Under the Spanish Stars (40 page)

‘Abuela?'

Looking up with tear-stained cheeks, she said, ‘The Maquis nursed me to health and said in order for me to make a proper escape from Franco's reach I needed to fake my own death. Franco's soldiers had witnessed Salvador dragging my limp body into France so it was easy for the Maquis to get word out that I'd died.' A series of sobs reverberated around the room.

Resting her hand on Abuela's shaking shoulders, Charlotte said quietly, ‘I'm so sorry.'

Abuela managed a weak smile. ‘And to think we're only learning this now because I wanted the story behind the painting. I guess we got more than we bargained for.'

Charlotte admired Abuela's effort to lighten the mood. ‘That we did.'

‘Raul is the reason I gave up flamenco.' The statement came out quickly, like it couldn't be held back any longer.

‘Really?' After all these years the truth was now laid bare, but the pain surrounding this revelation wasn't lost on Charlotte.

‘My soul was irreparably damaged after I lost Raul. Before meeting him I had thought I understood flamenco but I didn't really know it at all. Performing with him unleashed a part of me that I didn't know had been locked away and his love—our passion—combined to create
duende
unlike any other. Charlotte, you must find that in yourself. Whether it's through your painting—'

‘I'm not painting any more, remember?' The mini-lie wedged between
them.

‘You're a fool, girl. You have a talent that should not be wasted.'

‘It scares me.'

‘So what? Life should be scary at times. How else can we push ourselves to dig deeper, climb higher? The same goes with love. You need to open yourself to it again in order to experience the joys, even though sorrow sometimes overshadows the happiness. Take a risk, Charlotte.'

‘You risked everything with Raul and look what happened. Don't you regret that?'

‘Of course not! What we had was so special that perhaps we were only meant to experience it for a short while.' Abuela stared directly at Charlotte. ‘What happened with your young Spanish man?'

‘I don't want to talk about it.' She shuffled on her chair, despite being comfortable a moment before.

‘Do you love him?'

‘How can it be love when I've only known him a short while?' Charlotte chastised herself for not answering the question honestly, even though she'd already divulged her feelings to Mateo.
Yeah, and look how that turned out, Kavanagh.

‘You speak an untruth, Missy.' Abuela waggled her finger. ‘Raul and I didn't have decades together, but our love was so deep it carried me through my adult life and in a way, enhanced the love I had for your grandfather. Having a love and losing it meant I didn't waste one moment not appreciating what I had because it could have been ripped away in a millisecond. If this man has captured your heart, you owe it to yourself to find out where it will lead.'

‘But his life is in Spain and mine's here. Anyway, we don't have the same beliefs about family and—'

‘Oh, piffle. If you wanted to make it work you could.'

‘But Dad—'

‘You are your own person and no one should deny you the chance to live the life you want. Find the real you in there.' She pointed at Charlotte's heart. ‘And do not live a life of regret. It's not good for the soul. A flamenco dancer cannot connect with the music if they do not listen to their heart. If the spark is extinguished there is little chance of it reigniting. But if you follow your passions and trust in yourself, that fire will ignite eternal flames that will allow you to grow, to love, to live. You,
my darling girl, need to fan those flames.'

A wave of weariness swept over Charlotte and her eyes ached. As well-intentioned as Abuela's words were, Charlotte didn't have it in her to deal with any more emotion. ‘Thank you, Abuela. I know you mean well, but I'm just really, really tired. Will you be okay if I go home for a bit?'

‘Of course.' She rested her hand on Charlotte's arm. ‘And thank you, dear one, for all you have done.'

‘I'm sorry it didn't turn out the way you wanted.'

‘It's taken me until my twilight years to realise there is much we cannot control in this life. Regrets are pointless. We must focus on the good in life, embrace what we have, and move on as best we can.'

‘How did you become so wise, Abuela?' Charlotte smiled, even though all this talk about love made her want to make a hasty retreat into a very dark corner so she could lick her wounds.

