White Sand, Blue Sea Read online

  “I’d like one of those, but preferably with vodka,” Hadley said, pointing to Olivia’s glass of orange juice. She wore a print dress and white sandals.

  “You never drink before six p.m.,” Olivia laughed, walking back into the living room.

  “Sebastian never occupied a guest bedroom.” Hadley sat on the silk sofa. “Thank god he’s taking a nap. He can’t cause too much trouble when he’s asleep.”

  “He met us in Gustavia,” Olivia began. “At first I was worried about how he and Finn would get along, but they started talking about wines. Finn is so knowledgeable and Sebastian is quite the connoisseur, they had a wonderful time.”

  Hadley bit her lip. “How surprising that Sebastian and Finn have something in common.”

  “We went into a wine shop and Sebastian told stories about the fjords in New Zealand. He really has lived in the most interesting places.” Olivia’s green eyes sparkled. “Then Sebastian wanted to buy Felix a housewarming gift but the wine he found was too expensive.” She paused. “So Finn insisted on paying for it.”

  Hadley raised her eyebrow. “How thoughtful of Sebastian.”

  “It was Finn’s idea and he can certainly afford it,” Olivia protested. “It must be difficult for Sebastian. An artist’s life is so precarious. One painting sells for a fortune and the next by the same artist hangs in the gallery for months.”

  “Sebastian is the president and chief executive officer of the Sebastian Miller Preservation Society.” Hadley fiddled with her earrings. “I doubt he’ll ever run out of expensive cologne or silk suits.”

  “He has led the most fascinating life,” Olivia sighed. “He told us about the time he lived in New Guinea; a tribal chief offered him his daughter’s hand in marriage in exchange for a painting. Sebastian had to leave by rowboat in the middle of the night so as not to hurt the chief’s feelings.”

  “It sounds thrilling.” Hadley smiled. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “I know I should be angry that he missed my whole childhood, but artists are wired differently,” Olivia continued. “Can you imagine Cezanne getting a job at a factory, or Matisse working in Le Bon Marché? They have to roam the world or where would they get the inspiration to paint?”

  “I haven’t seen Sebastian’s art on the walls of the Metropolitan or the Guggenheim. But I’m sure some Fifth Avenue penthouses would be darker without his paintings of tropical birds in Bali.”

  “He did come all the way to St. Barts for my birthday and he brought you those lovely red slippers,” Olivia insisted. “Maybe we’ve been thinking of him all wrong.”

  “He’s your father and you deserve the chance to get to know him.” Hadley squeezed her hand. “I’m going to help Esther with the tossed salad.”

  * * *

  Hadley disappeared into the kitchen and Olivia thought she would go upstairs and take a bath. She noticed a figure on the veranda and walked back outside. Sprinklers played on the lawn and a hummingbird hovered over the rosebushes.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asked Sebastian. “I thought you were upstairs taking a nap.”

  Sebastian turned around and fiddled with his cigarette case. His forehead was creased and there were lines around his mouth.

  “I couldn’t pass this up, it’s better than evenings in the outback.” He waved at the milky horizon. “You’ll have to join me in Australia sometime. The sun is a copper ball and Ayer’s Rock is so majestic.”

  “I do love the view at this time of day.” Olivia gazed at the infinity pool. “But I really should go upstairs and get ready. Felix gets irritable if we’re not all drinking rhum vanilles at six o’clock.”

  “Olivia, wait,” Sebastian said. “I want to talk to you.”

  “We spent the whole morning together.” Olivia smiled. “And Finn and I had a wonderful time this afternoon. He couldn’t stop talking about the wines we sampled at the wine store.”

  “I mean really talk to you,” Sebastian urged. “Not comment on how lovely you look in a cotton caftan or how we both love James Bond movies.”

  “I’m listening,” Olivia gulped. Was Sebastian going to say he couldn’t stay for her birthday after all? He had to leave right away and didn’t know when he would see her again …

  “When I said that I left you and your mother because you deserved more than I could give, it was the truth. I didn’t know how to be an artist and a husband and father at the same time, and I made everyone miserable. But I know now that’s a pretty flimsy excuse and I want to apologize.”

