The Mermaid Garden (11 page)

spirits and put a spring in his step for the rest of the afternoon, but not today. He buried his face in the
Gazette
and finished his lunch alone.

The girls left, not before deliberately passing his table and flashing

their prettiest smiles. He nodded politely but let them go without a

second glance. The seagull dropped onto their abandoned table and

stole a half-eaten bread roll. He looked at his watch. It would be early morning in Argentina, but he needed to talk. He pulled out his BlackBerry and pressed speed dial. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Rafa?”

“
Hola, Mamá
.”

“Thank God. You haven’t called for a week. I’ve been worried sick.

Are you okay?”

“I’ve arrived.”

“I see.” Her voice was tight. He sensed her sitting down. She sighed

heavily, anticipating the worst. “And?”

“It’s a beautiful mansion overlooking the sea. I’m going to spend the

summer there, teaching residents how to paint.” He laughed cynically.

“I don’t know what I was expecting.”

“You shouldn’t be there at all.”

“Calm down, Mamá.”

“What would your father think?
Dios mío
, what would he say?”

“He would understand.”

“I don’t think he would.”

“Well, he’ll never know.”

“Don’t think he’s not up there watching you. After all he did for you,

Rafa. You should be ashamed.”

“Don’t make me feel any worse. I’m wrestling with my conscience,

too. You said you understood. You said you’d help me.”

“Because I love you, son.”

He felt a sudden surge of emotion rise through his chest and put his

head in his hand. “I love you, too, Mamá.”

There was a long silence. He could hear her breathing down the line,

the familiar sound of his childhood that had once wrapped him in a

warm blanket of security and unconditional love, but was now labored

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63

and old and full of fear. Finally, she spoke, and her voice wavered.

“Come home,
hijo
. Forget this silly idea.”

“I can’t.”

“Then don’t forget me.”

“I’ll call you in a couple of days, I promise.”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Everything.”

“Be careful.”

“I am.”

“Spare a thought for
them
.”

“But of course, Mamá. I won’t hurt anyone.”

But you’re hurting me
, she thought as she put down the receiver and wiped her eyes with a clean white
pañuelo
. Maria Carmela Santoro heaved herself up from the armchair and wandered down the tiled corridor to Rafa’s bedroom. The house was quiet now. Her husband was

with Jesus, and her four older children had flown the nest long ago.

Rafa was her youngest, a gift from God when she was really too old

to have more children. Her others were dark-skinned and dark-haired

like their father, but Rafa had been a very blond child. With his light hair and natural charm, he was special.

She stood in the doorway and looked round the room that held so

many memories, warmed by her constant, tender caressing. When her

other children were little, they had had to share two to a room, for the farmhouse in the middle of the pampa was only small. But Rafa, being

the last, had had a room of his own.

Now, of course, he lived in Buenos Aires in an elegant apartment

just off Avenida del Libertador. But he came home often, more than

the others. He was a good son. Now his father was no longer alive to

take care of her, she knew she was safe in his capable hands. He had

invited her to come and live with him, but she hated the noise and pol-

lution of the city. She had spent all her life on the farm, worked hard as a maid for Señora Luisa and then, after she died, for her daughter-in-law, Marcela, for over fifty years, burying her roots deep in the fertile soil where now the remains of her dear husband lay, marked by a simple

headstone and the flowers she took weekly to honor him.

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64

Santa Montefiore

She walked over to the window and threw open the green shutters.

The smell of autumn blew in, and she inhaled with pleasure. The sun

was already warm, and a few leaves lay on the grass, curled and dry and brown like wistful epistles to be tossed about by the wind. Plane trees stood tall and magnificent, lining the long drive that cut through the

estancia and led up to the main house where her employers spent their

weekends and holidays in languid splendor. Dappled light fell onto the

dusty track and a dog barked loudly, only to be berated by Angelina, the cook, in a round of furious Spanish.

Maria Carmela remembered little Rafa learning to ride with his fa-

ther. She smiled affectionately at the mental picture. Big, black-haired Lorenzo in his beret, his red scarf tied loosely around his neck, the glittering coined belt and baggy
bombachas
tucked into worn leather boots.

The little blond boy in white espadrilles, his brown ankles bare beneath olive-green
bombachas
and embroidered red sash, with a small beret of his own, nestled against his father’s body, galloping up and down the

plain to whoops of laughter. What a contrast the old, weathered skin

of her husband against the smooth, new skin of their son. What joy he

had brought, to everyone.

It was that angelic charm that had caught the attention of Señora

Luisa. His father had let him bring round her pony one morning when

he was just six years old. Proud to be given such an important role, he walked the animal to the front of the house and waited in the shade of

the eucalyptus tree, his back straight, his chin high. When she had ad-

dressed him, he had looked at her with an unwavering gaze and smiled

broadly, and she had laughed at his audacity: so bold for such a little boy. She had engaged him in a long conversation, intrigued by the wisdom on so young a face, and he had made her laugh, answering so

earnestly. It was clear he had an intelligence beyond that of his parents.

From then on she had sponsored him personally, taking an interest

in his schoolwork and hobbies. When she had learned of his love of

art, she had seen to it that he had all the materials he needed and even helped him herself, with the little knowledge she had, until that became too limited and she had employed a young man from Buenos Aires to

spend the summer tutoring him. Lorenzo and Maria Carmela were

both proud and grateful, but Maria Carmela suffered terribly from the

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65

fear that Rafa would be taken away from her; that somehow, this gift of a child would not be hers forever.

