House of the Blue Sea Read Free Page A

make an exception; just this once? I’ve recently moved into a house in the village and the walls are unbearably dull.”
    Something behind the mat of facial hair seemed familiar. Did she know this guy? Maybe he’d stayed at the hotel before. Paul frequently had British guests. Her mind rolled back over her previous four visits but no one came to mind that fit the man before her.
    “Have I offended you?” he asked.
    “No, not at all. I’m flattered. Really. It’s just that I’m not sure what I’d even charge ... if I were to sell it to you. And, it’s not finished ...” She gestured toward the canvas with her paintbrush.
    “I can come back. Paul is a friend so I’m here often.” He pronounced it of-ten, rather than the North American version of the word that dropped the “t”. “As for price, I would be willing to offer you $1,500 American, if you think that’s fair.”
    Sandra was stunned; $1,500 sounded like a generous price for an unknown artist’s work, from a man who looked like he might have to scrounge up the change for his next cup of coffee. Although, he did say he’d recently acquired a house, and his sunglasses looked expensive. Maybe the scruffy dude thing was just a look ... and a smell. Nothing quite like the odour of last night’s alcohol coming out through a man’s pores.
    “That sounds like a lot of money for an unfinished piece. I’m not sure I’m comfortable—”
    “I’ve purchased a lot of original art, and for a piece this size, $1,500 is quite fair. But, if $1,400 would ease your conscience ...” His head bowed forward and he peered at her over the tops of his sunglasses.
    Again the familiarity, those wide brown eyes. She took a breath and her eyes went to her painting. The sale would cover over two weeks of her stay at Mar Azul. “Okay then ... why not. $1,400. But on one condition.”
    “Which is?”
    “The sale isn’t final until you’ve seen the finished work, in case you don’t like it.”
    “Fair enough.” The man stepped forward and held out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
    Sandra accepted his outstretched hand. “Well, thank you, Mister ...?
    “Jeffery. Mark Jeffery. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself.”
    Oh God. That’s why he was familiar. This was Mark Jeffery, the British actor Mark Jeffery, the very famous, very handsome British actor Mark Jeffery. Yes indeed, she could see it now, those pearly whites peeking out from behind the beard when he spoke, the wavy mane. Men could disguise themselves so easily by growing some facial hair. And he was a bit bulkier than he appeared in his films.
    “And you are?” he asked. Sandra realized her mouth had fallen slightly open and she was still gripping his palm.
    “Sorry.” She dropped his hand. “It’s just that I didn’t recognize you. I’ve seen your movies. You look ... different than on-screen.”
    Mark’s eyes dropped to his rumpled attire and he ran a hand through his greying brown beard. “Ah, yes, my hiding-out-in-Mexico disguise. Clearly it’s working. But I still don’t know your name.”
    “Of course. Sandra, Sandra Lyall.” She reached out to shake his hand—again.
    He politely accepted it. “A pleasure, Ms. Lyall.”
    “Yes. Absolutely. Mine too.” Really? Mine too? Shut up, Sandra!
    “Canadian?” he asked.
    “Me? Canadian. Yes. I am. Is it that obvious?”
    “It might have been northern America, but when you’ve studied dialects and accents as part of your job, the little things make the difference.” He paused. “So, back to the business at hand; when do you think the painting will be finished so we can finalize the sale? And I’m not in a hurry so whatever suits you.”
    Right, business, thank God. “When I get started on a piece I usually dive in and work until it’s finished. I’m a bit of an all or nothing painter. So, a couple of days. Tuesday?”
    “Tuesday it is. How about I come by early? I like Paul’s coffee.”
    “Early Tuesday would be fine.” Should she