this.” Nick had had a unique way of seeing many things, often amusing, always interesting. She still missed him so much. She felt the slight burning in her eyes that came right before they filled with tears and she dropped her gaze to the new sandals making their way along the pavement.
“I don’t suppose you’ve sailed, given your landlocked location.”
“I have actually. I sailed some with my husband’s family, back in Toronto, on Lake Ontario.”
“Husband? I didn’t realize you were married.”
“I’m not, anymore. That was a very long time ago. It almost feels like something I saw in a movie rather than lived through. Have you ever felt that way about a part of your life?” They’d stopped at the entrance to the marina near a large flowering shrub. Its pale pink flowers gave off a heady scent similar to lilac.
“I feel that way about many parts of my life, but in my case, it’s often true.” Mark laughed.
Sandra blushed. “Of course. I should have thought of that. Is that the case, can real life and acted life get confused?”
“Not really, at least not beyond filming. When you’re in a character’s head all the time the line between yourself and your role can become blurry, but it goes quickly once filming is wrapped. Should we go in?” Mark nodded his head toward the open gate.
“Can we? It’s not for members only?”
“Some of the members offer boat charters so I’m sure they’re happy to have us poking about.”
They walked past the marina office and down to the docks. Each pier had a gate at its end, preventing access to anyone without a code, but many of the boats were viewable from the shoreline boardwalk.
“And you? Have you sailed?” Sandra asked him.
“I have, as a boy, in London—my brother and I took lessons—and then again about ten years ago when I was working on a movie. I enjoyed it so much I certified with the Royal Yachting Association.” He’d made his accent even more posh than normal. “I know enough to charter a boat and generally keep myself out of trouble.” Mark stopped and turned to Sandra. “Would you like to go?”
“Go?”
“Sailing. I’m sure someone must charter sailboats for the day.”
Sailing. Now did that qualify as a moving activity or was it more of the sitting and talking variety that had proven problematic? It might depend on the weather and water conditions.
“Um ... so ... where would we go?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve not sailed here before. But I’m certain there are a number of day sails in the area.” His brown eyes were locked on her face. “Well?”
Sandra felt immediately claustrophobic at the idea of being on a boat all day with Mark and yet the words came out of her mouth. “Okay then. Let’s do that.” What? Who said that?
“We’ll need to bring the paintings in for the art show next week. Maybe we drop them off early and go sailing the rest of the day?”
We? Now we’re a we? “Sure, that seems like a good plan.” Or not!
If her words sounded as unconvincing as they felt, it didn’t show in Mark’s reaction. “Splendid! It’s a date then. I’ll look into getting a boat organized and plotting our destination.”
Her head was starting to throb. Splendid. Indeed. A date? She turned back in the direction they’d come. It was time to go home. Her balcony at Mar Azul was calling. “Shall we go and get your case of wine then?”
“Good idea. And following that I have somewhere I’d like to show you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You lucky thing!” Trisha squealed from the laptop screen.
“But I don’t feel that way, Trish. I feel like I want to relax and paint and swim and he keeps ... inviting me places.” Sandra plopped herself down on the bed, her face toward the monitor.
“Oh you poor doll. A rich and famous gentleman—oh, and did I mention incredibly handsome?—is ruining your alone time with his invitations. Forgive me if I’m having a hard time feeling sympathetic.”
“From your perspective, I’m sure it’s difficult to understand, but it’s so hard to relax around him. When I’m not focused on the fact that his face has been on the big screen and the entertainment news, I’m scrambling out of the way of his temper. I have these fleeting moments of enjoying his company, because he can be quite charming, but it’s too much stress for me. I come here for the tranquility of the place!”
“Well, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but tell him to go away then. Say no when he asks you to spend time with him.”
Sandra let out a sigh and dropped her face into her hands. “I’ve already agreed to go sailing with him next week, and I’m living here at his friend’s hotel. What are the chances of avoiding him without appearing rude?”
“So I guess you have a decision to make, endure his company or endure the discomfort of being rude.”
“Ohhh ...” Sandra flopped over on her back, her arms landing on the pillows above her head.
“So tell me about the charming part, those moments when you forget he’s MARK JEFFERY and just enjoy yourself.” She spoke his name like Vincent Price may have narrated it in a horror film.
“Ha ha. Well, most of today he was on good behaviour. We went shopping and he was helpful ... fun even—”
“Ooh, sounds terrible.”
“But then, over lunch, he apologized for that little outburst at breakfast yesterday, the one I told you about—”
“Apologized? The cad!”
“Just listen, would you? I can mute you.” Sandra poised her hand over the touch pad on the laptop’s keyboard.
