Chapter Four
Realising the artist was heading straight for him, Ruan’s stomach did something strange and unexpected.
He refused to say ‘it flipped’ because stomachs couldn’t actually do that: it was simply a romantic metaphor.
On the other hand, something had definitely connected his brain and his gut, turbocharging his senses.
No wonder. The artist was even more mesmerising up close. There was something elemental about her, from the sandy dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks to her skin, bronzed by the sun: she seemed almost part of the wild surroundings she worked in and with.
Even her hair reminded him of wavy ridges carved into the sand by the sea. And the colour had surely taken on the warm shades of a Cornish sunset. It was a sunset he’d rarely had time to see until recently, since he’d been so engrossed, some would say obsessed, with his work.
Once again, Ruan was struck by how fanciful his thoughts were about this woman he had yet to say a word to.
It was not his job today to dream. As a private-client solicitor, his role was to establish the facts and to back them up with proof that, if necessary, would stand up in a court of law.
That was difficult when, to do his job successfully, he had to suppress the side of him that was – according to his ex – a hopeless romantic.
Alexandra had been right in one sense: it had been hopeless to think the two of them had ever had a future.
Ruan had turned out not to be the man of her dreams after all.
Now here he was in a small seaside town, killing time before his meeting by daydreaming about a woman who made a living by drawing in the sand.
Alexandra would be laughing her cashmere socks off if she could see him.
Yet she couldn’t, and by reminding himself that those days were gone, Ruan sensed a weight being lifted from his shoulders. Seeing the artist strolling towards him along the harbourside, even the law itself felt a world away.
She took a few pictures on her mobile before lowering it and observing the waves creep closer to the rising sun she’d created.
‘Your work is very beautiful.’ His words escaped almost against his will.
She lowered her phone. ‘Thank you,’ she said with a brief smile for him before she refocused her gaze on the beach, perhaps calculating when the waves would reach her handiwork.
He was compelled to break the silence. ‘Can I ask something?’
She gave him her full attention, again with a smile on her face, although Ruan felt it was tinged with weariness or possibly resignation. She must be asked a thousand questions, and here he was, burdening her with another. ‘Of course.’
‘How does it feel when your work is taken by the waves? Do you regret all those hours you spent creating it? Are you angry that the sea destroys it?’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Angry with the sea ? How can I be possibly angry with the sea?’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’
Her green eyes crinkled at the corners and she looked at him with curiosity and warmth. ‘Don’t worry, you haven’t. Actually, your question about being angry with the sea is a legitimate one. Lots of people ask me if I mind my work being washed away.’
‘I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or not.’
‘That depends on if you prefer to blend into the background or stand out from the crowd.’ Her eyes sparkled with amusement. Ruan knew he’d been wrong-footed. That didn’t happen often – or rather, he didn’t like to think it happened often.
‘Do you make a living from your sand art? I saw people giving you money. I hope that’s not too intrusive.’
‘It’s not. And I do make some money from sand art but not by collecting coins in a hat.
I take on commissions from companies and individuals.
People hire me for proposals, birthdays and corporate stuff, but they’re not enough on their own to pay the bills, which is why I also have a part-time job in a gallery. ’
‘Well, it seems like a great job to have. Being outside in the elements, doing what you love,’ he said.
‘It is and I’m very lucky.’ She paused and nodded towards her design. ‘That rising sun isn’t a commission though. It was just something I needed to do. If people insist on giving me donations, I pass on the money to a project in town that helps the local community.’
Before Ruan could work out how to reply without sounding patronising, gauche or stupid, the sand artist cocked her head to one side and looked straight into his eyes.
‘So, Mr Suited and Booted, how do you make your living? Because it sure as hell isn’t from anything that happens on a beach,’ she said wryly.
Once again, Ruan had been thrown off-kilter. He was even more conscious of his sombre outfit amid the board shorts and bright T-shirts of every other man on the prom.
‘You’re right. I’m a solicitor. I was killing time before my next meeting and watching you – watching you create your work,’ he corrected quickly. ‘Has been a lot more fun than sitting in some coffee shop with my laptop.’
Her lips twisted in amusement, although he wasn’t sure what about him had entertained her.
