The Mermaid Garden(23)

Finally, the fish rose above the water. It was a large, slippery Cornish bass, wriggling to free itself. Grey forgot about Marina and her grief for the child they couldn’t have, and dropped the fish into the boat. He opened its tender mouth and released the hook. A wave of excitement washed over him as he admired it—must be at least four pounds.

He replaced the bait and cast his line again. He’d spend all morning out there, detached from the world and its worries. While he was in his boat, the Polzanze seemed a very long way away. He didn’t dare wonder how Marina had got on with Rafa Santoro—if he’d believed in the power of prayer, he’d have shot one up on her behalf. He knew how much this mattered to her—and if it mattered to her, it mattered even more to him.


Rafa Santoro returned to his hotel and took a table outside, against the wall. The sun was warm, and he was sheltered from the wind. An audacious seagull landed on his table, but he had nothing to give it so the bird turned up its beak and flew off to harass someone else for treats. He noticed a couple of girls at another table, giggling into their lunch, and averted his eyes. He didn’t want to encourage them. The waiter took his order—cola, steak, and chips—and he settled into the Gazette, the surest way to find out the local gossip.

So, he had arrived. He wasn’t sure how he was meant to feel. Part of him felt elated, another saddened—saddened perhaps because the most vital part of him felt nothing at all. He tried not to think about it. The waiter brought his food, and he took a sip of cola, feeling the girls’ eyes boring into him with the cumbersome weight of their admiration. Any other day he would have invited them to join him. He might even have taken them up to his hotel room and made love to them. Any other day that thought alone would have been enough to raise his spirits and put a spring in his step for the rest of the afternoon, but not today. He buried his face in the Gazette and finished his lunch alone.

The girls left, not before deliberately passing his table and flashing their prettiest smiles. He nodded politely but let them go without a second glance. The seagull dropped onto their abandoned table and stole a half-eaten bread roll. He looked at his watch. It would be early morning in Argentina, but he needed to talk. He pulled out his BlackBerry and pressed speed dial. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Rafa?”

“Hola, Mamá.”

“Thank God. You haven’t called for a week. I’ve been worried sick. Are you okay?”

“I’ve arrived.”

“I see.” Her voice was tight. He sensed her sitting down. She sighed heavily, anticipating the worst. “And?”

“It’s a beautiful mansion overlooking the sea. I’m going to spend the summer there, teaching residents how to paint.” He laughed cynically. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

“You shouldn’t be there at all.”

“Calm down, Mamá.”

“What would your father think? Dios mío, what would he say?”

“He would understand.”

“I don’t think he would.”

“Well, he’ll never know.”

“Don’t think he’s not up there watching you. After all he did for you, Rafa. You should be ashamed.”

“Don’t make me feel any worse. I’m wrestling with my conscience, too. You said you understood. You said you’d help me.”

“Because I love you, son.”

He felt a sudden surge of emotion rise through his chest and put his head in his hand. “I love you, too, Mamá.”

There was a long silence. He could hear her breathing down the line, the familiar sound of his childhood that had once wrapped him in a warm blanket of security and unconditional love, but was now labored and old and full of fear. Finally, she spoke, and her voice wavered. “Come home, hijo. Forget this silly idea.”

“I can’t.”

“Then don’t forget me.”

“I’ll call you in a couple of days, I promise.”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Everything.”

“Be careful.”

“I am.”

“Spare a thought for them.”

“But of course, Mamá. I won’t hurt anyone.”


But you’re hurting me, she thought as she put down the receiver and wiped her eyes with a clean white pañuelo. Maria Carmela Santoro heaved herself up from the armchair and wandered down the tiled corridor to Rafa’s bedroom. The house was quiet now. Her husband was with Jesus, and her four older children had flown the nest long ago. Rafa was her youngest, a gift from God when she was really too old to have more children. Her others were dark-skinned and dark-haired like their father, but Rafa had been a very blond child. With his light hair and natural charm, he was special.