Yesterday`s flower - Michelle Tarynne (fun to read TXT) 📗

was si ing patiently on a deckchair outside the house, auburn hair blowing in tight tendrils that bounced about her head.
‘I thought you’d emerge eventually,’ she commented, holding out a takeaway cup and

a brown-paper bag. ‘Just as you like it. And carrot-and-cream-cheese muffins – my latest invention.’

Erika took the coffee, her hands clutching at the warmth.
‘Thanks.’ Not knowing what else to do, she took a deep drag on the coffee.

Madeleine cocked her head, reminding Erika of Desmond. ‘I’m sorry,’ Madeleine said. ‘Sometimes I shoot my mouth off.’

Erika shrugged.

‘I’m a li le sensitive these days. Happens when your husband has a baby with another woman.’
‘Ouch,’ said Madeleine.

‘Oh, there’s more ...’ She sighed. ‘Why don’t you come inside? No one’s seen the painting yet except for Happiness, and she just thinks I’m crazy.’
‘Are you?’
‘Not enough, or I’d have swum out and not come back.’

As they walked into the lounge, Erika was gratified by Madeleine’s jaw dropping. ‘My God,’ Madeleine exclaimed, staring at the enormous Muizenberg landscape Erika

had hung. ‘I’ve only seen the sky like that once in my life, and you’ve captured it exactly. No wonder you couldn’t leave the house.’

‘It was finished days ago, really,’ Erika admi ed. ‘I’ve been dabbling. Using up my supplies.’

Madeleine moved closer and reached out to the canvas as if tempted to touch it, but then stepped away.

‘You should be selling works like these, Erika. I’ve never seen anything this wonderful.’

Erika laughed. ‘Keep talking, Madeleine. I could do with an ego boost.’ But Madeleine was just beginning. Excitedly she gripped Erika’s shoulders.

‘You can put them on display in the café! I sell one, we put a new one up. They won’t last a week!’
‘This was my uncle’s idea to keep me busy.’

‘Clever man. You simply cannot waste this talent, Erika.’ ‘Funny,’ Erika mused. ‘That’s exactly what he said.’

♥

But after finishing Donald’s painting Erika was stuck again, uninspired despite the beautiful view. Si ing outside one evening, her wine glass filled, she found herself wishing she could do something. And perhaps she was ready. Perhaps Madeleine had been right – not that she’d suggested it again – that a drive along the West Coast would help.

Erika wandered into Donald’s office to use the Internet. She couldn’t recall the name of the town Madeleine had mentioned, but she clicked on images of flower carpets and coastline until she was able to devise a basic route. And she decided she would just go. She’d leave a note on the door of the coffee shop and in Sanchia’s postbox, and leave first thing in the morning.

When she woke, Erika was strangely invigorated. For the first time in months, she had a real plan. An itinerary. She’d packed a bag the night before; her easel, sketchpad, paints and canvases were already in the car. Brushing her teeth, she took a long look at herself in the mirror. Her usually sallow skin had finally taken on a healthier glow. Though she was still feeling beaten, she was looking less like a ghost. The dark rings under her eyes had faded, and the collection of spots that had once congregated on her chin were almost completely gone.

Even with her prejudiced eye, Erika realised the escape was doing her good. And maybe this drive was the next step in her recovery.

Erika was by now used to the Opel, but people drove faster here than in England. She stuck tightly to the left lane so she’d be ready to turn off towards Milnerton and then Bloubergstrand. She’d never been all that adept at finding her way – the thought made her a li le nauseous – yet here she was with a badly printed map, a tank full of petrol and an open schedule. She was following the coast, more or less, so she’d be okay as long as it remained on her left. Winding down the window, she breathed in the salty air.

She decided to stop in Bloubergstrand and fill her artistic well. Pulling off her shoes and rolling up her jeans, Erika walked along the beach’s white expanse and stared over the bay to Table Mountain. This was the view one saw on postcards – the one you could sketch

with a few strokes on a page. The flat-topped expanse dominated the sky, but today clouds were nowhere to be seen, despite the wind. A man down the beach was unrolling something in bright blue and yellow. He stopped for a moment, eyeing the sky thoughtfully. Curious, Erika sat down on the sand, wishing she’d bought a coffee.
What was he doing?

Further down the beach, a couple unpacked a bag and seemed to be waving their arms at each other, though Erika understood they were testing the wind, which she reckoned was fairly strong. By the time she looked again, the man with the yellow and blue was on the water in a wetsuit, the wind whipping up into the sky what looked like an arched glider. A ached to his feet was a small sur oard, and soon he was crossing the waves at a tremendous pace. Entranced, Erika watched him go, the glider or kite or whatever it was pulling sharply upwards. The man jumped, bouncing deeper out to sea. Erika wished she could see his face – at this distance she could only imagine his rapture.

After an hour, the original surfer had been joined by others, and she sensed their exhilaration as they emerged from the water, wet and winded.

How she envied them, but not enough to give it a go herself. What had formed in her mind, however, was a painting of twisting, spiralling kites and spraying ocean. She couldn’t wait to begin it, so she pressed on and after an hour discovered Langebaan, the quaint fishing village that was her destination. She found herself a shady table at a restaurant near the beach, and opened her sketchbook.