“Go on then.” Trisha rolled her eyes.
“He went from pleasant to spitting mad as soon as he started talking about what’s going on in his life and I was ready to head for the nearest bus stop. Although ... he did get some control and we managed to have a decent conversation about what’s bothering him. That is, until he pounded his fist on the table hard enough to make the silverware jump. He had the whole restaurant staring at us.”
“So what’s got him so riled up?”
“He got dumped from a role, a good one, apparently.”
“Well that’s got to hurt. You have to cut him some slack Sandi. He’s
got a high profile life for getting fired.”
“I know, and I’m trying. But then he’s off on some chair-tossing, fist-pounding hissy fit and I want to crawl under the table.”
“So what set him off, when the conversation was going well?”
“I suppose I did, with a comment I made ... that I probably should have worded a bit less ... bluntly. BUT, his response was still over the top. He apologized, again, but the tension didn’t leave his voice until I changed the subject.”
“So stay off the subject.”
“That’s what Paul said, and what I did for the rest of the day. But I don’t like tiptoeing around people. You know that.”
“I know, love, and you’re good at talking people through things, but maybe not in this case.” Trisha’s hand went out of the camera’s view and returned with a coffee mug, a green ceramic with leaves circling its rim, undoubtedly the work of one of her gallery potters. She took a drink from the steaming mug. “So, the rest of the day in La Paz was ...?”
“It was nice.”
“Nice? Really? Can you come up with a less descriptive word?”
“Okay, fine, we had a lovely walk along the waterfront down to the marina, which is where he came up with the idea to go sailing.” Sandra closed her eyes and dropped her head back. “A whole day on a boat, Trish. How will I manage it? What will we talk about?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Or, you could always leave town.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I’m kidding, you ninny! You can’t leave town. He’ll be there when you get back, unless you come home. Is that what you’d like to do? Let this man chase you home?”
“No. I don’t want to go home. I want to paint!”
“Well paint then, and go sailing with the actor hunk next Tuesday and try to enjoy yourself. If you can’t do it for you, do it for me!”
“I will channel you as best I can.”
Trisha lifted her coffee mug and held it between her two hands. “So then what, after the marina?” She took a sip.
“We went to a liquor seller where he picked up a case of wine—”
“A case? What, is he throwing a party?”
“No, he just likes wine, among other intoxicants. He went through three beers to my one over lunch.”
She set the mug down. “Okay, now that concerns me more than the temper. You know I went down that road with Jack, and my father before him.”
“I know. You see? You see why I’m not easy with this?” Sandra sat up and pulled the computer onto her lap. “Anyway, after the wine pick-up he drove me to this lookout, this absolutely amazing spot that looks down over La Paz and across the Gulf. We had the place to ourselves.”
Trisha leaned in, her face filling more of the screen. “Now the story’s getting interesting.”
“Don’t get too excited. It was just a hike up a steep trail. But there was this one moment—”
“M-hmm?”
“Well, I wasn’t wearing great shoes for climbing so he took my hand to help me over the steepest part. He looked back and smiled at me with his hair blowing around his face and I felt like I was the heroine in one of his movies. And, I admit, my knees felt weak for a moment and I may have approached a swoon.”
“A swoon! Well, that’s a great deal more than nice!”
“But it’s not real Trisha, it was purely a movie star crush kind of swoon.”
“So? Who cares? You’re on bloody vacation. Lap it up!”
“I’m trying but I’m just not—”
“Normal. I know. So then? Tell the rest.”
“I took a few photos of the view and we went back to the car. The drive home was pleasant enough; he talked about his family, his house in San Leandro ... normal stuff. It was one of those times when I forget he’s anyone other than an average Joe.”
“We’re all average Joes on some level Sandi, even Mark Jeffery.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mark awoke to the familiar sound of gulls and rolled over to look at his bedside clock. Seven. Time to get moving. It was Thursday, the day of his weekly tennis game with Paul. Through Paul’s connections in the hospitality industry, they had an arrangement with Baja Waters Resort to use the courts once a week. Neither of them was a very good tennis player, but they were matched well enough to enjoy a game.
The smell of coffee drifted to his nostrils. A cuppa with the morning news on the verandah—the daily ritual. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched his arms over his head. He pulled on a pair of white shorts and a yellow t-shirt, smiling as he thought of Paul’s certain annoyance at his wearing a shirt the same colour as the ball. Like it made a difference at their level of play.
