The Mermaid Garden(2)

“She might change her mind when she sees this old sea dog!”

“Do you think he has a parrot tucked away with all that luggage?” Grey continued, watching the old man walk stiffly round to the boot and pull out a shabby portfolio.

“I think most certainly, Dad—and a ship moored down at the quay. At least he doesn’t have a hook for a hand.”

“Marina will think he’s delightful. She loves eccentrics.”

“Do you think that’s why she married you?”

Grey straightened up and put his hands in his pockets. He was very tall with curly, graying hair and a long, sensitive face. He looked down at his daughter and shook his head. “Don’t forget you carry my genes, Clemmie. If I’m eccentric, there’s a good chance that you have inherited the same flaw.”

“I wouldn’t consider it a flaw, Dad. There’s nothing more boring than regular people. Mind you,” she added, as the artist closed the boot, “you can have too much of a good thing.”

“He’s here! How exciting!” Marina joined her husband and stepdaughter at the window. Clementine watched her joy deflate as she laid eyes on her first candidate, staggering towards the entrance with his artwork tucked under his moth-eaten sleeve, and felt a small swell of pleasure.

“My God!” Marina exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “What am I going to do?”

“Too late now, darling. You’d better show him in, or he might draw his sword.” Marina implored her husband with a desperate look, but he shook his head and laughed at her affectionately, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his corduroy trousers. “This is your project. I know how you hate me to interfere.”

“Why don’t you interview him with me?” She tried to seduce him with a grin.

“Oh, no, darling, he’s all yours.”

“You’re a wicked, wicked man, Grey Turner,” she retorted, but her lips curled at the corners as she took her place in the middle of the hall by the round table and extravagant flower display, while Shane Black, the porter, helped the old man in with his portfolio.

Ignoring the amused faces congregated at the window—for by now Jennifer, one of the receptionists, and Heather, a waitress, had found an excuse to come into the hall—Marina smiled at her first candidate warmly, extending her hand. His was rough and calloused, his fingernails ingrained with old paint. He seized hers with a firm grip. His eyes devoured her with the relish of a man who has been at sea for many months, and he seemed lost for words. “It’s so good of you to come, Mr. Bascobalena. Let’s go into my office where we can have some coffee and a little chat. Perhaps you would prefer tea?”

“Or a barrel of rum,” Clementine hissed to her father.

Mr. Bascobalena cleared his throat and swallowed. “Black coffee, no sugar—and please call me Balthazar.”

His deep baritone startled Marina, and she flinched, withdrawing her hand. She could see her stepdaughter sniggering out of the corner of her eye, and she lifted her chin defiantly.

“Shane, see to it that Heather brings Mr. Bascobalena a pot of black coffee right away and a cappuccino for me.”

“Will do, Mrs. Turner,” said Shane, suppressing his mirth.

Picking up the portfolio, Shane followed them across the hall, through the drawing room, where a few clusters of guests sat reading the newspapers, and into the pretty green sitting room beyond which Marina’s office overlooked the Children’s Garden, redundant aqueduct, and the sea. She gestured that he place the portfolio on the coffee table, then watched him leave the room, closing the door behind him.

Marina invited Balthazar to sit on the sofa and winced as his dirty clothes made contact with the pale green chenille. She sank into the armchair and turned her face to the open window, where the sea breeze carried on its breath the sweet scent of cut grass and ozone. She could hear the distant roar of the ocean and the plaintive cry of gulls wheeling on the wind, and felt her heart ache with yearning to be down on the beach, her feet in the water, her hair tossed about by the breeze. Reluctantly, she wrenched her thoughts back. She already knew that Balthazar Bascobalena would not be spending the summer at the Polzanze, but she had to do him the courtesy of going through the motions.

“You have a wonderful name—Bascobalena. Sounds Spanish.” She was aware that he was staring at her, his jaw a little slack, as if he had never seen a woman before. In spite of the open window, his unwashed smell was beginning to fill the room. She wished Heather would hurry with the coffees, but guessed Shane was hanging around in the hall discussing their visitor with the rest of her staff. She hoped none of her guests had seen him come in.