I stared at him. The thought going through my head at that moment was that the Navarro family had sent Pep away. Because of his relationship with me. The blow-in extranjera. The foreigner. Who wasn’t part of it at all, just like Rosa had said. But who was trying to muscle her way in anyhow.
‘He has helped her out before,’ said Luis as he took the bright-blue hose from the back of the van. ‘He is good with boats. That is why she asked for him.’
‘He seems to be good with everything. And to spend a lot of time helping people out,’ I said. ‘He told me that he was doing the pool as a favour to the Perez family, because you’re neighbours and friends.’
‘He’s a hard worker,’ said Luis. ‘But you have seen that already, no?’
Was there a double meaning to what he was saying? Or was I being silly?
‘I’m surprised he didn’t say anything to me.’ I frowned. ‘He knew I’d be expecting him today.’
‘But he did,’ said Luis. ‘I saw him. He sent you a message last night.’
I hadn’t looked at my phone that morning. Since I’d come to Spain I’d got out of the habit of checking it every few minutes, mainly because I didn’t carry it around with me all the time as I did in Dublin. There was no need. I wasn’t at anyone’s beck and call, or getting frequent texts about hospital issues. Besides, after the night of the storm, when it had died on me, I tended to leave it charging in the living room unless I was actually using it.
I went into the house to fetch it. The first message had arrived at eleven the previous night.
I am sorry, Pep had written. I must go to help my aunt. I will be on early flight. I will send text later.
And this morning I’d been having breakfast outside when his text had arrived, and so hadn’t heard the alert. It was a photo message of a small house in the hills.
My aunt’s house. Home for next week or two. I miss you.
I immediately replied with a Miss you too message, and went outside again.
Luis was cleaning the pool. Unlike Pep, he was wearing his T-shirt while he worked. He wasn’t a Greek god, but he was still an attractive man. Closer to my age. And therefore, at least according to Rosa Johnson, more suitable.
‘You have got on well with my brother, no?’ He glanced at me as he continued to clean the pool, and I wondered again if there had been some family conspiracy to send Pep away. A sudden breeze, strong and unexpected, rustled through the orange groves. I looked away, towards the jacaranda tree, and then back at Luis again.
‘Oh, let’s cut to the chase,’ I said abruptly. ‘I’m sleeping with Pep and you’re perfectly well aware of that. If you have an issue with it, just say so.’
He stopped his rhythmic pushing of the hose along the bottom of the pool and looked at me thoughtfully from his dark eyes.
‘Of course I do not have an issue with who my brother sleeps with,’ he said. ‘It is his business.’
‘So why are you making it yours?’ I demanded.
‘He is my family. My younger brother. And I look after him,’ said Luis.
‘You sound like some kind of Mafia Don!’ I exclaimed. ‘For heaven’s sake, this is the twenty-first century.’ Even as I said the words, I remembered the history of the Villa Naranja and I shivered. The Navarros and the Perez had been neighbours for a long time. Perhaps Luis’s family had been involved in the death of Pilar’s great-grandfather. Maybe there was bad blood between them and I was in the middle of something I didn’t understand.
‘It is not just Pep,’ said Luis. ‘Nobody knows why you are here. Why you are working so hard on Doña Carmen’s house. What your plans are. I am curious, that is all.’
‘I thought the whole damn town knew,’ I said. ‘I’m on a break, that’s all. I’m doing up the house because I need to be busy.’
‘And being busy includes Pep?’
‘Pep just happened. Look,’ I said, ‘I’m sure he’s already told you I’ll be going back to Dublin at the end of the summer. I have a life there. And a job. I’ve no interest in staying in Beniflor. I’ve no ulterior motive for working on the house . . .’ I broke off at the expression on his face. Was that it? Did everyone in Beniflor suspect me of being some kind of fraudster, ready to steal the Villa Naranja from under the noses of the Perez family? And somehow adding Pep Navarro to the mix?