  “Apologize?” Olivia repeated.

  “Children don’t need fancy schools or expensive clothes,” he continued. “Those things are wonderful and one shouldn’t turn them down. But the only thing a child really needs is to know she is loved. How could you know that when I disappeared and never returned?”

  “You had your reasons,” Olivia answered. “And you sent wonderful letters. I keep them all in a box.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me, I’ve done enough of that myself.” He shook his head. “There is only one thing I can do. Tell you I’m sorry and hope you will forgive me.”

  Sebastian kissed her on the cheek. She touched her skin and a smile spread across her face.

  “Of course I forgive you,” she murmured.

  “Then I’m the luckiest guy on earth.” He slipped his cigarette case into his pocket. His eyes were wet and he turned away.

  “I really should go upstairs,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to be late for cocktails.”

  She raced up the staircase and closed the door of her bedroom. She sank onto the bed and tried to stop trembling. Sebastian had apologized to her; he really loved her! She slipped off her sandals and had never been so happy.

  Chapter Four

  HADLEY ARRANGED PURPLE ORCHIDS IN a crystal vase and glanced around the dining room. It was her favorite room in the villa with its geometric rug and glass table and high-backed velvet chairs. Abstract paintings lined the walls and French doors opened onto the garden.

  When Hadley first arrived at Sundial almost twenty years ago, the furniture was all faded chintz and dark wood and Oriental rugs. She had loved everything about the villa: the beige ceiling fans and striped wallpaper in the hallway and the kitchen with its tile floor and beamed ceiling.

  But she’d entered the dining room and longed for bright colors and clear surfaces and the wonderful feeling that the ocean was just outside. And she had achieved it! The velvet chairs were sea green and the crystal chandelier reflected on the glass table and the paintings were the colors of the beach at sunset.

  Felix and Finn were putting scallops on the grill and Esther was preparing meringue in the kitchen. Hadley inhaled the scent of chrysanthemums and thought how much she missed fresh flowers when she was in New York. The duplex was always filled with cut flowers and here they reminded her of taxicabs and the window at Bloomingdale’s. In St. Barts foliage was everywhere: banana plants and calla lilies and palm trees as tall as a house.

  Of course, she loved living in Manhattan. She and Felix had season tickets to the ballet and symphony. If last year they didn’t do more than attend the occasional gallery opening, that was to be expected. Felix took so long to recover from injuring his back playing tennis, and Hadley got used to coming home early and heating up a roasted chicken.

  Sometimes the duplex seemed too quiet, with Felix reading his economics journals in the study and the coffeemaker blinking in the kitchen. But she could always curl up with a classic movie or paperback book she had put off reading.

  Then why did she feel like her marriage was perched on the edge of a cliff, and a strong gust of wind could tip it over? She was being too sensitive. Just last month Felix had bought her an emerald bracelet to celebrate the sale of a painting. She thought about the black camisole stuffed into the drawer and was determined to talk to him.

  She heard footsteps overhead and shuddered. She had run into Sebastian in the upstairs hallway, draped in a towel a
nd holding a can of shaving cream. How could she talk to Felix when Sebastian occupied the room down the hall? And why was Sebastian really here? He had missed twenty birthdays and there had to be a reason he was in St. Barts other than to blow out the candles on Olivia’s cake.

  And Olivia was behaving like a starstruck teenager. Hadley couldn’t blame her. Every girl wanted a father; it was as normal as having a crush on your third-grade teacher. And what a father! He was like a movie star and game hunter rolled into one. If he told one more story about outrunning a leopard in Kenya, she couldn’t stand it.

  She was worrying too much; Sebastian always needed people to admire him. He was like a hothouse flower. He only blossomed when he was bathed in others’ adoration.

  She remembered when they sold his first painting. It was late August in Cape Town and the wildflowers were in bloom. Every morning she woke up and wished she could stay there forever.

  * * *

  Hadley put the last cup in the sink and took off her apron. She looked out the kitchen window and saw a hummingbird poised above a bed of yellow roses.