‘Soapies teach a lot.' She laughed and Charlotte joined in. A fraction of a minute later Abuela frowned. ‘I would like to know why 1987 is missing.'

‘From the letters?'

Abuela nodded.

‘Perhaps he forgot?'

‘No, Raul was a pedantic man. Deliberately missing a year would have driven him crazy.'

‘I could ask Felicidad to have a look.'

‘Thank you.' Abuela folded the wad of letters and stashed them under her pillow. She edged down the bed while Charlotte tucked the sheets around her. ‘The letters under here will bring sweet dreams.'

‘I hope so.'

‘Please, look after the guitar for me.'

‘No problem.' Leaning over, Charlotte kissed Abuela on the forehead. ‘Are you sure you don't want me to stay longer?'

‘No, no. I'm fine. It's been a big day and I'm weary. Please, do not worry about me. I am sad for what could have been but I am content with the knowledge that Raul had a chance to be a father and to enjoy a long life.'

‘I admire your strength.'

‘Flamenco taught me how to endure heartache and sorrow with dignity and love.' Her lips turned into a sad smile. ‘I could never fully let go of
flamenco, you know. Once it captures you, there's no escaping. And for you, it's art. Give in to it, Charlotte. Let your calling guide you to a place of peace. Fighting it will only cause trouble.' She had a long yawn. ‘Please go now, I need to rest. So do you.'

Charlotte gathered her bags and the guitar, kissed Abuela on the forehead then stepped into the hallway and closed the door. A tear rolled down her cheek and she rested the guitar case and bags on the floor. Wiping away the offending salty droplet, Charlotte wished her grandmother would quit hitting the emotional bull's-eye every time they had a conversation about Mateo.

Pulling out her phone, she checked for messages: Steve, her mother and her father had all left one each but Mateo remained in stony silence. Abuela's words about love echoed through Charlotte's mind and she quickly bashed them away. Love might suit some people but not Charlotte. She'd tried on those shoes and they didn't fit.

* * *

Charlotte rested her bare feet on the coffee table in her flat, at a loss what to do next. She'd had a shower, thrown gear into the washing machine, gone out for a food shop and returned to an empty place that seemed bigger and lonelier than ever before. She'd called the nurses for an update and Abuela was sleeping peacefully. Exhausted, her body had no idea whether it was morning or night or even what country it was in. How did pilots and flight attendants do this as a job?

Charlotte had decided to put off calling her family for a meeting until the morning as her brain had grown foggy. Tired and restless, she turned on the television, trying to concentrate but the noise and movement irritated her so she switched it off and picked up a novel from her very high to-be-read pile on the table. Opening at page one, she settled back on the couch, ready to immerse herself in a world of adventure and romance, except words swirled before her glazed eyes and she gave up and threw the book aside.

Getting off the couch, Charlotte paced across the living room, into the kitchen, back through the living room and into the bedroom and back again. An uneasy feeling had settled around her after she'd left Abuela and it had followed her home like a lost puppy. She longed to be like her grandmother, who accepted life's twists and turns with grace and believed
that some things in life were not meant to be; that we should listen to the inner self, especially when battling the burning desire in one's soul.

Flinging open the cupboard door, Charlotte pulled out the half-painted canvas she'd started in Granada. Putting it beside Syeria's artwork on the dining table, she studied the two paintings. Whether she liked it or not, Charlotte's work held a similar movement and fire to Syeria's, but with a slightly different spin. She still couldn't understand how she'd created such a piece but she'd been overcome and had given in to the moment when she painted it. Much like what she'd done with Mateo.

Oh, for god's sake! This torture has to stop!

Roughly grabbing the oils and brushes, Charlotte set to work. Mixing the red with yellow, she hummed a
zambra
—the same song she'd had in her head the day she'd attempted this painting in Granada. The tune was simple and she followed the beat of the
palo
. Using broad brushstrokes, Charlotte willed herself to create the same magical feeling she'd experienced the day after she danced flamenco for the first time. Unfortunately, now, her hand remained stiff and each stroke felt forced, almost robotic.

