House of the Blue Sea Read Free

His eyes drifted left to the scene in the kitchen. Empty wine bottles stood upright on the counter like the last surviving soldiers of the battle surrounded by casualties: oyster shells, a half-eaten plate of fish and rice, a wine glass stained red, a cell phone, and paper, lots of paper. Reams of type-covered paper were strewn everywhere—on the counter, the floor, the stove top, even in the sink.
    He stood amidst the rubble and turned a slow circle. Right. Best get this ruddy mess cleaned up. But first, must have coffee. He opened the cupboard and observed the space on the shelf that normally housed a bag of coffee beans. “Damn it!” He slammed the door and stood staring at it, daring it to open and again reveal its dearth of coffee. He squeezed his eyes tight and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. The gesture seeming to trigger the first pleasant thought in his day: Paul would have coffee on.

CHAPTER THREE

    S andra had risen early to get started on her first painting of the trip, setting up her easel and paint box on the upper deck of the hotel. The rooftop offered a better view and more privacy, but the breeze was up this morning and she didn’t want it pushing canvas and easel face-first onto the floor. A group of visitors from Denmark had just checked out and the hotel was temporarily quiet, reducing the chance of an audience. She didn’t really mind people watching her work, but she was aware of how it changed her focus, especially in the early stages of a painting. She would inevitably worry that the person looking over her shoulder was critiquing her unfinished work and her tendency was then to paint faster, or fill in areas that were undeveloped.
    Just after she’d arrived the day before, Sandra had stood on her balcony and watched a man and a woman on the beach, walking toward one another—her long, brown hair cascading out of her sun hat onto her shoulders, his shirt hanging open and catching the wind. Arturo had arrived just then with the luggage so she’d not had a chance to see if the two people had come together, if they knew one another. She somehow felt they had, but there were other late afternoon beach-goers who could have belonged to each of them. In her painting it was morning and they had the beach to themselves, their expressions hidden by her sun hat and his down-turned face. In the sea Sandra had captured that particular blue of tropical waters, the azure of Cortez, and in the sky drifted salmon-toned clouds, coloured by the rising sun.
    “It’s very good.”
    Sandra dropped her brush, sending it clattering to the concrete floor.
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
    She picked up the brush, leaving a splotch of blue paint on the white-washed floor, and turned to see who belonged to the voice.
    He was tall, over six feet, and stood at the top of the stairs with his hands in his pockets. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes, and his hair was an unkempt mass of brown curls above a face overgrown with many days, or likely weeks, of untended beard. If he was a guest here at the hotel perhaps the airline had lost his luggage? The man’s appearance was in stark contrast to his very proper English accent.
    “It’s not a problem. It’s acrylic and will clean off.” Sandra wiped up the smear of paint with her rag. “I didn’t hear you come up. I was ... absorbed in my work.”
    “It’s very good—your painting.” He inclined his head toward her canvas. “Is it for sale?”
    “Sorry, I don’t sell my work.”
    “Oh. So what do you do with it then? Isn’t selling rather the point?”
    She shook her head. “No, not for me. It’s more about the process, the learning. Mostly I keep my paintings—some I hang, the others are stored.” Sandra glanced at the painting and then down at her feet. She was feeling a bit awkward at this line of questioning by a complete stranger. “A few I give away to friends or family.”
    “I see. So you wouldn’t