‘I have a job,’ I repeated as I decided that I was allowing myself to be swept up in melodrama. ‘I’m going back to it.’
‘You are a medical person?’ said Luis. ‘I asked Pep before. He said you were a nurse but not a nurse.’
I clearly hadn’t explained radiographer properly to him. I tried with Luis, whose English was a lot better than Pep’s. He nodded.
‘And I’m not trying to rob Ana’s house from her,’ I added.
‘Why would I think that?’
‘You suspect me of something,’ I said. ‘You’re treating me like some kind of criminal.’
‘But no.’ He shook his head. ‘Pep says you are a good person. My mother thinks so. Catalina thinks so too.’
‘And you?’
‘I think you are an interesting person,’ he said.
Interesting didn’t mean good, though. I said nothing.
‘Why did you come to Beniflor?’ he asked.
I wasn’t going to go through it all again. I was tired of going through it.
‘For a holiday,’ I told him.
‘But it is not a holiday to renovate Doña Carmen’s house.’
‘It’s not a renovation. Just a few bits and pieces,’ I said. ‘Are you nearly finished with the pool?’
‘I’m not as quick as Pep,’ said Luis.
OK, that remark definitely had a double meaning. I said nothing but walked away and sat in the shade of the patio again. There was no sign of Banquo. I picked up my iPad and checked my social media.
‘I’m sorry if I seemed rude.’ He came up to me about ten minutes later, the blue hose coiled over his shoulder.
‘No, you’re not,’ I said.
He looked startled.
‘I am,’ he protested. ‘I was curious about you, that’s all. I’ve never met anyone like you before.’
‘What’s so different about me?’ I asked sharply. ‘Other than I’m an extranjera and so obviously a suspicious character!’
‘You’re not suspicious,’ said Luis. ‘You’re independent.’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
‘This is a small town,’ said Luis. ‘And although it is in the modern world, we sometimes live our lives in a more traditional ways. You are different.’
‘And that’s bad?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Actually, I don’t care what you think,’ I said. ‘Have you quite finished?’
‘Perhaps you are good for Pep,’ said Luis as he walked towards the van. ‘Perhaps you will break his heart and not the other way around.’ His sudden smile was unexpectedly warm and open.
‘You never know,’ I said, thinking that perhaps I’d been reading things into his words that really weren’t there.
‘It would be good for him,’ said Luis.
And then he left.
Everyone seemed far too interested in me and how I was living my life, I thought, as I got into the pool and swam a few lengths. I didn’t know why. Despite Luis’s assertion that it was traditional, it wasn’t as though Beniflor was such a small place, or so backward, that one new person should be the object of everyone’s attention. But it seemed to me that I was.
Although maybe that was simply my self-obsession again. After all, one of the less endearing traits in Virgos, I remember being told, is that we can be self-pitying and uptight, which leads us down the road of analysing everyone’s motives, including our own. Given my dismissal of all things astrological, it was annoying that this description had stuck with me. Especially because it was true.
I dived beneath the water and stayed down until my lungs were bursting. I was losing it altogether, I thought, as I surfaced and gasped f
or air. I should never have gone to that damn psychic.
Or perhaps the problem was that I should never have come here.
Chapter 23
And yet, when I sat on the patio that night after my almost compulsory salad for dinner, my irritation with Luis and with myself dissipated. I watched the lights of the valley twinkle in the distance and I forgot all about Magda and her silly predictions. I forgot about Luis’s intrusive questioning, and – after Pep had sent me a WhatsApp message once again telling me how much he missed me – I forgot about him too. Instead, I lost myself in the stillness of the night where the only noises were the steady chirping of a cricket and Banquo’s satisfied purring.
It wasn’t only my anger that left me. It was everything. Like shedding a skin, I could feel the tensions and stresses of the last few months almost physically slide away from me. A few days earlier, I’d reached acceptance. But I still hadn’t let go of the other stuff. The jealousy and the shame and the guilt. But now I suddenly did. And I felt like me again.