  After the first week it stopped raining and Hadley understood why people traveled from everywhere to see the South African light. It was like a photo spread in a glossy magazine. You were sure the pictures were touched up because you’d never seen such vibrant greens and liquid turquoises.

  The owners of the guesthouse offered her free room and board in exchange for serving breakfast and Hadley decided to stay in Cape Town. After all, there was so much to do: tour Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for twenty years, visit the wine farms in Constantia, and see the spider crabs at Two Oceans Aquarium.

  But Hadley knew it wasn’t the views from Signal Hill or the delicious curries the guesthouse served at night that kept her from catching the bus to Johannesburg. Ever since the third day, she and Sebastian had become inseparable.

  He lounged around the kitchen, reading out loud from magazines he found in the library. They laughed over how the owners needed to subscribe to something other than Ladies’ Home Journal but he could make an article on how to bake a sweet potato entertaining.

  When they explored Cape Town it was as if her nerve endings were on fire. He pointed out things she wouldn’t have noticed: the mosaic floor at City Hall, a pastel-colored sailboat entering the harbor. And everywhere they went he talked to other tourists, so they ended up sharing a plate of vetkoeks with a couple from Sweden.

  Sometimes he tried to kiss her but she pulled away. It would be too easy to fall in love with his green eyes and wide smile. What would happen when she went on to the art course in Florence she had signed up for and he started law school in Chicago? It was better to stay friends.

  “It’s a beautiful day, I thought we could visit the Botanical Gardens.” Sebastian had entered the kitchen. “You can wear your yellow dress and new floppy hat. I’ll paint you in a bed of wildflowers.”

  “You’ve painted me surrounded by pansies and daffodils,” Hadley laughed. “I feel like I’m living in a flower shop.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about the colors. I lie awake at night and dream of ochre and magenta.” He ran his hands through his hair. “If I shared my bed with someone it would be easier to sleep.”

  “Use a thick blanket and drink a glass of warm milk and honey.” Hadley walked to the fridge. “It’s the perfect cure for insomnia.”

  “I’m not ten years old and I don’t sleep with a teddy bear,” he groaned, taking a banana from the fruit bowl.

  “I’ve already cooked two pots of mealie with powdered sugar and you haven’t even shaved.” Hadley gazed at the stubble on his chin. “You’re getting plenty of rest.”

  “Tossing and turning in a single bed isn’t the same as sleeping,” Sebastian grumbled. “Let’s take the cable car to Table Rock, the clear air always invigorates me.”

  Hadley fiddled with the dish towel. “Actually I’m going to the airline office. I have to book my flight to Italy.”

  “Your course doesn’t start until September.” Sebastian ate a red cherry. “You have plenty of time.”

  “I’m supposed to arrive in Florence a week early to see the museums and get settled,” she replied. “I’m leaving on Monday.”

  Sebastian poured a cup of coffee and added cream and sugar. He took a small sip and looked at Hadley. “You can’t go to Florence now.”

  “I did want to travel around Italy first, but I’ve run out of time and I probably couldn’t afford it anyway. The guidebook says an espresso and pastry in Milan cost more than a platter of boerewors.” She hesitated. “I suppose I could stay a few extra days. When is your flight to Chicago?”

  Sebastian placed his coffee cup on the counter. “I canceled my flight, I’m staying in South Africa.”

  “But law school orientation is in three weeks.”

  “Do you think I could sit in a lecture hall with fluorescent lights and linoleum floors after I’ve seen this?” Sebastian pointed to the window. “Or inhale the smell of copy paper and vending machine coffee when I’ve breathed the scent of marigolds and juniper? I’m not going to law school, I’m going to be an artist.”

  “Of course you’re going to be an attorney. You’ll drive a sleek foreign sports car and own six pairs of Italian loafers. On Friday evenings you’ll go to an upscale bar and tell stories about the summer you spent in Cape Town.” She paused. “And then you’ll go home to your penthouse with the framed Jackson Pollock and be glad you didn’t change your reservation.” She wiped her hands. “But if it will make you happy, we can have a picnic in the Botanical Gardens. I’ll visit the airline office this afternoon.”

