“Don’t listen to her,” Harvey protested, a twinkle in his eye. “There’s just no one else on the premises who can change lightbulbs like I can. Even at seventy-five.”
“You don’t look seventy-five, Harvey.”
He winked at Rafa. “It’s that kind of flattery that keeps me climbing ladders and clearing drains.”
“Did you bring any of your work to show us?” Marina asked.
“Of course.” Rafa pulled a brown leather bag onto his knee and unzipped it. He withdrew a sketch pad and placed it on the coffee table.
Marina leaned forward eagerly. “May I?”
“Please.”
She opened the first page. “Perfect,” she breathed, gazing on a watercolor of a river, painted with flair and warmth. A flock of birds was taking to the air, some still in the water, others already reaching for the skies, and she could almost feel the spray as they agitated the water with their feet. The next was a sketch of old women gossiping in a market, their faces full of expression, from bitterness to pride. “You are very versatile.”
“I have to be, in my business. I might draw a cola bottle one day, a landscape the following day, a caricature the next. It is never the same.”
“Where did you learn to draw?”
“Nowhere special.”
“You were born with the gift.”
“Perhaps.”
“You’re lucky.”
He grinned at Harvey. “But I’m not good at clearing drains.”
Marina flicked through the whole book, her admiration growing with each new picture. “We would love you to spend the summer with us,” she said, sitting back in her chair.
Rafa looked pleased. “I’d like that very much.”
She looked a little embarrassed. “We can’t pay you, I’m afraid. But you’ll have your board and lodging for free. All we ask is that you are available to teach the guests to paint. We’ll provide all your materials, of course.”
“When would you like me to start?”
She clapped her hands in delight. “Next month. Shall we say, the first of June?”
“First of June.”
“Come the day before to give yourself time to settle in.”
“I look forward to it.”
“So do I,” she replied, pleased that he looked happy with the arrangement. “You don’t know how hard it has been to find you.” Then her thoughts turned to Clementine. At last, the girl would have something to thank her for.
4.
Clementine staggered into work in a pair of skinny jeans and pumps, a thick gray sweater hanging almost down to her knees. It was spring, but she felt cold to her bones. She didn’t know what hurt more, her morale or her head. Sylvia sat at her desk in a tight dress and stilettos, painting her nails red. Mr. Atwood’s partner, Mr. Fisher, was already in his office talking on the telephone. She was relieved she had gotten there before her boss, though she didn’t imagine she was going to be of much use.
“Oh, deary dear,” said Sylvia, shaking her head. “You don’t look well.”
“I feel terrible.”
“Go and get a coffee.”
“I’ve already had one at home.”
“Then get another. Mr. Atwood will be in shortly, and he’ll be wanting a skinny latte and a blueberry muffin. If you have them waiting for him on his desk, he’ll forgive your sickly pallor.”
“Do I look that bad?”
“Yes, lovely, you do. You shouldn’t wear foundation at your age. When you’re pushing thirty like me, you can pile it on with a shovel.”
Clementine flopped onto her chair and switched on her computer. “I can’t remember much about last night.”
“What do you remember?”
“Joe.” She closed her eyes, hoping he might go away.
“Isn’t he lovely? So handsome. You two really hit it off, which puts a smile on my face this morning as I was the one to set you up. I think he’s smitten. I’ve never seen him behave like that before.”
“Behave like what?”
“He was all over you.”
“Was he?”
“Oh, yes.” Sylvia grinned. “It’s usually the other way round, and he’s having to fend them off.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it. He’s quite a catch, you know.”
“I’m sure he is. A big fish in a small pond.”
“Nothing wrong with a small pond. Better than a small fish in a big pond.”
“I don’t know. Regardless of the pond, I’m not sure about the fish.”
Sylvia knitted her eyebrows. “Now you’ve lost me.”