The Mermaid Garden Page 7

  She was interrupted by a light tapping at the window. She looked up. There, with his woolly face pressed against the glass, was Mr. Potter, the gardener. When he saw that she had noticed him, he pulled off his cap and grinned toothlessly, signaling with his hand that she come out and talk to him. With a sigh she got up and went to the window.

  “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot,” she said, leaning out. “The sweet peas.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Turner.”

  “Give me a minute to put on my boots and I’ll come out.”

  “Sorry to bother you. You looked busy in there.”

  “It’s okay. The gardens are as important as the house.”

  His gray eyes twinkled beneath white candyfloss eyebrows. “They most certainly are.”

  “I’ll meet you at the greenhouse.” She withdrew from the window and watched with a surge of affection as the old man replaced his cap and plodded off, his stiff hip causing him to limp slightly.

  Just as she was about to go out, Marina remembered the postcard from Katherine Bridges and pulled it out of her pocket. She read it again, smiling fondly to herself as she remembered her old friend, now in her late sixties and living on the edge of Lake Windermere in British Columbia. Love had taken her to the other side of the world, and she couldn’t blame her for that, but she missed the only woman she had ever truly depended on. She pulled a floral box file down from the shelf and opened it. Inside were dozens of items of correspondence from Katherine, which she had kept over the years. She placed the postcard inside and put the box back. Then she went out into the garden to find Mr. Potter.

  “Well, she’s found her artist,” said Bertha, sitting at the kitchen table with Heather. Lunch was over; the few guests had left; the three chefs had taken off their aprons and retired for the afternoon.

  “He’s lovely,” sighed Heather, her broad Devon accent curling around the words like the steam swirling up from her hot chocolate.

  “Do you think it’s true what they say about foreigners?”

  “What do they say, then?”

  “That they make good lovers.”

  Heather giggled. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Why would they be better? What do they do that Englishmen don’t do?”

  “Last longer?”

  Bertha grunted. “Nothing good about that.”

  Heather hugged her mug of hot chocolate. “Do you think she’ll calm down now she’s found her artist?”

  “Hope so. She’s very tense. I think she’s having a midlife crisis.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s over fifty, and she’s got no kids. I bet that hurts.”

  “Poor love. Every woman deserves to have kids.”

  “It can drive you mad, you know, not having kids. Something to do with the womb drying up.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. It dries up, and that drying-up does something to the brain.”

  “So, what will happen?”

  “Don’t know.” Bertha shook her head, her face full of doom. “Perhaps her artist will cheer her up.” Her bosoms jiggled with laughter. “Sure as hell will cheer me up!”

  Clementine insisted on paying half the lunch bill. It wasn’t very much and Joe was determined to treat her, but she placed twelve quid on the plate and refused to take it back. “You’ve bought me a bunch of roses. I can’t allow you to pay for lunch as well.”

  “I’m glad you liked them.”

  “I do. They brighten up the office.”

  “You’ve brightened up my day.”

  “Good.” She felt the tightness in her voice and smiled stiffly.

  “Last night was fantastic.”

  “Great. Good.” She frantically searched for the waiter.

  “You don’t sound very convinced. Wasn’t it good for you?”

  She tossed her gaze at the little fishing boats that bobbed about on the sea and wished she could just sail away in one. “I don’t remember much,” she mumbled. “I drank too much vodka. Felt terrible this morning. So, no, it wasn’t so great for me.”

  Joe shrank in disappointment. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “I shouldn’t have let you drink so much.”

  “I’m not used to it,” she lied.

  “You were fun, though.”

  “I’m sure I was.” She glared at him. “I don’t usually sleep with someone on the first date.”

  Joe looked astonished. “You think you slept with me?”

  “Didn’t I?” It was her turn to shrink.

  “What sort of man do you take me for? You think I’d ply you with drink and take advantage of you?”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So, we just fooled around?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You didn’t mind at the time. In fact, you mewed with enjoyment.”

  “Steady with the details.”

  He grinned. “Feel better now?”

  “Yes, much. I awoke feeling ashamed. I’m not that sort of girl.”

  “I know that. That’s why I like you.”

  It wasn’t going to be so easy to extricate herself while she felt this grateful. “Thank you.”

  “You’re quirky. I like that.”

  “Am I?”

  “I like your overbite; it’s sexy.”

  “My overbite?”

  “Yes, the way your top teeth—”

  “You make me sound like Goofy.”

  “When can I see you again? Tonight?”

  “Not tonight, Joe.”

  “Tomorrow then?”

  “Maybe.”

  He grinned at her. “I like a woman who’s hard to get.”

  Clementine returned to the office deflated in spite of discovering that she had remained chaste after all. She had hoped to finish it with Joe, but it seemed to be starting all on its own, without any regard for her.

  5.

