Finding Love at Mermaid Terrace Page 8

  Tressa was silent. She knew her mother was right and she was being childish. If she was honest with herself she would say that she was being churlish because it was all so easy for Dan. The way he got Penny to open up and tell him about her life in a way Tressa hadn’t bothered to uncover. She felt ashamed that Dan had found out so much detail about Penny’s story, but she was more ashamed that she herself hadn’t bothered to try. She was a snob, and had thought Penny was a little silly – until she read what Dan wrote.

  ‘I have to go, Mum. I have a friend coming over for dinner,’ she lied. Wendy’s disloyalty wasn’t new but when it was right it stung even more.

  ‘Is it Dan? Is he single? Bring him up to St Ives to meet Dad and me. We would love that. Jago and Kelly can come with the twins. I’ll do a frittata.’

  Inaudibly, Tressa rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t have time to frittata around, Mum. I have to go. Call George. He might need something at the hospital. Maybe the surgeon is crap and Dan can write an exposé on him.’

  Wendy ignored the dig and said goodbye and rang off immediately as Tressa knew she would. Wendy loved to help and to be needed. It was the unfulfilled healer in her, which often came with the territory being the spouse of someone in medicine.

  Tressa went upstairs and changed into her painting clothes, an oversized flannel shirt and jeans, and her red felt slippers. She was cosy and ready to paint the storm that was coming but she would need tea.

  She ran downstairs and turned on the kettle and watched Ginger Pickles curl into a small ball on the red armchair. Rain was definitely coming, she thought. This was her cat’s one tell about the weather.

  Tea in hand, in her favourite mug that read Not Paint Water on the front, she went upstairs just as the first crack of thunder came above her. Storms thrilled Tressa like nothing else. The lightning, the rain, the thunder, the electricity in the air made her curls tighter and her eyes sparkle.

  Storms reminded her that she wasn’t in charge of anything in life, that life was unpredictable, and above all they gave her a valid reason to just stay home and paint.

  Sipping the tea, she sat in front of her easel and propped up the watercolour sketchbook. She would paint with oils later but this would be to quickly get the movement of the storm as it came across the bay.

  Mixing the colours of blues and greens and grey, she lost herself in the sky outside, until the rain came pelting down and it was so dark she couldn’t see anything.

  ‘Shame,’ she said to herself, as she went downstairs with her empty mug.

  Ginger Pickles was sitting in the kitchen under the table and Tressa realised she was late with her dinner.

  ‘I am very sorry, Madam, I am onto the food now,’ she said, hoping the cat wouldn’t launch at her feet. The clock in the kitchen said it was close to six already. How was it she lost so much time when she painted? It was as though she went to another place where time moved at double speed.

  Ginger Pickles came out from under the table as Tressa pulled a can of food from the cupboard and opened it, pouring the contents into her faded Bunnykins bowl.

  ‘There you go,’ said Tressa, and she washed her hands in the sink.

  No word from Dan. She checked her phone in her back pocket. She had at least expected a response to her text, but he was rude, so she shouldn’t be surprised. Just as she turned on the lamps and drew the curtains, Ginger Pickles let out a terrible howl and she looked out the window and saw him leaving Janet’s house.

  ‘Oh God. No,’ she said aloud, as she watched him push open the gate to Mermaid Terrace. He came to the door and knocked on the glass.

  ‘Shit sticks,’ she said to Ginger Pickles, who was still eating.

  Tressa opened the door and a very wet Dan stood on the doorstep, holding takeaway bags.

  ‘I came to make you dinner, as an act of contrition that will hopefully result in forgiveness.’

  ‘Why were you at my neighbor’s house?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure which one was yours. So, I knocked on them all. Of course, yours was the last one.’

  Tress threw her hands up at him. ‘Really? No. Please. Go to Penny’s and offer her dinner.’

  ‘I can’t. I have a fish curry and she doesn’t like curry or fish, which seems at odds with her being once named Miss Crab.’

  ‘I might not like fish curry,’ Tressa said, crossing her arms.