She went outside to feed the parrot, Panchito. He sat on his perch,

basking in the sunlight, preening his green feathers in preparation for the day. She held out a handful of nuts, which he took one by one, using his beak and claw—he didn’t like his breakfast to be rushed. Señora

Luisa had enabled Rafa to rise above the low expectations thrust upon

him by virtue of his birth. He had a good job, he earned well, he had a nice life . . . why was he now on the brink of throwing it all away?

Clementine left work early. Sylvia had convinced Mr. Atwood to take

his wife out for dinner, and Clementine had booked the famous In-

coming Tide restaurant and nipped out to buy a bouquet of roses for

him to give her, along with the present she had bought. She would have

given him
her
bouquet if she could have been sure no one would notice, but Sylvia had put the flowers in water and placed them on her desk.

So Clementine departed at five with the roses tucked under her arm,

dripping water down her coat. She looked forward to an early night,

watching TV, forgetting about Joe and the prospect of seeing him the

following night. At least she wasn’t pregnant. She was overwhelmed

with gratitude for that. He might be a little coarse, but he hadn’t taken advantage of her when he so easily could have. Perhaps he was a rough

diamond—a gentleman beneath his workman’s overalls. She smiled

at the thought of her mother and what she would make of him. Her

mother was a terrific snob, boxing everyone in four compartments—

proper, trade, common, and foreign, proper being the only acceptable

box.She found her father and Marina in the kitchen, having tea. Her

father was ruddy-cheeked, having been out fishing for most of the day,

while Marina was glowing with happiness.

“Clementine,” she said, smiling up from the table, “come and join us.”

“How was your day?” asked her father.

“Dull.” Clementine unhooked a mug and helped herself to a teabag.

“You’re earning money and gaining experience, which is very im-

portant.”

“Great, Dad. Thanks.”

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Santa Montefiore

“We’ve found our artist,” Marina announced.

“Hurrah!”

She ignored her stepdaughter’s sarcasm. “I think you’ll like him.

He’s very handsome.”

“I’m not interested. Look, he’s
your
project. He’s got nothing to do with me. After all, I can’t paint and have no interest in art.” She poured water into her mug and added a dash of milk.

“Do you want to join us for dinner?”

“I’ll eat it in front of the telly.”

“We’re having bass. Your father caught it this morning.”

“Well, if there’s enough, I’ll have some.”

“Of course there’s enough,” said Grey proudly. “It’s a four-pounder,

at least.”

“Wow, well done, Dad.”

“Fancy coming out with me this weekend?”

Clementine pulled a face. “Why?”

“Just thought you might like to come out in the boat. How are those

sea legs of yours?”

“I’ve never had sea legs, Dad. I hate boats and the sea makes me sick,

if you remember.”

“That was years ago.”

“I don’t think growing up changes either of those things.”

“It does change attitude,” interjected Marina coolly. “Why don’t you

spend some time with your father?”

“Okay, so you’re bristling for another lecture. Is that it? I can’t run off in the middle of the sea.”

“No lecture, just haven’t seen much of you.”

“That’s because I’m working, Dad. Welcome to the real world.”

Marina’s good mood evaporated as Clementine sucked the air out

of the room, replacing it with her dark presence. She glanced at her

husband and felt nothing but contempt for her stepdaughter, who con-

stantly rebuffed him.

“Another day, then,” said Grey, trying not to look disappointed.

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6.

The following morning Mr. Atwood strode into the office, his natu-

ral good humor overshadowed by a thunderous look. Clementine,

who felt a great deal better after a good night’s sleep, was already at her desk, looking at pictures of Buenos Aires on the Internet. Sylvia was

late. “If my wife hadn’t been so delighted with her pink mixer, I would sack you for the card you chose.”

Clementine hastily clicked out and pulled her most innocent face.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Atwood.”

“Don’t try that with me. You know exactly what I mean. The card

was inappropriate, not to mention insulting.”

“Not to your wife, surely.”

“Of course not, you silly girl.”

“I thought it was funny.”

“So did she—at my expense.”

“Well, at least she had a laugh on her birthday.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lippy this morning.”

“I had porridge for breakfast. It tends to make me a little feisty.”

“Well, have an egg tomorrow, instead. I don’t expect my secretary to

answer back.”

“You could have read the card when you signed it.”

“I pay you to do that.”

She shrugged. “Did you have a nice dinner?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good.”

He huffed irritably and strode across the reception area to his of-

fice, straightening the magazines on the way. Clementine wondered

whether he was the sort of man who folded his clothes before making

love. She suspected he was.

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Santa Montefiore

Sylvia arrived looking uncharacteristically tousled.

“You look like you’ve got out of bed backwards,” Clementine re-

marked.

“I did,” she replied, grinning mischievously. “Freddie stopped by for

breakfast, that’s why I’m late.”

“That’s the best excuse I’ve ever heard.” Clementine clicked into

Buenos Aires again. “I think I’m going to go to South America instead

of India.”

“You’re not still thinking of that Argentine, are you?”

“Dreams are cheap.”

“You get what you pay for.” Sylvia shot into the loos to tidy up.

When she came out, her hair was neatly brushed into her usual updo,

her makeup flawlessly applied, her floral dress without a crease. Clem-

entine wondered how it was possible to do all that in the lavatory.

“I’m meeting some friends for dinner tonight. D’you want to come?”

Sylvia asked her.

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you bring Joe?”

Clementine’s shoulders slumped. “Well, I kind of gave him the idea

that I’d hook up with him tonight, so I suppose I should.”