  Grey anchored his fishing boat in Captain’s Cove and cast his line. The sea gently swelled beneath him, and gulls dropped out of the sky to swim about his boat, greedy for the bread he tossed them. With the sun on his back and the breeze sweeping across his face, he took pleasure from the peace. Green velvet meadows plunged sharply into precipitous cliffs, where birds nested in the rocks and only one or two white houses stood to brave the winds that whipped off the water. A yellow beach nestled secretively in the bay. He’d never seen anyone walk there, in spite of a narrow path leading down through the rocks. It looked enticing, and he imagined setting down the picnic rug and lying there with Marina, enjoying the tranquillity undisturbed.

  His thoughts turned to his wife as they always did, for she was growing increasingly anxious. He understood her concern. No one loved the Polzanze more than she. When they had first met, it was her dream to create a beautiful home. Had he had the money, he would have bought her one without hesitation, but his barrister’s pay wouldn’t have afforded so much as a wing of the kind of house he’d have liked to give her. So he had bought a run-down mansion instead and watched with pleasure as she had slowly and laboriously created the palace of her fantasy. At first he had left it to her, returning at weekends on the train from London to see what she had done during the week. She’d had Harvey to help, and together they had painted and decorated while Mr. Potter had toiled in the gardens with his sons, Ted and Daniel. It had been a labor of love for all of them—Marina with her vision, and Harvey and Mr. Potter with their memories of the glory days when the house had been a magnificent family home.

  Grey left London when they opened the Polzanze. Being an hotelier was a full-time job, and Marina was keen to give it a family feel, as if she were opening her own home to paying guests, welcoming every one at the door as a hostess would. They were soon written up in prestigious magazines, and people poured in to admire her flamboyant decoration and splendid gardens. There was plenty to do. A golf course was conveniently situated near the hotel, and a six-court tennis club b
oasted the Shelton Tournament for the young every summer. Grey organized fishing expeditions, supplying the hotel with fresh mussels, lobster, and crab, as well as a large variety of fish. A narrow path took guests along the cliff tops into Dawcomb-Devlish, where they were entertained with classy boutiques and restaurants. Children queued beneath the plane trees in the square for hair braids and spray-on tattoos, while their mothers shopped and their fathers arranged speed boating and day trips to Salcombe.

  Marina wanted children from the moment she married. At twenty-three she was so much younger than Grey, who was forty-two with a broken marriage and two small children of three and five, who came to stay at odd weekends and during the holidays. As much as she adored Clementine and Jake, she longed for a baby of her own. Grey was happy to oblige, not that he desperately wanted more offspring, but he desperately wanted to make her happy. He was aware of the age gap and compensated by indulging her every whim as a father might indulge a beloved daughter. She began going to church, praying to God to bless her with a child, but none came. He either didn’t hear her, or did not consider her deserving. Marina agonized over which it might be.

  Now Marina did not go to church. She no longer prayed, and her eyes would water at the smallest mention of children. God had deserted her, and she felt the chill of His rejection with an overwhelming sense of shame. The Polzanze had sustained her for so many years, but now a curtain had come down on her dreams of motherhood. She spent more time on the beach, gazing out to sea as if she was expecting a child to come across the water. Grey knew she saw her future as a bleak, empty void, when it should be bright with the laughter of children and eventually grandchildren. They were in dire financial trouble, having borrowed heavily to build their business. She knew she was on the verge of losing the Polzanze, although she couldn’t bear to articulate it. In those soul-searching hours on the beach Grey knew she must ask herself what she had besides him and her precious hotel; and he knew she believed she had nothing.

  He felt a tug on the line and wrenched his thoughts back to the task at hand. Slowly, with great patience and skill, he drew it in. He sensed the fish was a big one. Shame they didn’t have a full dining room to enjoy it. He was proud of supplying the kitchen with fresh catch every day. Sometimes he’d go out with Dan Boyle and Bill Hedley, two local fishermen who’d been fishing these waters for over fifty years. Then he’d bring in enough fruits of the ocean to last a week.

  Finally, the fish rose above the water. It was a large, slippery Cornish bass, wriggling to free itself. Grey forgot about Marina and her grief for the child they couldn’t have, and dropped the fish into the boat. He opened its tender mouth and released the hook. A wave of excitement washed over him as he admired it—must be at least four pounds.

  He replaced the bait and cast his line again. He’d spend all morning out there, detached from the world and its worries. While he was in his boat, the Polzanze seemed a very long way away. He didn’t dare wonder how Marina had got on with Rafa Santoro—if he’d believed in the power of prayer, he’d have shot one up on her behalf. He knew how much this mattered to her—and if it mattered to her, it mattered even more to him.

  Rafa Santoro returned to his hotel and took a table outside, against the wall. The sun was warm, and he was sheltered from the wind. An audacious seagull landed on his table, but he had nothing to give it so the bird turned up its beak and flew off to harass someone else for treats. He noticed a couple of girls at another table, giggling into their lunch, and averted his eyes. He didn’t want to encourage them. The waiter took his order—cola, steak, and chips—and he settled into the Gazette, the surest way to find out the local gossip.

