She had seen Rafa before dashing off to work in her Mini. They had bumped into each other in the hall (not that she had any business to be there), and he had suggested they go out in a boat after work. The promise of an excursion together fueled her all the way into Dawcomb. She drove down the narrow lanes, past frothy green hedges and white-flowered blackthorn that lay heaped on the branches like snow. She observed the little birds that dived in and out, and the gulls that circled above in a glittering sky. Her heart filled with happiness at the sudden glimpses of the ocean as she weaved down the coast towards the town. She took in the beauty around her and wondered why she had never noticed it before.
Sylvia was standing by her desk in a tight red skirt and satin blouse tied at the throat in an extravagant bow. She was fussing over a bunch of lilies, cutting out the pollen-laden antherd with a pair of scissors. When she saw Clementine, she did a double take and paused her cutting.
“Oh my Lord, what’s up with you?”
“Nothing’s up,” Clementine replied, shrugging out of her jacket.
Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “Now let me see. You’ve made an effort today, so something must be up. You usually look like a sack of potatoes.”
“Thank you for the compliment.”
“So, are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to torture you?” She put her hand on her rounded hip. “The flowers are from Freddie, by the way. In case you were curious.”
“I’m not.”
“I’d like to think it’s Joe, but it isn’t, is it?”
“No,” said Clementine, sitting down and switching on her computer. “Do you remember that Argentine I met in the Black Bean Coffee Shop?”
“Yes. Don’t tell me he’s come back?”
“He’s the artist-in-residence.”
“Get out of here!” Sylvia put down her scissors and came closer to perch on the edge of her desk. She crossed her legs and folded her arms. “Go on.”
“He arrived yesterday.”
“And you’ve already slept with him.”
“No.” Clementine waved her hand dismissively. “Of course not.”
“Poor Joe. He’ll be devastated. Have you told him?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Joe thinks you’re The One.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “God bless him, the fool!”
“Well, I’m not. I never have been.”
“Freddie’s not The One, either.” She glanced at her red nails and clicked her tongue. “Though he won’t be convinced.”
“Is that why he’s sent you flowers?”
“He senses he’s losing me. Proof that if you treat them mean, you keep them keen. My mother would say that a woman has to play hard to get all her life.”
“How tiring.”
“The curse of womanhood.”
“One of them,” Clementine added.
“The others being?”
“Childbirth.”
“But think of the dear little thing you get at the end of it.”
“Do you want children, Sylvia?”
“Oh yes, but I’m getting on, you know. That’s why I’m keeping Freddie on the spit, basting him every now and then like a nice chicken.”
“I don’t mean with Freddie. He’s already got children.”
“He might be my only option.”
“You can’t give up yet.”
“On finding love? You know I don’t believe in it.”
Clementine grinned and turned to her screen. “Well, I do.”
Rafa set up two chairs and easels on the lawn in front of the house, facing the cedar tree. The brigadier had gone home to change into something more suitable and now took his seat in a pale blue linen jacket his wife had bought him years before but which he had never worn. He didn’t like the way it hung; a good jacket had to follow the line of the waist. He had placed a Panama on his head to shade him from the sun and now looked in bewilderment at the blank sheet of paper.
“So, I’m to draw that tree, am I?”
Rafa nodded. “Yes, but I want more than a picture of a tree.”
“Oh, yes, the birds in it, too, I suppose.”
“Perhaps. I don’t want you to just see the tree. I want you to feel it.”
“Now that’s jolly difficult. Seeing is one thing, feeling is quite another.”
“Not really, Brigadier. If I wanted an exact copy of the tree I would take a photograph.” He rubbed his chin a moment in thought. “Tell me, how does this tree make you feel?”
“Nervous,” said the brigadier with a chortle.
“Really? How so?”
“Because I don’t know where to begin.”