Heather poured her a cup of tea. “Would you like milk, ma’am?”
“Is it soya?”
“No, cow’s milk.”
“Full fat or skimmed?”
“Full fat.”
Celeste blanched. “I’ll have it with a slice of lemon, then.”
Marina rolled her eyes at Heather. It was going to be a tiresome weekend.
* * *
When Rafa sauntered into the sitting room, Celeste sat up keenly. Marina introduced them and watched as Celeste began to flirt like a young girl. Clearly used to being admired, she seemed not to care that it was inappropriate to behave that way with a man young enough to be her son. She giggled shyly and blinked up at him from beneath her thick black lashes. Rafa flattered her and asked her about herself, looking into her eyes in that intense way of his, making her feel she was the only person in the room he wanted to talk to. Marina wondered whether he was doing it on purpose as a favor to her, or whether he did it unconsciously.
“Do you paint, Celeste?” he asked.
“I was once a very good painter,” she replied. “I have a good eye for detail.”
“Then come and paint.”
Marina was quick to encourage her. “Oh, you must, Celeste. You can show those girls in there how it’s done.”
“Oh, I haven’t painted for years.”
“You never forget how to paint,” said Rafa.
“It’s like riding a bicycle,” rejoined Marina.
“I’d have to change out of my clothes.”
“I have an overall for you,” said Rafa. “Come, it will give me pleasure.”
Celeste got up. “What a wonderful idea, having an artist-in-residence, Marina.”
“Thank you,” she replied, waiting for the insult. But it didn’t come.
Celeste followed Rafa into the conservatory, and Marina made her escape—but not before Rafa had looked over his shoulder and tossed her a wink.
At midday Charles returned with Grey, full of enthusiasm. They had walked all the way along the cliff top to Dawcomb-Devlish and enjoyed a cup of coffee in the Wayfarer.
“Charming place,” Charles gushed, inhaling with delight. “Nothing like the sea and the smell of ozone to clear the airways and soothe the mind. This place has a special energy. I like it. I like it a lot.”
Grey was keen not to be overbearing and left him to lunch with his wife in the dining room.
Arnaud, the sommelier, had at last found someone who knew about fine wine. They discussed the list in great detail, and Charles chose a red Cabernet Sauvignon blend, Chateau Palmer ’90, one of the most expensive wines available on the menu. The sommelier almost danced around the tables in his eagerness to go and fetch the bottle from the cellar.
Celeste had enjoyed a couple of hours in the conservatory with Rafa and was now an expert on watercolors. She told her husband that the young artist had encouraged her to paint because he had recognized a kindred spirit in her, someone with natural flair and talent like him.
“The trouble is,” she explained as the sommelier poured a little wine into her husband’s glass and waited for him to taste it, “there just isn’t time enough in the day to do all the things I’m good at.” Charles swirled it around, then put the glass to his lips. The sommelier waited, barely daring to breathe. This particular Cabernet Sauvignon blend was a favorite of his and he was sure a sophisticated businessman like Mr. Rueben would appreciate it.
“Full bodied, complex, and fruity,” he declared and tapped his glass.
The sommelier filled Mrs. Rueben’s glass first before filling her husband’s. He was dismayed to see the woman take a sip without so much as a smile of pleasure. She was too busy talking about herself to notice the exceptional taste of the wine.
After lunch Celeste was keen to continue painting. Charles retreated to his room to make some calls. Grey and Marina returned to the stable block. It had stopped raining and the sun had come out, shining onto the wet leaves, causing the raindrops to glitter like glass. Neither wanted to talk about the Ruebens. The implications were too painful. So they skirted around the subject, although it hung between them like a bright neon sign.
At teatime Clementine roared up the drive in her Mini Cooper, eager to see what the Ruebens were like. She found Rafa in the conservatory, putting away the paints and brushes.
“So?” she hissed, surprising him from behind.
He turned round. “Oh, it’s you.” He laughed. “I don’t suppose you’re referring to the Ruebens.”
“Go on, what are they like?”
“Pesados,” he replied. “Heavy.”
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know. Marina and your father have gone back to the stable block. The atmosphere is very tense.”