  “I don’t want a sports car and I can wear the same jeans every day but I can’t breathe if I’m not holding a paintbrush,” he said urgently. “I didn’t choose this. I’d give anything to want to be like my father with his two-martini lunches followed by a vigorous game of squash so he doesn’t die young from a heart attack. But I have to paint, it’s the only thing that makes sense.” He looked at Hadley. “And I have to do it with you.”

  “But I’m going to Florence.”

  “Why would you sit in a stuffy classroom and discuss dead artists when you could be exploring Africa?” He touched her hand. “You must come with me, I have to paint you. You are Aphrodite and a swimsuit model rolled into one.”

  “Aphrodite was brunette,” Hadley laughed.

  “To me she’s a blond with blue eyes and slender cheekbones and a mysterious smile like Mata Hari’s.”

  Hadley fiddled with a ceramic bowl and wavered. She could take the course anytime and she was in no hurry to return to America. She still didn’t know if she wanted to teach art history or work at a museum. And Sebastian was right; South Africa in the springtime was like a child’s fairy tale come to life.

  But if she left the guesthouse she’d have to pay for food and lodging. Her money would disappear in a couple of weeks and she wouldn’t be able to go to Florence at all. And was she really that interested in the penguins at Foxy Beach or couldn’t she bear the thought of leaving Sebastian?

  “What did your parents say?” she wondered.

  “I haven’t told them.” He shrugged. “I’m twenty-two years old, I can do whatever I like.”

  “What will you do for money?” she asked. “Even staying in guesthouses gets expensive, and you’ll need bus fare and meals.”

  Sebastian was terrible with money. He behaved as if the world were a giant Monopoly board, and the rand in his wallet could be replaced by a trip to the American Express office. But his parents wouldn’t send packets of traveler’s checks if he turned down his acceptance to law school.

  “Many great artists survive without chaining themselves to a desk,” Sebastian retorted. “I can wait tables or become a tour guide.”

  “You’d be a terrible waiter, you’d sit down and have a conversation with every diner,” Hadley laughed. “Anyway, you said all you want to do is paint.”

  Sebastian pac
ed around the kitchen. He looked at Hadley and his eyes were bright. “We’ll sell my paintings.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “An artist can’t sell his own paintings, it would be like a playwright reviewing himself on Broadway.” He looked at Hadley. “You’ll sell them for me.”

  “I’ve never sold anything in my life!” she exclaimed.

  “I’m sure you had to write an essay convincing your college professor on the relevance of Renaissance paintings,” he urged. “We all learn to sell from the moment we convince our mothers we must have an extra scoop of chocolate ice cream. And you’ll be selling something you believe in.”

  Hadley did think his artwork was glorious. His colors belonged on the finest fabrics and his brushstrokes made something stir deep inside her.

  She studied his long eyelashes and had to laugh. Was Sebastian special or was she falling in love despite herself? No matter what he told her, she believed it.

  She was young and in one of the most exotic countries on the planet. Why shouldn’t she take a chance? The worst that could happen is she ran out of money and flew home. She looked at Sebastian’s firm jaw and had the sudden urge to kiss him.

  “Will you do it?” he asked.

  She turned to the sink so he wouldn’t see her cheeks flush. “I’ll do it.”

  * * *

  Hadley wore her best floral dress and pair of pumps and took Sebastian’s paintings to every gallery in Cape Town. She visited the modern galleries on the Victoria & Albert Waterfront with their chrome surfaces and slate floors. She lugged his portfolio to the elegant galleries in Old Town, where the air smelled of lemon polish and old wood.

  But when anyone asked where Sebastian had shown his work or if he had studied at art school, she fumbled and bit her lip. Sebastian said everyone shaded the truth, but she was incapable of making up a degree from Pace, or an artist’s cooperative in Chicago. The gallery owners handed her the sketches and said he had talent, but they couldn’t take a chance.

  “Everyone has to start somewhere.” Sebastian opened a box of cigarettes and tapped a cigarette into his palm. It was the first time Hadley had seen him smoke and he looked older, like a troubled Marlon Brando.