The movement was easily captured. Arches crowning above the hardened lines of Table Mountain as they spun and dove. Figures facing the water on the beach carrying sur oards, others strapping on their boards or zipping up wetsuits. Erika was so entranced, she barely noticed the arrival of her spinach-and-feta tramezzino, and only sipped her Tab distractedly. Filling page after page, she realised she had enough material to do at least five paintings. Although she’d started in pencil, she began filling in with block colours using oil pastels. Image after image came alive as her fingers twisted and curled, rubbed and scribbled.
The dirtier her hands became, the more her heart soared.

♥

Erika didn’t actually hear the man approach. In retrospect, he may have cleared his throat, but she had blocked that out, along with the noise of the restaurant. She had no idea how long he’d been standing there.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, making her jump.
Erika looked up not out of politeness so much as irritation.

He was not someone she would have noticed normally. Nothing at all like Albert, who had both height and presence, and a crop of sandy blond hair that gave him a wilful, puppy-dog-needing-a-rescue look. (Rose must have sensed this too.) This man verged on stocky, with wide shoulders. Brown hair cut fairly short emphasised a square face and strong jaw. Erika noticed how he squinted slightly, as though the sun reflecting off her paper was too harsh for his partially hooded eyes. Only later did she notice that his irises were hazel.

‘Can I help you?’ Erika said, cringing at how thoroughly British and stuck-up she sounded.
‘I’m sorry, it’s just that I noticed you sketching and I wondered if you might let me

take a peek.’ Something about the way he smiled, perhaps the crease in the edges of his eyes, suggested that he laughed a great deal.

‘I wasn’t done yet,’ she said almost petulantly, not really quite ready to welcome him into her world. But then she shrugged, pushing the pad over to him.

‘May I?’ He indicated the chair opposite her. ‘Ah, Bloubergstrand. Those kite surfers would have chopped off an arm or a leg for one of these pictures.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ Erika replied, warming to his compliment. ‘They’re just doodles.’
‘They’re really magnificent doodles. And from memory.’

‘This morning,’ Erika replied, nodding. ‘Is that what it’s called, kite surfing? It looked pre y tricky to me.’

‘Oh, it is,’ the man said. ‘You need balance, courage and a talent for sucking up a lot of saltwater while still being able to breathe.’

Erika laughed, despite herself. ‘Not your forte then?’ ‘Useless,’ the man admi ed. ‘I’m not really a water baby.’

‘I’ve swum every day since I came here just about. My neighbours think I’m bonkers.’ ‘And are you?’
‘How could I possibly judge that if I were? Are you?’
‘Mad enough to drive out here on a whim, I suppose,’ he said.
‘And on a work day.’

‘Exactly.’ He shifted. ‘Well, I should get going,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘Thanks for sharing those with me. They’re special.’

But Erika, thinking of Ashton’s advice, if not entirely sure yet whether she should act on it, reached out and touched his arm.
‘Wait,’ she said, feeling herself blush. ‘The least you could do is buy me a drink?’

Chapter 4

 

It turned out he was interesting. Self-deprecating. Intelligent. He ordered a bo le of wine, so it wasn’t one drink, but two. And somewhere in the conversation he told her his name was Max. Not Maximillian – ever. (His parents, the only people who had ever called him that, were dead.) Just Max. Erika swirled the Merlot around her mouth – A deep ruby, Max said, with garnet highlights on the rim. Max could talk colours like she could paint them. And he identified each scent before she’d even imagined it. Blackcurrent. Red berries. Vanilla.

Erika’s uneaten lunch was removed, and Max ordered olives and foccaccia with sun-dried tomatoes. Another bo le of Merlot. It slid onto her tongue and down her throat like velvet. Erika looked at Max, the wine buzzing into her head. It was four o’clock and she hadn’t yet found somewhere to stay. But she kept si ing there, and Max didn’t seem eager to leave either.
‘I’m beyond driving,’ Max told her, ‘even by South African standards.’

He explained that his countrymen were rather less worried about driving drunk than hers. She smiled, a li le self-consciously. What was he suggesting? Erika felt her flushed cheeks and touched her face. The bread had soaked up some of the wine, but she wondered if she could stand without tumbling over.
‘I think I need to walk,’ she said.
‘Sure.’ Max looked uncertain. ‘Would you like to be alone?’

‘Oh no,’ Erika said, surprised by her own boldness. ‘I was hoping you’d join me.’ They walked down Bree Street towards the lagoon. Erika had shoved her belongings

into the car boot and now carried her sandals in her right hand. Max was in shorts, his muscular legs covered by a down of fine blonde hair. Tawny. Like a lion. Erika felt a giggle building. She was drunk. And with a man she barely knew.

‘Careful there,’ Max said, a firm hand grabbing her arm as she lurched forward. ‘Easy now.’
His voice had a soft tone. Gentle, as though he was calming a horse.

Erika leant against him, feeling the solid weight of his body against hers. She’d missed this.