Coffee cup full and toast on a plate, Mark settled himself at the outdoor table and hit the power button on his iPad. His first stop was always the BBC World News and then on to things more personal, like the U.K. entertainment news. There was more about Patrick Janzen and his exciting new movie role, but the story didn’t seem to have the same sting as on previous mornings. Mark hummed to himself as he continued to flip through the digital pages, alternating between sips of coffee and bites of toast.
A large white gull landed on the railing a few feet from where Mark sat. “Ah, good morning Geoff. You’re here early. You must have caught the scent of toast.” Geoff was larger than most of the gulls that frequented this part of the beach and he had a black band around his yellow beak that set him apart from the others. “Do you like marmalade?” Mark tossed a small piece of crust toward the bird who hopped down to the deck to retrieve it. Geoff pointed his head skyward and gulped down the bit of bread. “It’s not biscuits but it seems it will do. Smart man, take what’s offered in case it’s all there is.” He paused. “Unless of course you’ll choke on it. Then I’d advise against.” He stared at the bird without seeing him for a moment. “Right.” Mark stood and gathered his dishes and iPad. “Well old chap, there’s a tennis court with my name on it. I’ll see you back here for biscuits this afternoon.”
***
“Are you ready, mate?” Mark asked as he walked into the lobby of Mar Azul. Paul was where he often found him in the mornings, at his desk behind the front reception counter.
“I am ... just ... give me ... a ...,” Paul said, not looking up from the pile of paper in front of him.
“A minute?” There was no response from Paul. “I’ll go ramble the decks.” Mark left through the side door, stepping out onto the breakfast patio where two couples were seated at tables. They glanced up as he entered their space and he gave a quick nod of acknowledgment. He crossed the patio and took the stairs to the rooftop. It was empty this morning, its white floor gleaming, a few deck chairs stacked over to one side. At the edge of the roof he looked down onto the beach; it was quiet at this hour. A man wearing a bright orange shirt sat at one of the palapas reading a newspaper, a woman jogged by at the edge of the surf, her ponytail bouncing with each stride, and far down the beach a couple walked hand in hand, pointed in the direction of San Leandro.
Back in the lobby, Paul was still at his desk but this time he looked up and smiled as Mark returned. “Good morning!”
“You realize I was here a few moments ago?”
“Oh, was that you?” Paul said as he put away his papers and notebook. “I was trying to balance things from yesterday’s receipts. Why did I not pay more attention in math class?”
“Because you were too busy thinking about girls ... and drama.”
“I think it was more like drama and then girls for me. I was always realistic about my options. And, at the end of the day, I succeeded with neither.” Paul laughed. “Just let me grab my bag and off to the courts!” He made a dramatic flourish with his arm in the air.
“You do know that those kinds of hand gestures are possibly why the girl thing hasn’t worked out for you?” Mark called after him.
A few minutes later, Paul returned through the door that led from the lobby to his privat
e quarters. “You’re in a good mood this morning. It will be nice to play tennis without that dark cloud hanging over our court. I guess I’ll need my sunglasses.”
“Since when am I a gloomy tennis player?”
“Seriously? You’re going to pretend you haven’t been a dismal Jimmy these past few weeks?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“So, did something happen? Did your agent come through for you?”
“No, nothing’s changed. I’m still pissed off about losing a good role and being offered total crap in its place. It just seems to be feeling less oppressive today.”
“Well, I’m happy to hear it. I’ll let Arturo know I’m headed out.” Paul leaned through the side door and waved to an unseen person. “Arturo. I’m off.”
“Hasta luego. Enjoy the tennis.” Mark heard Arturo’s voice from outside.
The two men followed the stone pathway to the parking area, the intoxicating scent of the bougainvillea thick in the air. The woody vines climbed the walls at the entrance to Mar Azul, their pink flowers hanging in clumps.
“So your Canadian guest doesn’t seem to be around this morning.”
“Which Canadian? Oh, Sandra Lyall?”
“Yes, Sandra. When I’ve been here in the mornings lately she’s been painting or up on the roof standing on her head.”
Paul smiled. “I saw her go down to the beach about half an hour ago, with her easel and painter’s bag.”
“Hm, I didn’t see her there either.”
Paul stopped and turned to Mark. “You were looking for her?”
“Well no—not exactly. I was wandering around the decks while I waited for you and I didn’t see her about.”
Paul grinned at him and nodded. “I see.”
“You see nothing.”
“I saw that you took her to La Paz yesterday, although I didn’t hear how it went. You didn’t throw any more furniture did you?”
“I didn’t throw my chair that morning. I stood up quickly and the blasted thing fell over. It’s like they’re made of feathers, those chairs of yours. A decent wind would carry them all out into the sea.” He threw his arms in the air and toward the beach.
House of the Blue Sea Page 9