  ‘You do; you mentioned the excellent fish curry at the Black Swan, so I brought it to you. But if you don’t I can go back to your neighbors house. She seemed far more hospitable.

  The scent of the fish curry was tempting and Dan really was soaking wet. She stepped aside and gestured for him to enter the house.

  In the kitchen he put down the parcels of food on the table.

  ‘Can I borrow something dry?’ he asked.

  ‘God, you’re a lot of work,’ she grumbled. But she went upstairs and brought him back a towel and another large flannel shirt – one she used for painting. But unlike the one she was now wearing, it was clean.

  Dan pulled his wet T-shirt off in the kitchen and Tressa turned her back hastily. That glimpse of his torso left her even more cross. His body matched his looks. Every single thing about him was annoying, she decided.

  But the smells from the paper bags on the table were more tempting than Dan’s chest. She realised she hadn’t eaten any lunch.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ she heard him say, and she turned to face him.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘we’re twins.’ He put his arm out against hers. ‘We match.’

  Tressa went to the bags and took out the containers.

  ‘Can I apologise, please?’ He put his hand on hers and she put the container of rice down on the table.

  ‘Go on then, get it over with,’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ He was laughing, damn him.

  Tressa crossed her arms and waited.

  ‘I was out of line by ringing George today, and causing you to rescind your dinner invitation. Nice word by the way. I plan on using it often.’

  ‘I am sure it will come in handy when people get to see what a pain you are and start rescinding all their offers to you,’ she said. ‘Jobs, dinners, and more.’

  ‘Touché. Anyway, I was being immature and pissy, trying to be the important new person. I should have been more respectful of you and your role at the paper. I was being a total eejit and I’m sorry.’

  Tressa was surprised. People were usually crap at apologies, but he wasn’t bad. It sounded like he meant it and he looked sincere.

  She decided to meet him halfway.

  ‘I should’ve been more open to the story about Penny. I was being pissy because you had such a good idea and you’re such a great writer. I’m sorry for being so rude and rescinding your dinner invite.’ She was surprised at her own honesty. But she had the feeling Dan Byrne would see through any insincerity or humouring.

  She extended her hand to him and he shook it firmly.

  ‘Let’s start again,’ she said, and he smiled at her.

  Shit sticks, he was so handsome and he’d bought her favourite dinner and he gave a really good apology.

  Ginger Pickles jumped up on the table and sat staring at him.

  ‘Hello, Ginger Pickles. Catch any rats or mice today?’ he asked and her cat betrayed her by purring like a sports car.

  Damn you, Ginger Pickles, you put the ‘diss’ in disloyal, she thought, and she settled down to her favourite meal with her least favourite person.

  12

  The final dish was washed by Dan and placed carefully into the dish rack, watched by Tressa.

  ‘I feel like you’ll give me a score for the state of the dishes once I’m done,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder at her.

  She shrugged. ‘I might hold up a sign with your number. It depends on if you were able to rid them of that soapy aftertaste that some people leave on hand-washed dishes.’

  ‘Never, we all know you have to rinse them in hot wa
ter. Do you mix with animals? Who leaves a soapy taste? Is that a Cornish thing?’

  But Tressa didn’t crack a smile. She was a tough audience. Usually if he turned up at a woman’s house with takeaway and an apology she would swoon; but Tressa seemed bored by his presence and his conversation. As though she was doing him a favour by letting him be here… which she was, but it would have been nice to have some positive feedback.

  Was he flirting with her? he wondered. He was definitely trying to gain her approval in some way.

  ‘Your neighbour was pleasant,’ he said, mining deeper for conversation.

  ‘Janet? She’s nice,’ Tressa answered. ‘Maybe a little lonely. She overfeeds Ginger Pickles.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have stayed there for dinner with her; she might have been more enthused than you have been.’ He wiped his hands on the tea towel and hung it back up on the rail next to the oven.

  ‘Janet doesn’t like fish,’ Tressa said, and she crossed her legs.

