‘It really is the most beautiful house,’ said Luis. ‘And excellent for a party.’
‘It’s not really a party.’ I offered him a glass of his own wine. ‘Just a gathering. And a thank you to everyone who’s been so good to me.’
He smiled, and I remembered how I’d once thought he was hitting on me. And that Max had thought he fancied me. We’d both been wrong. There was no spark of electricity between Luis and me, and no frisson that would have alerted me. There’s always something. You just know. The thought made me smile to myself. Mum would’ve liked to be part of my ‘just knowing’ about something. About tapping into that third eye, or sixth sense – or whatever it was that happened outside of normal everyday living.
Then Rosa arrived, along with Carola and her sister. About an hour later, as everyone was mingling quite happily, Ana turned up with her husband, Alonso, and Pilar’s brother, Eduardo, who was home from Madrid.
The buzz of conversation grew louder. The atmosphere grew more relaxed. I chatted with Rosa and then Catalina, who told me that Xavi was back to his irrepressible self and had come home limping from his latest football match after a kick in the shins, bruised but happy that his team had won. Then I talked to Carola and Rosa again, and to Elena Navarro (who’d brought extra wine, and who was also charmed by the work to the Villa Naranja).
And then I talked to Pep, who asked me if I was sure I wanted to leave.
‘Not entirely,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s time. I know that.’
He gave me a quick hug, and it was a hug of dismissal. It was over for him too now. I was about to become a part of his past, as he was about to become a part of mine. I looked around at all the people who’d mattered to me. All, like Pep, about to become a part of my past. They’d probably gather together again like this in the future. But this time without me. I felt a pang of regret. But it wasn’t enough to make me want to stay. Nevertheless, I’d never forget them.
My attention was caught by Ana and Luis, who’d been inside the house and who now walked out together, talking animatedly. They looked pleased with themselves, and Luis gave Ana a quick pat on the shoulder before she moved to one side and clapped her hands. The conversation immediately stopped as everyone turned towards her.
‘Hola, amigos,’ she said, and then, with a smile towards me, ‘and friends.’ Then she started talking to them all very quickly and, from my point of view, utterly incomprehensibly. I had no idea why there was a sudden gasp and a round of applause, and why Luis then started to speak, until Rosa appeared by my side and started to translate for me.
‘He’s bought the Villa Naranja,’ she said.
‘What!’ I looked at her in amazement.
‘Apparently, when he realised that it would be going out of the hands of a family from Beniflor, he decided he needed to step in and buy it.’
‘But he could have bought it any time!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why now?’
‘Because . . .’ She waited while he spoke a little more and then turned back to me. ‘Because he said it was only when he learned it was going to be sold that he realised how much it mattered. That his family and Ana’s family are family together. That they have lived and worked here for generations . . . OK, he’s losing it here a little bit. I remember someone saying that you needed to have had roots here for centuries before people truly accepted you – anyway, his heart was moved and . . . yada, yada.’ She grinned at me.
‘And a big thank you to Juno.’ Luis switched to English, and everyone looked at me. ‘She has taken this house and turned it into something really beautiful. And she has done a good thing for Doña Carmen’s daughter, because I think that if she hadn’t done this work – and there hadn’t been another offer – I would not have had to pay the money I am paying now.’
Everyone laughed. He repeated it in Spanish, and they laughed even louder.
‘So I am thanking her, but I think Ana is thanking her more,’ concluded Luis.
She came over to me then and hugged me.
‘The Carreños were good people,’ she said. ‘But they have other options. Luis cares about this house and this land. It would have made my mother happy to know it has gone to the Navarros.’
‘If I had anything to do with it, I’m delighted, of course,’ I said. ‘But I bet it was just the whole idea of it going to someone from outside the town that made the Navarros realise what they’d be missing.’
‘Yes, but the Carreños wouldn’t have made an offer if you hadn’t done it up,’ Ana pointed out. ‘So I do have to thank you. And if you ever want to come to stay in the apartment in Beniflor Costa, you’re more than welcome.’
‘Have you bought one already?’
‘No, but I know which one I’m going to buy,’ she said. ‘Near the restaurant, with views over the sea. I could never have afforded it before, but thanks to you I can.’
‘I’m very happy for you,’ I said.
‘And I’m happy too.’ Luis joined us. ‘It is true when I say I should have made an offer before now.’
‘I’m glad it’s worked out for everyone,’ I said. ‘I really am.’
‘We will miss you,’ said Luis. ‘Everyone in the town likes you. You are sure we cannot persuade you to stay?’
Ana drifted away, her attention caught by Eduardo.
‘You want me to stay?’ I looked at him in surprise after she’d gone. ‘I thought you were the one person in Beniflor who didn’t like me.’