Juno Ryan. Back to her best. An independent woman, just like Luis had said.
It was liberating.
I finished my wine, closed up the house, and went to bed.
I slept like a baby. I didn’t dream, didn’t wake up to use the bathroom, didn’t open my eyes, as had so often happened in recent times, simply because I’d turned over in the bed. It was the ringing of my mobile that eventually woke me, and by the time I realised what it was, it had stopped.
I got up and opened the shutters, allowing the unfiltered sunlight to pour into the room. I pulled on my sundress and went downstairs. Banquo was sitting in the middle of the living room, his ears twitching. I gave him a quick rub and unplugged the phone.
I dismissed my initial thought that it was Pep who’d called when I realised that it had actually been the ringtone of the phone itself and not a WhatsApp alert. I tapped the screen and caught my breath. My hand started to shake. Because the call I’d missed was from Brad McIntyre. I stared at the notification, utterly unable to move.
Banquo mewed a few times, anxious to go outside and urging me to open the door, unwilling to exert himself to jump up on the sink and exit via the open window. But I was – quite literally – rooted to the spot, unable to take my eyes from the screen, staring at the name in front of me.
Missed call.
Brad McIntyre.
And his number.
And suddenly, like the tarot card that had showed the tower being hit by lightning, it all came crashing down around me again.
I knew, of course I knew, that Brad couldn’t have called me. Brad was dead. He’d been killed in an earthquake along with his probably pregnant wife. I’d gone to the funeral and seen his coffin. I’d heard the minister talk about what a wonderful man he was. I’d heard his friends and neighbours say the same thing. I knew he was gone.
Yet my phone was telling me that I had a missed call from him.
I felt exactly as I had on the night when I’d first heard the news. I could hardly breathe, was totally unable to process the information in front of me. Back then, it was because I’d learned Brad had died. Now, it was because he’d phoned me. So either he wasn’t dead at all, or . . . or it was his spirit contacting me from beyond the grave. Perhaps I’d been wrong to dismiss the spirit world so easily. There was something mystical about Beniflor, about the Villa Naranja and about Magda herself. Perhaps Mum was right about auras and chakras and all of her favourite mumbo-jumbo. Perhaps it wasn’t mumbo-jumbo at all.
Was Brad’s spirit watching over me? Was it the reason I’d so often felt as though there was someone with me in the house? Did it explain the unexpected noises, the broken glass, the other moments when I’d felt stuff going on that I didn’t understand? Was he here, now? Could he see me? Hear me?
I looked up from the phone. Banquo was staring at me silently, his amber eyes thoughtful and considering. Was it him? I wondered wildly. Was his spirit in the cat? Was that why he’d adopted me? Was that why he was always around?
Banquo turned away and walked to the door. He waited by it until I opened it. Then sunlight flooded the room and the spell was broken.
‘What the hell is wrong with me?’ I said the words out loud. ‘What am I thinking?’
Brad hadn’t called, of course he hadn’t. He was neither alive, nor an attentive spirit inhabiting an overweight cat. His body was in the ground and his spirit was . . . well . . . there were no spirits. My belief that done is done was right. What lives on is how people have touched our lives. How they’ve made us feel. That’s their everlasting spirit, nothing else.
But if that was the case, I asked myself, who on earth was using Brad’s phone? Had it been found in Italy, beneath the rubble? Had whoever had found it decided to keep it for themselves? But why hadn’t they simply restored it? Why had they called a number from his contact list? Why had they called me? Why? Why? Why?
Banquo walked back into the kitchen and headbutted my ankles.
‘OK, OK,’ I said. I got some dried food from the cupboard and filled his empty bowl for him. He set to the task of having his breakfast while I put the kettle on for a cup of tea. I usually drank coffee first thing, but I was still in shock, and tea was better than coffee for shock.
