“Perhaps, somewhere in my family history, there’s a Spaniard. But we’re Devon folk through and through, and proud of it.”
Marina raised her eyebrows doubtfully. He had the dark skin and eyes of a Spaniard. When he bared his teeth, they were brown and rotten like a sailor with scurvy. “And Balthazar. You have the name of a hero in a book.”
“My mother was fanciful.”
“Was she an artist, too?”
“No, but she was a dreamer, God rest her soul.”
“So, tell me, Balthazar, what do you paint?”
“Boats,” he replied, leaning forward to open his portfolio.
“Boats,” Marina repeated, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. “How interesting. But not surprising,” she added humorously.
Mr. Bascobalena missed her reference to his pirate outfit. “Oh, I’ve been fascinated by boats since I was a nipper.”
“Raised on the sea?”
“Oh, yes, as was my father and grandfather before him.” He was distracted by a couple of paintings hanging on the wall. “Those are good landscapes. Are you a collector, Mrs. Turner?”
“Sadly not. I don’t paint, either. I just admire people like you who do. So, let’s see some of your work.”
He pulled out a sketch of a fishing boat in a tempestuous sea. For a moment Marina forgot his smell and his extraordinary clothes and stared incredulously at the picture before her.
“It’s beautiful,” she gasped, shuffling to the edge of her chair. “You have a gift.”
“Look at this one, then.” He pulled out another, his enthusiasm rising. Marina was stunned by the wistful charm of his work. He had sketched boats of all kinds: from fleets of Elizabethan ships to modern yachts and barges. Some drawn in calm waters at dawn, others on the high seas by moonlight, all with the same stirring sense of melancholy. “I paint in oils, too, but they’re too big to bring. You can come and see them if you like? I live near Salcombe.”
“Thank you. I’m sure they’re as lovely as your sketches.” She looked at him with sincerity. “You have an extraordinary talent.”
“If I could paint people, I’d paint you.” Marina ignored the lecherous look in his eyes.
“You don’t paint people?” She feigned disappointment.
“Not a chance.” He ran a hand through thinning gray hair that reached the gilded epaulettes on his shoulders. “Never have done. Can’t get them right. Whatever I do they always look like monkeys.”
“What a shame. You see, Balthazar, I need my artist-in-residence to teach my guests how to paint everything. Not just boats and monkeys. I’m sorry.”
As Balthazar’s shoulders hunched in defeat, Heather appeared with the tray carrying a silver coffeepot and a cappuccino. Marina shot her a furious look for having taken so long, and Heather flushed a little as she placed it on the desk. Marina hoped he’d leave right away, but his greedy eyes settled on the gingernut biscuits and his spirits lifted. Reluctantly, she poured him a cup of coffee, handed him the biscuits, and watched him sink back into her sofa.
* * *
Clementine climbed into her red Mini Cooper and drove down the winding narrow lanes towards the town of Dawcomb-Devlish. Woolly fields undulated in a patchwork of assorted greens beneath a clear cerulean sky. Swallows dived and seagulls wheeled, and every now and then she glimpsed the sparkling blue ocean gently rippling into the hazy mists on the horizon. And yet, in spite of the beauty, Clementine’s heart was a nugget of resentment.
She stared miserably at the gray tarmac and considered her lot. She wished she was traveling around India again, enjoying the freedom that three years and a respectable degree at university merited, instead of schlepping into Dawcomb-Devlish every morning to slog away as secretary to the desperately bland Mr. Atwood and his sleepy estate agency on the high street.
It had come as something of a shock when her father had declared that he no longer had the money to fund her self-indulgence. She had hoped to defer work for another year at least. He had offered her a job at the hotel, like Jake, who had worked his way up to manager, but she’d rather die than call her stepmother boss. So he had found her a position for six months while Mr. Atwood’s secretary, Polly, was on maternity leave. If she lasted six weeks it would be a miracle—not only was she barely able to type, but she was very disorganized, relying on Sylvia, Mr. Atwood’s partner’s secretary, to do most of the work for her. She was aware that Mr. Atwood’s patience was being sorely tested, but as he was indebted to her father for sending him clients there was little he could do.