Read House of the Blue Sea Online
Authors: Teresa van Bryce
Tags: #romance, #women's fiction, #contemporary, #love story, #mexico, #snowbird, #artist, #actor, #beach
House of the Blue Sea
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For my mother, who showed me it's never too late to embark on a grand new adventure.
Copyright © 2016 by Teresa van Bryce
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First edition, 2016
ISBN 978-1523492312
Handwritten Press
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. Some of the businesses, locations and organizations in the story are real but used in a way that is purely fictional. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes.
Cover art “Beach Walk II” by Mary Ann Hews (Tarini)
Mary Ann was born in Northern Ontario to Italian parents and paints under her maiden name, Tarini. After a family move to Calgary, Mary Ann began to pursue her love of painting. The Rocky Mountains, Italian landscapes, and people provide ideal creative inspiration for many of her pieces. Mary Ann paints in her studio, but particularly loves the challenge of light, colours and structure en plein aire. She is a member of the Calgary Sketch Club, Calgary Artist Society, and the Leighton Art Centre.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Van Bryce, Teresa, author House of the blue sea / Teresa van Bryce.
ISBN 978-1-5234-9231-2 (paperback)
I. Title.
PS8643.A525H68 2016 C813’.6 C2016-900584-4
I
am deeply grateful to the following for their contributions to this book:
The late Nigel Watts, who wrote a little book called Writing a Novel. It was the first of many books I would read on the art of writing fiction, and he had me at “There are only three rules to writing a successful novel. Unfortunately, nobody knows what the three rules are.”
Rona Altrows, for her writing class that taught me to bring the story from within, and her expertise as an editor that helped me write a better novel without sacrificing my voice.
My beta readers, who took time out of their busy lives to read an earlier draft of the story and offer their valuable feedback: Nora Bitner, Susan Bitner, Julie Brewster, Gord Cochrane, Linda Crossley, Laurana Rayne, Alex White, and Stephanie Phillips and her book club (Colleen Cranebear, Kristine Dow, Margaret Ferrier, Sandra Folkins, Lisa Moore, Barbara Pickering, and Ronda Suitor).
My Women’s Fiction Writers Association (WFWA) Critique Group: Krista Riccioni, Chelsea Resnick, and Daniel Aleman for their comments and ideas.
Mary Ann Hews (Tarini) for the beautiful painting that graces the cover.
My writing assistants, Chico and Logan, who were with me every step of the way (under or beside my desk).
And last, but not at all least, my husband, Nollind, for being my best friend and greatest supporter. The adventure continues...
––––––––
T
he road, like two dark ribbons on a sheet of bright, white paper, merged into blackness beyond the reach of her headlights. Sandra blinked, then blinked again, squeezing her eyes tight before opening them. Even though she was travelling at just sixty kilometres an hour, the falling snow seemed to drive directly into her eyes, hypnotic and disorienting. She rolled down the car window, the rush of cold air scentless and sharp—but the blast of winter air wasn’t working. She was going to have to stop. Probably best not to cross the Canada/US border this late at night anyway. There wasn’t much for miles on the other side but wide open Montana cattle country.
It felt like a week since she’d woken up at home this morning and looked out at the coming dawn, the grey light crawling in through the slats of the bedroom blind. It was snowing, and she’d burrowed further down under the covers, pulling them up over her head to block out the light. Rufus whined from his bed on the floor beside hers and she lifted the blanket, patting the mattress to invite him under the covers with her. When the little dog had settled into the curve of her body, they’d both fallen asleep, feeling each other’s heartbeats, his wiry coat pressed against her flannel pajamas.
It was nearly noon by the time Sandra dragged herself from the warmth of her bed and headed downstairs to make coffee. Rufus trotted beside, undoubtedly hoping for breakfast, looking up at her with each step. When her bare feet touched the cool of the main floor hardwood she stopped. The cordless phone lay on its back, alone in the middle of the dining room table, noiselessly shouting the many messages it held. She turned and took the first two stairs before stopping again, her hand resting on the railing. Frozen. She stood. And then, just like that, she knew ... she needed to get away. She couldn’t take one more phone call, one more card, one more well-meaning friend unable to carry on a normal conversation.
