The Mermaid Garden (53 page)

The six hen weekend girls had gone to spend the day at a spa, and

the bird-watchers from Holland had gone in search of the solitary

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sandpiper. “I’m glad we’re not having to spend our last couple of days

with those vulgar girls,” said Grace, tying a Hermès scarf under her

chin to preserve her hair from the wind.

“They’re young, Grace,” said Veronica. “They’re just having fun.”

“Still, they have no style. In our day there was no such thing as a

ladette.”

“I came pretty close,” said Pat. “I was a tomboy.”

“That’s different. You didn’t go throwing yourself at young men.”

“Had I had your looks and Veronica’s grace, I think I might have,”

Pat retorted.

At first Clementine was unable to lose herself in her surroundings. As

much as she tried she was too aware of Rafa walking up and down, giv-

ing advice. It was only when he sat down beside her and began to lose

himself in his own painting that she was able to relax. The silence was comfortable. She didn’t feel the need to fill it with chatter. Rafa seemed to fall into an all-absorbing world, and soon she joined him there, noticing every seagull and every rock until she ceased to notice herself.

It was sunset when they returned to the hotel. Rafa was impressed

with Clementine’s painting.

“You’re just being kind,” she protested.

“You have an interesting way of using color.”

She laughed. “Interesting, certainly, but not very good.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” His gaze lingered on her for what felt

like a long time.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, suddenly embar-

rassed.

“The light is golden tonight.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’d like to paint you.”

“Oh, really, Rafa, I’m not sure that even you could turn me into Bot-

ticelli’s
Venus
.”

“I wouldn’t have to. You’re perfect just the way you are.” She frowned

at him. Marina had said the same thing. Could it be possible that he

was beginning to believe it? “I mean it. I want to paint you before the sun goes down.” He threw the rug onto the lawn and insisted she sit

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down. Biscuit lay beside her and rolled onto his back, hoping she was

going to take the hint and stroke his tummy. Pat, Veronica, and Grace

walked on up the lawn, leaving them alone.

Rafa opened his box of oils and found a fresh sheet of paper.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Talk to me,” he replied, looking at her intently.

She sighed. “I think he’s really going to draw us,” she said to Biscuit.

“I’m going to draw
you
,” he corrected. Then he grinned as he swept the oil pastel across the page. “You know, you’re a very beautiful girl, Clementine. But you’re typically British in that you cannot accept a

compliment. In my country girls thank a man when he flatters her.”

“All right, thank you.”

“My pleasure. Now talk to me.”

The sun seemed to hover above the tree line just for Rafa. The light

was soft and mellow, the air infused with the scents of cut grass and

honeysuckle, and in the tallest branches the birds settled down to

roost.

“I did as you advised and talked to Marina,” said Clementine. “You

know, you’re the only person who has ever given me proper advice.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You’re the only person who has ever suggested I talk to her. My

friends loved hearing my stories, and I’m ashamed to admit that I en-

joyed telling them, and exaggerated wildly to get attention. My mother

was always petty and small-minded, preferring that I ganged up with

her
rather than persuading me to build bridges. She’s never been magnanimous, and I suppose it must have given her pleasure that I never

bonded with the woman Dad had fallen in love with. The truth is that

no one ever told me to make friends with her. It had never occurred to

me. And I never thought to listen to what
she
had to say.”

“But you did.”

“Yes, and you were right. There are always two sides to every story.

She isn’t a wicked stepmother after all, so I shan’t call her Subma-

rine ever again.” She dropped her gaze and rubbed Biscuit’s stomach.

“I think I understand a little more about love.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Love is like a bright light that burns away all negativity. You

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know, like sunshine on mist. I felt my heart open when I listened to

Marina, and all the heavy, unhappy fog simply evaporated. It was ex-

traordinary. So, it got me thinking: happy people are full of love; un-

happy people have very little, perhaps none at all. That’s all there is to the world—those who love and those who don’t. It’s really very simple.

If everyone loved there’d be no wars. Everyone would live in peace.”

“I think you should run for prime minister.”

She laughed. “But how do you teach people about love?”

“There have been many teachers, like Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha,

Gandhi, to name but a few. Now we can add Clementine Turner to the

list.”

She watched him sketch, his hand moving confidently across the

paper, and thought how attractive it was to be so talented. “Rafa,

have you ever been in love?”

“I’ve been in love many times,” he said, grinning at her. “There’s a

very big difference between being ‘in love’ and ‘loving.’ ‘In love’ is infatuation. Loving begins when the infatuation passes and you really
know
the person. Otherwise, how can you love them if you don’t
know
them?”

“So, have you ever
loved
?”

“Once.”

“What was she like?”

He thought for a moment. “She was very sweet.”

“Blond, brunette?”

“Brunette.”

“What happened?”

“I wasn’t ready to commit.”

“Did she want to marry you?”

He shrugged. “She was Argentine: that’s all she thought about.”

“Did that put you off?”

“Not really, but I was restless. The timing was wrong.”

“So what happened?”

“She finished with me, found someone else, and married him.”

“Were you very sad?”

“Of course, but what could I do?”

“Do you ever think about her?”

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“Sometimes.”

“Do you regret that you never married her?”

“Never.”

“Do you keep in touch?”

“No.” He narrowed his eyes and his lips curled at one corner. “Any

more questions, or is the inquisition over?”

“You’re very shady.”

“Shady?”