‘I have to admit that I was suspicious of you,’ said Luis. ‘It seemed so strange, you coming to Doña Carmen’s house and doing so much work, all for nothing. I thought you had an ulterior motive. That there was a reason for you being here I could not understand. And then, of course, you were with my brother . . .’
‘Not any more,’ I said.
‘No.’ He glanced towards Pep, who was chatting happily with Hayley.
‘Being here was a summer break,’ I told him. ‘That’s all.’
‘To get away from that man?’
‘What man?’
‘The man in the pink shirt.’
‘No.’ I shook my head.
‘You are still difficult to understand,’ said Luis. ‘But I thank you for making me see that I really did want to buy the Villa Naranja. It was only when it was nearly lost that I realised it.’
‘And I want to thank you and everyone in Beniflor for your kindness.’
‘I was not especially kind to you.’
‘Ah, you’re grand,’ I said.
He looked at me in confusion.
‘It’s an Irish way of saying don’t worry, everything is fine,’ I told him.
‘Fine is good.’ He nodded. ‘I hope you will come back sometime, Juno. Truly. You will be welcome.’
Then Rosa called over to me and asked if she could pair her phone with the speakers.
So I walked over to her and left Luis behind.
After my socialising with my Beniflor friends it seemed odd to simply pack up and leave on my own. I cried as I left a last bowl of food for Ophelia, who was still spending most of her time in the shed with her kittens. Beatriz Navarro had offered to check on her every day and to refill her bowl, which let Rosa off the hook.
‘Are you sure?’
She’d made the offer during the party when a group of us had been laughing about my inability to distinguish a male from a female.
‘But of course,’ she replied. ‘Actually, I think that cat used to sleep under the magnolia tree in our garden until you began to look after her.’
‘Cats always go where they get the best attention,’ observed Rosa.
‘Anyway, I will take care of this one,’ Beatriz said. ‘So you do not need to worry.’
But I was still a little bit concerned about how Ophelia would get on without me. I was happy that Rosa had found homes for the kittens, though, and I’d told Hayley that I’d love to visit the retirement home sometime.
‘Hopefully you’ll be back to visit again,’ she said.
Hop
efully I would, I thought, as I heaved my bag into the boot of the car. I checked one more time that the door and the grille to the Villa Naranja were locked, and opened the car door. As I did, there was a beep from outside the gate and I looked up to see the Bodega Navarro van.
‘I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye,’ said Pep as I opened the gates. ‘And thank you for a wonderful summer.’
‘Thank you too,’ I said in return. ‘You made me . . . better.’
‘I hope so.’ He opened his arms and I moved closer for him to hug me. But it was a brotherly hug now, with none of the passion of the previous weeks.
‘Have a great time at college,’ I murmured. ‘Don’t break too many hearts.’
He grinned. ‘I do my best.’
‘You can take the keys,’ I told him as I disentangled myself. ‘Ana told me to drop them in the letter box. But I guess they’re going to be Luis’s keys soon, so . . .’
‘OK,’ he said.
I got into the car and drove outside. Then I hit the fob and closed the gates behind me. I wanted to cry again.
‘Safe journey,’ said Pep.
‘Thank you.’
‘You have many friends in Beniflor,’ he reminded me. ‘You will always be welcome here.’
‘Thank you,’ I said again.
Then I put the car in gear and drove away.
The airport was busy. It took ages to drop my bag and get through security, and, when I did, I joined the end of a long queue at Starbucks to order a coffee and a cookie.
I drank the coffee and nibbled the cookie, all the time wondering about the lives of the people around me – where they were going, why they were going there, who would meet them on their arrival and on their return. To judge from the bright-red arms and legs, many of them were returning from a holiday on which they’d happily ignored advice to slather on the sunscreen.
Having been almost pathological about it myself, my own skin was now a light biscuit colour and – despite having worn sun hats as much as possible – my dark brown hair had lightened by a couple of shades. Yet when I went to the Ladies before my flight was called, I could see that I looked healthier than I’d ever done. I applied some coral pink to my lips and sprayed myself with a rip-off perfume I’d bought in the Beniflor market (the scent was absolutely La Vie est Belle, it just didn’t last for very long) and then went off to board the flight.
A few hours later, I was walking into the arrivals hall at Dublin. I always feel self-conscious as I step through the doors, knowing that the people waiting to meet passengers check out everyone who comes through. I could see the disappointment on the faces of the group who held up a banner saying ‘Welcome Home, Sonia’, while the bored drivers with their signs for ‘Mr Murphy’ or ‘Kei Adachi’ simply looked through me.