  So, he had arrived. He wasn’t sure how he was meant to feel. Part of him felt elated, another saddened—saddened perhaps because the most vital part of him felt nothing at all. He tried not to think about it. The waiter brought his food, and he took a sip of cola, feeling the girls’ eyes boring into him with the cumbersome weight of their admiration. Any other day he would have invited them to join him. He might even have taken them up to his hotel room and made love to them. Any other day that thought alone would have been enough to raise his spirits and put a spring in his step for the rest of the afternoon, but not today. He buried his face in the Gazette and finished his lunch alone.

  The girls left, not before deliberately passing his table and flashing their prettiest smiles. He nodded politely but let them go without a second glance. The seagull dropped onto their abandoned table and stole a half-eaten bread roll. He looked at his watch. It would be early morning in Argentina, but he needed to talk. He pulled out his BlackBerry and pressed speed dial. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Rafa?”

  “Hola, Mamá.”

  “Thank God. You haven’t called for a week. I’ve been worried sick. Are you okay?”

  “I’ve arrived.”

  “I see.” Her voice was tight. He sensed her sitting down. She sighed heavily, anticipating the worst. “And?”

  “It’s a beautiful mansion overlooking the sea. I’m going to spend the summer there, teaching residents how to paint.” He laughed cynically. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

  “You shouldn’t be there at all.”

  “Calm down, Mamá.”

  “What would your father think? Dios mío, what would he say?”

  “He would understand.”

  “I don’t think he would.”

  “Well, he’ll never know.”

  “Don’t think he’s not up there watching you. After all he did for you, Rafa. You should be ashamed.”

  “Don’t make me feel any worse. I’m wrestling with my conscience, too. You said you understood. You said you’d help me.”

  “Because I love you, son.”

  He felt a sudden surge of emotion rise through his chest and put his head in his hand. “I love you, too, Mamá.”

  There was a long silence. He could hear her breathing down the line, the familiar sound of his childhood that had once wrapped him in a warm blanket of security and unconditional love, but was now labored and old and full of fear. Finally, she spoke, and her voice wavered. “Come home, hijo. Forget this silly idea.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then don’t forget me.”

  “I’ll call you in a couple of days, I promise.”

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Everything.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I am.”

  “Spare a thought for them.”

  “But of course, Mamá. I won’t hurt anyone.”

  But you’re hurting me, she thought as she put down the receiver and wiped her eyes with a clean white pañuelo. Maria Carmela Santoro heaved herself up from the armchair and wandered down the tiled corridor to Rafa’s bedroom. The house was quiet now. Her husband was with Jesus, and her four older children had flown the nest long ago. Rafa was her youngest, a gift from God when she was really too old to have more children. Her others were dark-skinned and dark-haired like their father, but Rafa had been a very blond child. With his light hair and natural charm, he was special.

  She stood in the doorway and looked round the room that held so many memories, warmed by her constant, tender caressing. When her other children were little, they had had to share two to a room, for the farmhouse in the middle of the pampa was only small. But Rafa, being the last, had had a room of his own.

  Now, of course, he lived in Buenos Aires in an elegant apartment just off Avenida del Libertador. But he came home often, more than the others. He was a good son. Now his father was no longer alive to take care of her, she knew she was safe in his capable hands. He had invited her to come and live with him, but she hated the noise and pollution of the city. She had spent all her life on the farm, worked hard as a maid for Señora Luisa and then, after she died, for her daughter-inlaw, Marcela, for over fifty years, burying her roots deep in the fertile soil where now the remains of her dear husband lay, marked by a simple headst
one and the flowers she took weekly to honor him.

  She walked over to the window and threw open the green shutters. The smell of autumn blew in, and she inhaled with pleasure. The sun was already warm, and a few leaves lay on the grass, curled and dry and brown like wistful epistles to be tossed about by the wind. Plane trees stood tall and magnificent, lining the long drive that cut through the estancia and led up to the main house where her employers spent their weekends and holidays in languid splendor. Dappled light fell onto the dusty track and a dog barked loudly, only to be berated by Angelina, the cook, in a round of furious Spanish.

  Maria Carmela remembered little Rafa learning to ride with his father. She smiled affectionately at the mental picture. Big, black-haired Lorenzo in his beret, his red scarf tied loosely around his neck, the glittering coined belt and baggy bombachas tucked into worn leather boots. The little blond boy in white espadrilles, his brown ankles bare beneath olive-green bombachas and embroidered red sash, with a small beret of his own, nestled against his father’s body, galloping up and down the plain to whoops of laughter. What a contrast the old, weathered skin of her husband against the smooth, new skin of their son. What joy he had brought, to everyone.

  It was that angelic charm that had caught the attention of Señora Luisa. His father had let him bring round her pony one morning when he was just six years old. Proud to be given such an important role, he walked the animal to the front of the house and waited in the shade of the eucalyptus tree, his back straight, his chin high. When she had addressed him, he had looked at her with an unwavering gaze and smiled broadly, and she had laughed at his audacity: so bold for such a little boy. She had engaged him in a long conversation, intrigued by the wisdom on so young a face, and he had made her laugh, answering so earnestly. It was clear he had an intelligence beyond that of his parents.