Normally, he thought he was pretty good at sizing people up and reading the emotions behind their facade, but he was finding this woman impossible to fathom.
That was enough to unsettle him, let alone the fact he found her mesmerising in other ways.
‘I’m glad to hear it. Oh, look, the water has reached it.’ She walked to the edge of the wall and he followed her pointing finger, noting that several wavelets had encroached on the very top of the sun’s rays, erasing their tips.
‘How long before the whole design is covered?’ he asked, tearing his eyes away from the sea, which was creeping up on her work like a relentless predator.
She shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Might be half an hour or it could be a few minutes if one big wave decides to crash in. I’ve learned a lot about the sea and the tides, but you can never really be sure of anything where the ocean’s concerned. That’s the beauty of nature: the unpredictability.’
Ruan must have shaken his head without even realising it.
‘You don’t like the idea of that?’ she said, tilting her head on one side like a curious bird.
‘Of the unpredictability? I don’t know …’ He shrugged, unsure of the right answer.
The artist broke into laughter. ‘Hey, don’t stress. It wasn’t a trick question. Look, let me introduce myself. I’m Tammy. Short for Tamara.’
‘The river that divides Cornwall from Devon?’
Tammy smirked. ‘Or divides Cornwall from the rest of the known world.’
He laughed out loud, wondering if he dared admit to knowing the legend of Tamar, the water nymph who’d been turned into a river to escape the attention of two giants. He decided not. Too soon, too weird, and definitely too romantic.
‘I’m Ruan,’ he said instead. ‘Also a Cornish name.’
‘It is … So you are Cornish.’
‘Technically.’
She snorted. ‘No one can be technically Cornish. If you’re born here, you are a Cornishman and always will be.’
‘True. I was born in the county, though I wasn’t meant to be. My parents were visiting their parents and Mum went into labour, so I was born at Treliske Hospital. They live in Bristol now.’
Tammy hesitated as if she was going to ask more.
Most people would have probed further, their curiosity piqued, but this woman didn’t even though she’d grilled him earlier.
She really was as unpredictable as the sea now lapping at her beautiful creation.
Ruan could hardly bear to look. He also couldn’t bear the idea of this conversation ending.
‘I – Would you like an ice cream?’ he blurted out.
‘An ice cream?’ she echoed, as if he’d offered her the moon. Then she laughed. ‘Yeah, why not?’
Why had he said such a juvenile thing? He sounded like a little boy. ‘To be honest, I haven’t had one for years. I just – felt like one,’ he said by way of an explanation. ‘It’s hot.’
‘It would be in that suit,’ she replied archly. ‘And I haven’t had an ice cream for at least a week, which is far too long. Plus I skipped lunch.’
‘Better make it a double scoop then,’ Ruan said, his spirits lifting. ‘Any recommendations for the best place to get one?’
‘Loads, but that little kiosk over by the fishing creels is as good as any.’ She pointed at a brightly painted hut on the harbourside.
‘I’ll go and get us one. What do you fancy?’
‘Strawberry, please.’
‘Done,’ he said, avoiding the urge to say it was his favourite flavour too, which definitely would have sounded cheesy and suspicious. He was relieved to have an excuse not to watch her work being washed away but delighted to have an excuse to talk to her.
He was second in the queue at the kiosk before he realised he’d left his jacket and laptop bag by the harbour wall, but a glance back reassured him that Tammy was watching over them, or at least standing by them, chatting to two teenage girls.
While he waited, Ruan undid a second button on his shirt, more conscious than ever of how he stood out amid the families and older couples in their shorts and T-shirts.
He could say he was one of the few people working on a bank holiday, but in Porthmellow, like every other community in Cornwall and many elsewhere, this holiday Monday was a busy working day.
With its pretty cottages, bustling harbour and beach, the little town in the south-west of Cornwall was clearly a magnet for tourists.
With his business head on, Ruan was also well aware that sunny weather was a precious gift for the ice-cream sellers, cafés, gift-shop owners, B & Bs and everyone else who needed to make a living in the town.
Several of the businesses there were also clients of his new employer, a law firm based in Penzance.