“Yes, you don’t give away much about
yourself
. Sure, you talk about your parents and Argentina, but you don’t talk about
you
.”

He sighed dramatically. “All right. I’m a spy working undercover for

the Argentine government. But that is all I can tell you; otherwise,

I have to kill you.”

She stared at him pensively. He looked steadily back at her. For a

moment neither spoke. Everything stilled. The sun finally dipped be-

hind the trees, leaving them in shadow. They both felt the energy build between them. But Clementine was used to the warm feeling of desire

and the anticipation of the kiss that never came. It took all her will-

power to tear her eyes away. “Are you nearly done now?” she asked,

breaking the spell. “I’m getting rather stiff.”

“The light has changed.”

“Shall we go in?”

He sighed regretfully. “If you want to.”

She got to her feet. Biscuit rolled over and stretched. She could

feel Rafa’s disappointment as the energy drained away and the wind

picked up.

“Can I see it?”

Rafa handed her the sketchbook. She looked at his picture and

gasped in surprise. The girl in the golden light was beautiful. He gathered his paints and crayons and stood up. “Do I really look like that?”

she asked, staring at it.

“You do to me, Clementine.”

She frowned at him, wondering why, if he saw her like that, he didn’t

take her in his arms and kiss her. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes, you do,” he replied.

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“Thank you.” She handed back the book. “Are you coming in?”

“In a minute. I want to make a telephone call.”

“Good night, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Clementine marched up

the lawn with Biscuit. She could feel Rafa’s eyes on her back, but she

didn’t turn around. It had taken as much will as she could muster to

walk away; she wouldn’t have enough to do it a second time.

Rafa watched her disappear around the hotel, a frown rumpling his

brow. He felt dissatisfied. He didn’t know how much longer he could

continue like this. Clementine was beginning to consume him. When-

ever he tried to think of something else, she popped back into his head.

He thought he could control his feelings, but it was becoming increas-

ingly clear that he could not.

He pulled out his BlackBerry and called his mother. At times like

this he missed her dreadfully. He missed the sound of her voice and all that it represented. “Mama.”

“Rafa,
mi amor
. Is everything okay?”

“Mama, I’m in love.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then she spoke with surprising calm-

ness. “Is she very special?”

“She’s unique.”

Maria Carmela might not have understood his motives for being

there, but when it came to love, she understood very clearly indeed. “So, why do you sound so sad?”

“I’m confused. I came here for one thing and one thing only. I didn’t

come here to fall in love.”

“Follow your heart, Rafa.”

“I want to. But I can’t if I’m unable to be honest with her.”

“Then you have to come clean, Rafa. You have to tell her why you’re

there. You have to tell all of them the truth.”

“It could go horribly wrong.” Another moment of silence ensued.

Maria Carmela did not know what to advise.
This
was beyond her. “They know nothing.
Nothing
. And I’m still not sure. I need more time.” He sighed heavily. “Am I being selfish? They’re a happy family, and I like them all so much. Then there’s you. You’re the most important person

in my life—if you doubt me, then I cannot do it.”

“I’ve been thinking, if this is really so important to you, then you

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must do it and I will support you. Your father wouldn’t be happy, but I’ll deal with him when I see him in the next life. Leave him to me. Right

now, you have to find peace. That is all that matters. It is your right, and I am beside you all the way.”

He was almost too choked to speak. “Thank you.”

“It is love that gives me the courage to let you go.”

“You’re not afraid anymore?”

“No. I am resigned, and I am content. I don’t know why I ever

doubted you.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You don’t know how much that

means to me.”

“Oh, yes, I do. Now, do you want to hear what that silly parrot did

today?”

He laughed and wiped the damp from his eye. “Yes, tell me.”

When Clementine arrived at work on Monday morning, Sylvia was at

the filing cabinet, her face hidden by a cascading wall of wavy hair. On close inspection Clementine could see that she was crying.

Mr. Atwood wasn’t in yet, neither was Mr. Fisher. Clementine ig-

nored the telephone, put the coffees on her desk, and approached her.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Sylvia sniffed and nodded. “I hear you’ve broken up with Joe.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I have. It wasn’t going anywhere. It was unfair of me

to lead him on.”

“And you’re in love with Rafa, aren’t you?”

Clementine frowned. “Is that why you’re crying?”

Sylvia looked up from the drawer and pulled a sorry smile. She nod-

ded. “I don’t love Freddie,” she confided. “I never have. To be honest, I’ve never loved anyone, really. But the other day . . .”

“Come and sit down.” Clementine put her arm around her. Sylvia

allowed herself to be led to her chair. Clementine gave her the carton of coffee, which she began to sip halfheartedly.

“I saw you and Rafa together, and, well, I could feel it.”

“Feel what?”

“Feel this incredible thing you have together. I’ve never had that. I’ve never believed in it.” She gazed at Clementine helplessly. “I want it.”

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Clementine felt relief. It wouldn’t be fun chasing the same man. “So,

you’re not in love with Rafa?”

“Oh, I could be—he’s very sexy—but no, I’m not in love. I just want

to be.”

“Then stop being so cynical and wait for someone to rock your boat

hard!”

Sylva’s scarlet lips curled into a small smile. “I doubt Freddie was

ever going to leave his wife.”

“I don’t know, but you shouldn’t break up a marriage if you can

help it.”

“I’m a bad person.”

“Misguided, that’s all.”