The Mermaid Garden Read Online Free PDF Page B

packet of Marlboro Lights,
    and she popped one between her thin lips and lit it, turning her back
    to the wind.
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    Santa Montefiore
    “You have a beautiful place, Marina,” she said, blowing smoke out of
    the corner of her mouth. “It’s jolly inspiring to see the sea.”
    “I have to be near the sea,” Marina replied, resting her heavy gaze
    on the glittering water. “It has always been the most consistent thing
    in my life.”
    “I agree with you. It’s good for the soul. I once traveled with a famous actor—who discretion prevents me from naming—who meditates by
    the sea. I suppose I was his artist-on-tour. He was an inspiration to me.
    I’ve tried to meditate, but my mind is too busy. I can’t shut it up.”
    “Do you travel a lot with your work?”
    “All the time. I’ve accompanied kings, queens, and princes all over
    the world. Jolly lucky, really.”
    Marina felt uneasy. Even she was realistic enough to appreciate that
    the position of artist-in-residence at the Polzanze was not a highly
    covetable one. Surely, if Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes was used to
    painting for kings, she would not consider spending the summer in
    Dawcomb-Devlish, teaching old ladies for her board and lodging.
    “How fascinating, Elizabeth. Tell me, which kings and queens and
    princes? I would love to hear your stories.”
    Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Well, that’s the thing. You see, if one is
    privileged enough to be invited on their foreign tours, one has to keep shtoom. I’m sure you understand.” She laughed a smoky little snort
    through her nostrils. “Perhaps when we know each other better I’ll
    share some gems.”
    “Of course.” But Marina doubted she had any gems to share.
    Just as Marina’s spirit began to plummet, Grey walked out onto the
    terrace. “Ah, my husband,” she said, smiling at him gratefully.
    Elizabeth took in his stature, his broad shoulders, his thick, curly
    hair and genial face, and thought how incredibly attractive he was. An
    intellectual, clearly, and noble, too, one could always tell. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she gushed, giving him her hand.
    “I thought I’d come and join you,” he replied, shaking it. He noticed
    her weak grip and the cold, thin feel of her fingers. “Are you warm
    enough out here?”
    “Perfectly,” she replied. He pulled out a chair and sat down. A waiter
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    hurried to the kitchens to fetch him some coffee. “We were just saying
    how lovely it is to see the sea.”
    “I agree, the view is spectacular.”
    “I’d love to paint it.”
    “Well, perhaps you shall,” he said. Then he caught his wife’s eye
    and deduced from her expression that Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes
    would not be coming back to paint anything.
    “So, this position of artist-in-residence, what does it involve, ex-
    actly?”
    Marina felt the familiar tug in her stomach, an internal warning sys-
    tem that never failed. She didn’t want Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes in
    her hotel, name-dropping all summer. Once again, she found herself
    having to go through the motions in order not to be impolite. “Last
    year we had a charming man who resided with us for three months,
    teaching the hotel guests painting. It’s something different I like to
    offer our residents.”
    “What a brilliant idea—and such lovely surroundings to paint.”
    “I think so. Last summer Paul taught us all how to paint.”
    “You as well?” She directed her question at Grey.
    “Not me, I’m no artist. Marina had a go, didn’t you, darling?”
    “Yes, though I’m no good at it, either. It was fun to experiment, and
    he was such a nice man. It was a pleasure to have him to stay all sum-
    mer, and we missed him when he left. He’d become part of the family.”
    “As shall I. One loves nothing more than to roll up one’s sleeves and
    get stuck in. All hands on