Despite the sense of urgency that grew in her as the afternoon wore on, Sandra cleaned the house as she always did before going on a trip—a habit left over from growing up with her mother. If there’d been a fire in the middle of the night her mother would have had to make the bed before escaping the blaze. Sandra filled a duffel bag with a few random items of clothing and toiletries, put Rufus in the car, and set off south on the Queen Elizabeth II Highway.
That was hours ago. The weather was making it slow going, particularly after dark. She still didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to go. South. In four hours that was all she’d come up with. South. Out of the cold, out of winter and away from this interminable heaviness.
I
t was like following a house.
On the road ... still—Marion and Tom Braithwaite
was written in scrolling purple font across the back of the motorhome. Below the lettering, a multi-coloured graphic of a map of the US had all but a few of the states filled in to show the places they had travelled. Barney. They called their RV Barney. It was grey but with a slight lilac hue, which is why, Sandra assumed, it had been given the name.
How different she felt from four years ago when she’d travelled this same road. When she thought back to that trip it seemed she’d driven the entire way in darkness, but of course that wasn’t the case. She’d left home at night in a blinding snow but travelled the rest of the distance in daylight. Darkness had been a state of mind.
She had met the Braithwaites her second trip south. They were on a blog of Baja-bound travellers looking to caravan up for the journey. It was safer that way—of course it was. With a more sane mind, it was clearly a good idea. When she’d first met Marion and Tom they’d chastised her for the reckless behaviour the year before. Sandra was younger than their sixty years by just a decade, but they took her under their wing like a daughter and spoke to her as such.
Almost at the border, a few more miles and they’d be in Mexico, and in those few feet across an invisible line on the earth, everything changed. From Canada to the US was barely noticeable but going into Mexico you instantly knew you had crossed a border. The flat storefronts with bold lettering painted on their faces for signs, small late model cars and trucks replacing the herds of SUVs further north, old school buses used for urban transit, and a general increase in activity and noise that couldn’t be attributed to any one thing. Food and music were everywhere. Just try to walk one block in a Mexican town without finding something to eat or hearing music piped out onto the street from a restaurant or store. It was like an assault on the senses, but in a good way. Sandra loved it.
From the Mexican border to the south end of the Baja Peninsula required about twenty hours of driving. They’d done it in two days that first year, she and Rufus, pulling off the road before it got dark; at least she’d had that much sense. She had been looking forward to this year’s journey since the first snowflake hit the ground back home, and this time she would stay longer. Life at home wasn’t exactly hectic, now that she was more of an arm’s length owner in the company without a daily role, but friends, family, animals, and a house offered their own kind of pressure, one that Sandra enjoyed being free of during her Mexico stays. She hadn’t brought Rufus along since that first unplanned journey south and, although she missed his constant presence in her day, she revelled in the freedom of daily life in Baja, like she was an observer, dipping in and out of the world as and when she chose, not beholden to anyone or anything.
Four years ago, she wouldn’t have thought it possible to feel happy being alone, now it was the key to her contentedness. Each winter she felt more at home, more at peace, the beauty and tranquility of the Sea of Cortez filling the void that had threatened to swallow her each day that first year. She’d drifted through those days in a fog that was finally burned away by the Mexican sunshine in the final week of the visit.
And now Baja drew her like Mecca, its desert landscape and turquoise blue waters pulling at her each winter and inspiring the work she’d begun on canvas her second trip down. It was such an easy place to be inspired, and oh-so-easy to get caught up in the pace of life in Mexico—
mañana.
***
S
andra took a deep breath as she climbed out of her SUV; the moist air carried the mingled scents of salt, seaweed and something floral. She stretched her arms above her head and turned slowly in place, taking in the 360-degree view. A small boutique hotel, Casa del Mar Azul rested seaside, its white-washed face looking onto the Sea of Cortez; its backdrop the foothills of the Sierra de la Laguna mountain range. Casa del Mar Azul—House of the Blue Sea.