The brigadier sat beside Jane. He’d made sure he was downwind so he could smell her perfume. He liked her company. She was sweet-natured and gentle, which reminded him of his wife. The more he talked to her, the more he realized she was mischievous, too, which made him laugh. His wife, as much as he had loved her, hadn’t been known for her sense of humor.
Grace, Pat, and Veronica chatted in the sunshine. Fat bees buzzed about the lavender and the pink and yellow roses that climbed the south-facing wall of the greenhouse. Birds tweeted in the lime trees, intrepid squirrels played tag in the branches. The atmosphere was languid. Rafa wandered from easel to easel, giving advice here and there, sometimes taking the brush himself and showing how it was done.
When he had a moment to himself, his mind drifted to Clementine. She was tugging his conscience like a kite on the wind. He had gone over and over their conversation and, as much as he regretted speaking his mind, he didn’t regret trying to help her. He had definitely gone about it the wrong way, picked the wrong moment, but his intentions had been honorable. He had noticed Marina’s tense shoulders that morning and the way she had smiled with her lips and not with her eyes. He wondered whether she was upset that Clementine had moved out. He resolved to go into town that afternoon and find her at work. Perhaps they could have tea together and make up.
After lunch he took a break from painting and drove into Dawcomb-Devlish. He knew that she worked for an estate agent on the high street. It wouldn’t be hard to find. He parked the car on the seafront. The place was teeming with tourists and British holidaymakers on half term. Children sat on a low wall licking ice cream in cones, waiting for a man with a long ponytail to apply tattoos. Mothers in brightly colored sweaters and shorts gossiped on the pavement, and a couple of dogs lay in the shade waiting for their owner to come out of Kitchen Delights. Rafa weaved through the slow-moving throng that ambled idly up the road, and scanned the shops for the estate agency. It wasn’t long before he stumbled upon it.
Atwood and Fisher looked suitably prestigious, painted a discreet navy blue with shiny windows displaying fine, beachfront houses to rent or buy. He peered through to see a pretty redhead talking on the telephone at the front desk. There was no sign of Clementine. When he opened the door, the redhead glanced up. With a smile she swiftly wound up her conversation and put down her nail file. “Hello, can I help you?” she asked.
Rafa approached her desk. Her green eyes devoured him hungrily. “I’m looking for a girl called Clementine Turner. Does she work here?”
“Little Clemmie? She certainly does. You must be the artist-in-residence at the Polzanze.”
He grinned. “Am I that obvious?”
“You are, lovely. It’s the accent, distinctly not English.”
“Is she here?”
“I’m afraid not. She’s gone for a meeting with Mr. Atwood. I don’t think she’ll be back until late afternoon. They’ve only just left.”
He swore in Spanish. “Can you give her a message for me?”
“Of course.” She picked up her pen. “Fire away.”
“You don’t need to write anything down. Just tell her I came by to see her.”
“I’m coming up to have a drink at the Polzanze tonight. I’ll bring her with me.”
“Okay. Then tell her I’ll see her later.”
“Sure.” Eager to detain him she added breezily, “So, how’s it going up there?”
“Getting busy.”
“I bet it is. You’re slowly getting to know the whole of Dawcomb.”
He laughed. “It’s a great town.”
“I like it. Clementine doesn’t. She’s just desperate to leave. But then she’s a city girl. I prefer the quiet of the countryside. I’m a woman of simple pleasures.” Rafa took in her heavy makeup and manicure and smiled to himself. She didn’t look like a woman who understood the word simple.
“I’d better get back to the hotel. I have some very keen artists to teach.”
“I’m glad the weather’s nice for you.”
“So am I.”
She watched him walk to the door, wishing she could entice him to stay and chat a little longer. “My name’s Sylvia, by the way.”
“See you later, then, Sylvia.”
She gave a little wave. “Bye!”
Clementine sat through the meeting while Mr. Atwood’s client, Mr. Rhys-Kerr, leered at her from the other side of the dining room table. The discussion went on for well over an hour, the majority of it having nothing to do with business and everything to do with golf. It transpired that Mr. Atwood and Mr. Rhys-Kerr were both members of the same club.