The Mermaid Garden(20)

Clementine spent most of the morning stuffing documents into the nearest files without any consideration for the person who might later need to find them. She dreamed of the handsome Argentine. She wondered what he was doing here in Dawcomb, if he was staying, or whether he was on a train bound for London, gone forever. She didn’t expect to see him again, yet she couldn’t help fantasizing about taking him to Devil’s for scones and clotted cream. Perhaps, when she’d earned enough money, she’d go to Argentina instead of India. She wished he’d call to rent a property for the summer, and kicked herself for having not found a way to get Atwood and Fisher into the conversation. It would have been easy to have just slipped it in somewhere, and she was only round the corner. He could have wandered along after his coffee and invited her out for lunch.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Argentine who strode into the office at twelve thirty, but Joe, suggesting they have a quick bite at the brasserie on the seafront. Clementine feigned delight, clutching her stomach to stop it churning with regret, and thanked him for the flowers. She barely dared look into his eyes in case they triggered more memories of the night before. She decided she was better off not knowing, at least that way there still remained the possibility of having not done it.

Joe was very coarse compared with the stranger, his features blunt and regular, void of character. In a pair of badly cut jeans and a V-neck sweater, he was easily outshone by the man she would never see again. She could still smell the sandalwood on his skin and picture his raffish grin and deep-set eyes. There was nothing deep about Joe, just the hole she was now unintentionally digging herself into by agreeing to lunch.

Mr. Atwood granted her an hour, as long as Sylvia was in to man the office. He was pleased with the gift for his wife, neatly wrapped and tied with a ribbon. It looked like he had gone to great trouble to find the perfect gift. She’d be thrilled with the mixer—pink was her favorite color. He signed the card without looking at it and placed it in the bag with the present, then reached for the telephone to call his mistress.


Back at the hotel the dining room was almost empty, but for a few resident guests eating quietly by the window and an elderly couple who had come from town to celebrate their golden wedding anniversary with an expensive lunch. Heather waited on the tables sleepily, while Arnaud, the sommelier, heaved his enormous frame between the tables importantly, waving the silver tasse de dégustation that dangled around his neck on an elaborate chain.

Marina was too happy to lament the empty tables. She had found her artist-in-residence. He was charming, talented, and warm. Above all, Harvey liked him and Harvey had a good nose for people. She sat at her desk and began to write a list of things to buy in spite of the little money she had available. She was sure Rafa would draw people to the hotel once she posted it up on their Web site. Shelton was famous for its beauty and birds. If she could somehow reach people all over the world who liked to paint, she was sure she could save the hotel from bankruptcy.

The sound of the sea and crying gulls swept in through the open window, drawing her thoughts onto the water, where her secret pain lay scattered on the waves and in the wind. For a moment she felt an overwhelming sense of bereavement. She paused her pencil above the paper and almost gave in. But then she remembered her beloved Polzanze, the house she had built into a beautiful hotel with all the resolve and purpose of a woman determined to create with her hands where her body could not. The Polzanze had sustained her when her grief had threatened to break her. She had poured all her love into its conception and birth. Without it, she would be lost. She began to scribble until the roar of the ocean and the squawking of gulls faded into a dull lament.

She was interrupted by a light tapping at the window. She looked up. There, with his woolly face pressed against the glass, was Mr. Potter, the gardener. When he saw that she had noticed him, he pulled off his cap and grinned toothlessly, signaling with his hand that she come out and talk to him. With a sigh she got up and went to the window.

“I’m so sorry, I completely forgot,” she said, leaning out. “The sweet peas.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Turner.”

“Give me a minute to put on my boots and I’ll come out.”

“Sorry to bother you. You looked busy in there.”

“It’s okay. The gardens are as important as the house.”

His gray eyes twinkled beneath white candyfloss eyebrows. “They most certainly are.”

“I’ll meet you at the greenhouse.” She withdrew from the window and watched with a surge of affection as the old man replaced his cap and plodded off, his stiff hip causing him to limp slightly.