Giving up, she stepped back and studied the additions to the painting.

It was no use. Gone were the free brushstrokes and intense colours. The small corner where she'd just worked remained stagnant. Like it had lost its soul.

‘It's a stupid waste of time!' She threw the paint rag across the other side of the room and it landed next to Raul's guitar case.

‘What?' she asked it. ‘You may have found your
duende
and purpose but I haven't.'

Feeling ridiculous for talking to a musical instrument, she plopped on the couch, crossed her arms and looked around her inner-city apartment. Aside from the guitar, paints and paintings, everything had a special spot and the designer décor harmonised perfectly—a major contrast to Mateo's disaster of an apartment. Yet she felt more at home in his space than she'd ever felt in hers. Damn Mateo for not trusting her. Things would have been so different if he had just opened up.

But he already had.

Bloody hell.

He'd shared the deeply personal story about Alicia. He'd trusted
Charlotte enough to let her enter the world of his adopted clan. And just because he wouldn't divulge the story behind his birth family, she had accused him of not trusting her. So what if he had pressing matters that day and couldn't help? He'd apologised and she'd figured things out on her own, anyway.

But then she'd bared her soul at the airport, confessed her love for him and he'd let her walk away when he'd obviously had something to say. She'd taken a risk and ended up feeling like a fool. Sure, she couldn't expect him to work to her timeline but since she'd told him, he'd done … nothing.

Was all this really enough for their relationship to end?

After three unanswered phone calls and eleven texts to Mateo over five days, Charlotte had to give up and admit she'd blown any chance of smoothing things over with him. Devastated, she immersed herself in work and visits with Abuela at the hospital. Her grandmother's hip had started to get much better but her heart condition hadn't improved any, signalling to Charlotte that the nursing home conversation was inevitable.

If she'd thought work was torture before, it was ten times worse now. The days were drawn out, the clients more demanding, and the effort to keep on top of emails and other messages a chore. At least her father was away on business and she didn't have him breathing down her neck.

Charlotte had emailed Felicidad after Abuela dictated her message, but she hadn't received a reply. Her personal email inbox sat empty with no word from
anyone
in Spain. Had the internet broken? Nope. But her heart had.

The doorbell rang and she put her mug of tea on the coffee table then wandered over to the front door. Standing on tiptoe she peered through the peephole.
Bugger.
Her father. She now wished she'd gone out for drinks with her friends after all.

Her father coughed. ‘Good evening, Charlotte.'

Unlocking the door, she forced a smile. ‘Dad! Hi!'

‘Hello.' He walked in as if he owned the place.

‘How was New York?'

‘The usual.' He strode over to the reading chair and sat down. ‘I heard you signed the McNeil company. Nice job.'

‘Thanks,' she said, realising she hadn't received the usual bolts of excitement when signing such a deal. Since returning from Granada she'd not felt a thing, not even the slightest buzz.

Her father strolled around her apartment, hands clasped behind his back. He inspected the expensive vases, the priceless Turkish rug and the relatively new leather couches. She felt under scrutiny—like always.

‘Tea?' she asked, hoping it would make him sit in one place and not set her nerves on edge.

‘Yes, thanks.' He sat on the couch, the leather creaking under his lanky frame. ‘The cushions are a bit hard.'

‘They'll soften over time.' She walked into the kitchen, his comment barely registering. Nothing was ever good enough.

Charlotte took her time making a fresh brew, grateful she had a moment to compose herself. The crockery clattered as she laid it out on the tray, irritation flooding through her. She'd been quite happy to remain in her funk but her father had interrupted it, pushing in on her life yet again.

Don't be so ungrateful, Kavanagh. He only wants the best for you.

Returning to the living room with a tray of milk, sugar, and steeping tea in a pot, she walked in to find her dad standing in front of the two paintings. A shot of panic pierced her chest. Why hadn't she put them away?

‘What is this?' His tone relayed annoyance.

‘One of them is Abuela's painting—'