The Mermaid Garden(149)

“I was in the stable block—” he began.

“I know. Jake found you.”

“I said I was looking for Biscuit.”

“But you weren’t?”

“No.”

“I’m sure Jake just misjudged you. Don’t worry about him. He’s a little jealous of you, as you’ve probably worked out.”

“Jake didn’t misjudge me. I was looking for something else.”

“I don’t want to know,” she blurted, putting her hands over her ears.

“Don’t tell me. If you have a secret, keep it to yourself, please.”

He looked at her in astonishment. “But I want to tell you. I want to come clean.”

“Why? What good will that do? You’ll confess something terrible, and then we won’t be friends anymore.”

“No, it’s not like that.” He took her hands and pulled them away from her ears.

“Yes, it is. You didn’t come here to teach old ladies to paint, did you?”

“No … but—”

“You targeted us for a reason?”

“Yes.”

Clementine felt a surge of emotion rise up her chest, and she tore her hands away. “So, don’t tell me the reason. I can’t bear it. I trusted you.” In her confusion she began to run up the beach.

“Clementine, wait! It’s not what you think. My intentions are good.”

She stopped and turned, the wind whipping her hair from behind and tossing it across her cheeks. “You just don’t get it, do you?” You don’t get that I love you, she called silently. Then out loud she added, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He watched her go. He could have run after her and told her everything—he was now pretty sure that he was in the right place—but Grey knew nothing of Marina’s past, and Rafa hadn’t anticipated that. How would they feel if he suddenly turned their reality upside down and told them who he really was? He sat on the sand and put his head in his hands. Part of him wanted to pack his bags and return to Argentina, putting the whole messy business behind him. But part of him knew he had to go to Italy with Marina. If he had any hope of winning Clementine, he had to know the whole truth.


Clementine sobbed into her pillow. She knew she should have waited to hear what he had to say. Her performance had been as bad as the worst soap opera, where the characters always walk out on one another before waiting to hear their explanations. But she couldn’t bear to watch him topple off his pedestal. She couldn’t risk the chance that she had fallen in love with a mirage, a cleverly constructed image. She didn’t want to be like Sylvia, with her cynical view of love. So now what? How could they ever go back to the way they were? She might as well have listened, because now everything had changed between them, and she didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing what or who he really was.


Marina and Rafa left for the airport early the following morning before dawn, while the Polzanze slept on. They took a train to Heathrow via London, and flew to Rome. There were so many questions Rafa longed to ask, but he knew better than to intrude in what Marina believed to be her own secret adventure. She wasn’t aware that it was Rafa’s, too.

Marina was nervous. She bit her nails, fidgeted, and failed to read the magazine that remained open on the same page for the duration of the entire flight. She was unusually quiet, replying to his comments in monosyllables. The croissant on her tray remained untouched. At Rome airport she asked him to organize the hiring of a car, which he did in fluent Italian while she paced up and down like a greyhound preparing for a race. Finally, with a map and two cups of takeaway coffee, they drove through the Tuscan countryside towards an obscure little town called Herba.

Rafa concentrated on the road while Marina stared outside at the inky green cypress trees, towering umbrella pines, and Italian farmhouses with their red-tiled roofs and sandy-colored walls. A warm breeze blew through the open windows, carrying with it the scents of wild thyme, rosemary, and pine. She rested her elbow on the window frame and clenched her finger between her teeth. She felt as if she were driving towards an enormous door with only one chance to open it. If she failed, it would close forever on the very thing she had waited most of her life to find. Now she was in Italy the Polzanze seemed very far away and somehow less important. Her focus had changed, the mask was slipping—perhaps the Polzanze had been nothing but a screen all along, hiding the only thing that mattered—the only thing that had ever mattered. She wiped away a tear and tried to focus on her plan.

It was early evening when the car drew up at the gates of La Magdalena. The light had grown soft, the shadows long. The yellow palace at the end of the drive peered out of the avenue curiously. A security guard leaned into the window.