  Dan laughed and then so did Tressa.

  ‘Can I see your art?’ he blurted out. Tressa made him lose all his usual skills at conversation. He considered himself a high-quality conversationalist, being able to ask questions and draw out information from others until suddenly they had told them all their deepest, darkest secrets. But here Tressa, and even Remi at lunch, gave him nothing.

  Remi had been pleasant. He asked Dan lots of questions about his work in Dublin, they talked about food, about Paris, but Dan had the feeling there was a gap in Remi’s story somehow.

  He turned his attention back to Tressa. ‘Come on, take me upstairs and show me your etchings,’ he said and pretended to twirl a moustache.

  Tressa frowned at him. Then she made a face. ‘God you’re a ham,’ she said and sighed as she stood up. ‘Okay you can look but I am not asking for any sort of criticism. You can just look and keep your opinions to yourself, as I really don’t want to hear it today from you. Is that a deal?’

  Dan nodded. ‘I wasn’t going to offer my opinion because I don’t know anything about art – but I just want to see what you do.’

  Tressa pulled her hair down from its bun and scratched her scalp. ‘All right, let’s go.’

  He followed her up two flights of stairs to a small room and she opened the door. He had to stoop to keep from hitting his head.

  If the rest of the house was minimal, this room was maximalist, with paintings lining the wall, two easels, a chaise longue covered with blankets and cushions, and an old paint-stained Persian rug on the floor. There was a kettle and small fridge, and a stereo and sketchbooks of all sizes.

  ‘My God, this is like something from a movie set,’ he said, looking around. ‘It’s fantastic – wow.’

  He moved around the room, looking at the paintings on the wall of so many different seascapes. They were all so contrasting – from the raging ocean to the pale calm waters of summer.

  ‘These are amazing,’ he said aloud.

  ‘No commentary, remember,’ she said.

  ‘That was to myself, not to you, so please don’t interrupt my conversation with myself.’

  Hearing her laugh, he felt pleased.

  On a stool were a collection of notebooks and he picked one up that had a sketch of the Black Swan in pen and ink on the open page.

  ‘Oh, now this is marvellous,’ he said, as he turned the page and saw all of Port Lowdy in drawings.

  There was the post office, with Tressa’s bicycle parked out the front. The pier with people milling about, eating ice cream, a dog on the beach, seagulls perched on the lights along the water.

  There were the terrace houses, in colour, with Ginger Pickles sitting in the window of Tressa’s house. Small sketches of kites from cliffs over the village and blossoming trees that lined laneways, pots of geraniums perched on steps leading up to houses with blue doors.

  ‘Now these, these are exquisite,’ he said. ‘We have to use them in the paper.’

  Tressa shook her head. ‘No, no, I don’t show that stuff. It’s just me messing about.’

  ‘You should,’ said Dan. He put the book down and picked up another and found sketches of people in them. Portraits of people he presumed to be her family and friends.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he turned the pad to her.

  ‘My brother, Jago,’ she said.

  He found he was relieved at hearing it was her brother. For some reason he felt jealous when he saw the sketch of the man.

  ‘Your mam?’ He turned the page towards her.

  She nodded.

  ‘Dad,’ he said and he turned the page.

  ‘Hey, that’s me! With Richie. Gosh he’s handsome, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is,’ said Tressa. ‘Richie, I mean.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Dan looked up and smiled at her. ‘Richie is the handsomest of dogs. The human equivalent is Brad Pitt but still, he’s more handsome than him, I think.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she said, and then her phone rang and she took it from her back pocket.

  ‘I have to take this. It’s George,’ she said. She left the room and he heard her in the hallway talking.

  Dan half listened to Tressa talking to George. They seemed to be talking about George’s wife and not the paper, so he assumed he still had a job for the moment.