I made the tea, then opened the umbrella over the stone table and sat down. I wrapped my hands around the mug as I stared at the phone in front of me. The caller – not Brad and not Brad’s spirit, I reminded myself once again – hadn’t left a message. He, or she, had simply hung up. Were they working their way through people on Brad’s contact list? Trying to talk to his friends? Or had someone simply made a mistake in dialling my number from Brad’s phone?
Who had it? Who?
A warm gust of wind rattled the parasol and sent bougainvillea petals skittering across the garden. And I thought that I heard his voice. I thought I heard him say It’s me. But I knew I hadn’t.
Because the dead can’t talk.
The sensible thing to do would have been to call back straight away, but I couldn’t make myself do it. I didn’t know who might answer and what I could possibly say. I knew it wouldn’t be Brad. And I didn’t want to speak to whoever had acquired his phone. Besides . . . I shivered in the morning heat – no matter who answered, it would be an awkward conversation.
I recalled, with a sense of unease, that they would have seen his message stream. We messaged all the time. They would have seen his last text to me: Tonight’s dinner location. Joining them shortly. Love you. Miss you. Bxx. They would have seen my messages to him. The ones telling him how much I loved him. The ones wishing I was with him. The ones wishing he was with me. The ones where I talked about what I wanted to do with him. What I liked to do with him.
Whoever had his phone would see my heart laid bare.
I had to ring. I had to find out who it was. But I didn’t want to.
I took a deep breath and I hit ‘dial’.
It took an age for the phone to connect.
‘Hi. This is Brad. I can’t take your call. Please leave a message.’
The sound of his voice, a voice I hadn’t heard in months, was overwhelming. I burst into tears and ended the call without saying a word.
I was still crying when the Bodega Navarro van pulled up outside the house.
‘What is the matter? Are you all right?’ Luis Navarro was beside me in an instant.
‘I’m fine,’ I said as I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘I got a shock, that’s all.’
‘What shocked you? Not me, I hope.’
‘Nothing like that.’ I smiled weakly. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Can I help?’ There was no edge to his voice now. No undercurrent. Just concern.
I shook my head. ‘Something unexpected happened and I’ve reacted like a baby. Please don’t worry about me.’ I sniffed inelegantly. ‘Why are you here?’
He put a bottle of wine on the table.
‘I brought this to apologise,’ he said. ‘I was rude
to you yesterday. I treated you without consideration, and I shouldn’t have.’
‘It’s OK. Don’t worry about it.’ I wiped the traces of tears from my eyes. ‘You didn’t have to bring anything, but it’s very kind of you.’
‘It is one of our best wines,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
I nodded. ‘A friend of mine died a few months ago. And someone seems to have his phone now. They called my number. It was a shock.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for your loss. And a phone call . . . that would be hard. Who has the phone?’
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I was asleep when it rang and I didn’t answer. There was no message.’
‘It must be a friend. Or someone in the family. You will call them back, no?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But not now. I . . . I can’t.’
‘I will do it for you.’ He held out his hand for the phone.
‘No.’ The word came more sharply from my lips than I’d intended. ‘No,’ I repeated less harshly. ‘I don’t want to call. It’s not important. I don’t need to speak to anyone.’
He was looking at me with a thoughtful expression and I wondered if he was still suspicious about me and my reasons for being here. But he’d apologised for being rude and he’d brought wine . . . I suddenly thought of Magda again and her prediction that a man would come some distance with a message. Would wine be considered a message – even if Luis had only come from the finca next door? I took a deep breath. I knew I was close to losing it.
‘Are you sure you would not like me to make this call for you?’ he asked.
‘Certain,’ I said. ‘I was close to my friend. I don’t need to talk to whoever has his phone, no matter who it might be.’
His dark eyes were puzzled. ‘A friend of your friend would not also be a friend?’
‘I don’t know who the friend of my friend is,’ I told him. ‘I don’t know . . . well . . . I only knew him. That’s all. I don’t want to talk to anyone else about him.’ Very deliberately, I switched off the phone. ‘I’m fine now,’ I said firmly. ‘And this doesn’t matter.’
The Hideaway Page 20