The Mermaid Garden(136)

Rafa gave her a sketch pad and some watercolors.

He bent down and whispered in her ear, “You’ve made it more fun for me.”

“I’m really bad, though,” she replied, smiling at his compliment.

“Don’t stunt your ability with your negative attitude.”

“Well, I haven’t painted since school.”

“You’re here to have fun and to enjoy this peaceful place. I bet you haven’t sat and observed every wave and every cloud, every blade of grass and flower?” She looked at him quizzically. “Most of the time we race through life with our eyes closed, absorbed in endless thought. We miss the simple magic of a buttercup hidden in the grass. Now you can really take the time to look around you with your eyes wide open and enjoy the beauty of nature. You can fully exist in the present.” He grinned and stood up.

She dipped her brush into the water. “Very well, I’ll exist in the present. But I’m not sure my picture will be any better for it.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “But you will be.”

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 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, giving 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 embarrassed.

“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 Botticelli’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 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 enjoyed 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.”