  God, Tressa’s art was fantastic. Why didn’t she show anyone? He couldn’t understand why people would hide their talents from the world. If she thought she wasn’t good enough then she was wrong. All of a sudden he had the powerful urge to show the world Tressa’s work. He pulled his own phone from his pocket. Opening the sketchbook of the drawings of the village he took high-definition photographs of them all. He worked quickly, feeling the familiar thrill of discovering something – a feeling that usually, in his career to date, had been negative, but Tressa’s drawings were joyful.

  Hearing her finishing the call, he slipped his phone into his pocket.

  ‘All okay?’ he asked as she came back into the studio.

  ‘I guess. I worry for them. But his kids are with him, and my parents will go and see them.’

  ‘Your parents know George and his wife?’

  ‘We used to holiday here and I started at the paper as a summer job. Then I moved here and stayed to help George.’

  Tressa started to walk down the hallway, so Dan followed, realising his tour of the studio was over.

  ‘So I am pretty tired. Thanks for the dinner though. It was nice and I didn’t have to cook,’ said Tressa as they came back downstairs.

  ‘So no coffee or whisky?’ he asked, knowing he was being cheeky. But Tressa wasn’t having any of his usual tricks.

  ‘I don’t drink coffee after midday and I hate whisky,’ she said as she left the room and came back with his T-shirt, now dried.

  ‘You’re breaking my heart, Tressa Buckland. Not liking whisky? This is terrible news for our relationship.’

  Tressa looked puzzled. ‘What relationship?’

  ‘Working, strictly business. I would never expect an artistic genius like you to lower yourself to a mere newspaperman like me. I am sure you wine and dine with those who speak of palettes and sunrises and whose fingers are like brushstrokes.’

  Tressa rolled her eyes at him. ‘Do you think you are being a lyrical Irishman? Because you sound like a bit of a wanker actually.’

  Dan roared with laughter. ‘That isn’t the first time I have been called a wanker. People have said I am more full of blarney than the stone itself.’

  She sighed. ‘You can go now. I’m tired.’

  ‘And you sound like the Queen of England herself.’

  Pulling off the shirt, he slipped on his own T-shirt and handed the shirt to Tressa.

  ‘Thank you for the shirt,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you for the dinner and the apology.’ She smiled. Dan gave Ginger Pickles a pat on the head as he passed her sitting on the back of the armchair. The little animal purred happily in response to his touch.

  ‘At least she likes me
,’ he quipped as Tressa opened the door for him.

  ‘She’s as fickle as a pickle, just like her name, so don’t assume she likes you more than any of the gentlemen callers I have coming over with fish curries to try and steal my art or my heart.’

  Dan paused at the door. How could she know he had taken photos of her sketches? He calmed himself as she laughed and pushed him out the door.

  ‘Goodnight, Dan.’

  ‘Goodnight, Tressa,’ he said as the cool night air snapped him into reality after the warm comfort of Mermaid Terrace.

  13

  The weeks passed in a blur for Tressa as she and Dan attended a bonsai exhibition in the next village, a series of parked cars lost their side mirrors near the library, and a mysterious skeleton turned up on the cove, further around from Port Lowdy.

  ‘People are saying it’s a mermaid,’ said Dan, as Tressa took photos of the gross-looking thing on the sand.

  ‘People are stupid,’ answered Tressa.

  ‘You have no romance about you. What if it was?’

  She pushed her hair away from her face. ‘Aren’t you the hardened journalist who only deals with facts? When did you ever believe in mermaid stories?’

  ‘I don’t but it’s a nice headline for a story. We can do something on the mermaid of Cornwall and the fact this is a seal skeleton but before people knew better they assumed. That’s where the news is important. We clear up assumptions.’

  ‘Mermaids are fake news,’ said Tressa, as she took her last photo.

  ‘They are but I am still going to write about them and this sad seal who probably lost his battle with a shark.’

  They walked up the beach to the path and back to Dan’s car.

  Richie was sitting in the back seat, with his head out the window.

  ‘He wants an ice cream,’ he said to Tressa.

  ‘Does he? Or do you?’ She felt like she was dealing with a toddler. A very charming and likeable toddler but he was still annoying.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind one. Can I shout you a cone?’