I turned towards the exit. My plan was to get the Aircoach to the Dundrum Town Centre, which would leave me a ten-minute walk to the apartment. I’d told Saoirse I’d see here there when she got home from work later in the evening. But as I dodged an embracing couple I heard my name being called, and I looked around in surprise.
‘Sweetheart!’ It was Mum’s voice, clear and carrying. ‘Over here.’
I don’t know how I’d missed her – or Gonne, who was standing beside her. Mum was as vibrant as ever in a cerise dress and purple wrap, while Gonne wore slim-fitting jeans and a red jumper. My sister never bothers much with clothes, but truthfully she’d look beautiful in a bin liner.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I asked, after we’d hugged.
‘I wasn’t going to let you arrive without someone to meet you,’ said Mum. ‘Especially as you’ve been away for so long.’
‘A little under three months,’ I said. ‘It’s hardly a lifetime.’
‘But we’ve missed you,’ Mum said, turning to Gonne. ‘Haven’t we?’
‘Of course,’ said my sister. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Can we move out of here?’ I was conscious that people were looking at us. They’d probably been looking at Mum before now, recognising her as Imelda from Clarendon Park, but I didn’t want to be dragged into the centre of attention.
‘Follow me,’ said Gonne, and she began to stride towards the exit.
We were stopped once by a middle-aged woman who asked Mum for her autograph. ‘I wouldn’t normally,’ she explained. ‘But I’m going to England to meet my sister, and she loves you in Clarendon Park.’
‘No problem.’ Mum signed the proffered piece of paper. ‘I hardly ever get bothered by autograph hunters,’ she said when we were settled in Gonne’s car. ‘Let’s face it, the Irish hate asking you in case you think too much of yourself.’
I laughed. She was right. As a race we don’t really revere our celebrities. Probably more than any other people in the world, we want them to know that they’re nothing special. And maybe because I grew up around slightly famous people, I’m really terrible about even recognising them. Saoirse, Cleo and I were once in a bar where Bono was having drinks with some friends. I didn’t even notice him. Afterwards, Cleo told me that nobody had approached him. We think we’re too cool for that kind of thing.
Mum kept up a conversation about trivial family matters until we were out of the airport. But instead of taking the M50 to Dundrum, Gonne continued towards the city centre.
‘Where are you going?’ I cried.
‘Home, of course,’ said Mum. ‘You’re staying with us tonight.’
‘But . . . but – that’s not my plan,’ I objected. ‘I told Saoirse I’d see her in the apartment later.’
‘You can see her tomorrow. You’ll be back at work on Monday, and I won’t have had time to talk to you at all,’ said Mum.
‘We can meet up and chat over the weekend. But I’ve got to get home myself.’
‘Mi casa es su casa,’ she said. ‘I’m sure your Spanish is up to that by now.’
My house is your house. You didn’t need to speak Spanish to know the phrase. And, of course, her house is the house I grew up in. The house I’d never one hundred per cent felt was home. Although that was my fault as much as hers.
I sighed. ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But one night only. I’m not a child, Mum. I haven’t lived with you since I graduated.’
‘I’m not asking you as a child,’ said Mum. ‘I’m inviting you as my daughter.’
And that put an end to my objections.
The house in Ranelagh had always been slightly chaotic. The hall was generally cluttered with coats, boots and umbrellas (Mum never remembered to bring one with her, so any time she was caught in the rain she bought a new one, each more vibrant than the last). The front room was Dad’s domain and resembled any generic photo of a writer’s studio. Overflowing bookshelves lined the walls, bound scripts took up much of the floor space, and his huge mahogany desk was covered in various piles of papers. The only nod to modernity was the open laptop and the printer in the corner.
Most of our family life took place in the kitchen. Originally a separate kitchen and dining room, the previous owners of the house had knocked down the dividing wall and so turned it into one big room, which took up the entire back of the house. We always ate at the kitchen table, and the dining area was now occupied by an enormous modular sofa in a faded green fabric. Mum and Dad had bought it when I was about ten and, although it was a bit lumpy in places now, it was still a comfortable place to hang out.
It was currently occupied by my brother, Butler, his husband Larry, Gonne’s husband Gil, and Cian and Alannah, my niece and nephew. Through the large picture window I could see my dad in the tangled grass of the back garden. He was standing beneath the apple tree, smoking his pipe. Mum’s ban on smoking indoors had preceded the government’s similar ban by about fifteen years. Although I’ve never smoked myself, and hate the smell of stale cigarette smoke, I’d always found the slightly buttery caramel scent of Dad’s pipes relaxing, and sided with him when he objected to Mum’s rule. He was doomed to failure, of course. Nobody defe
ats Mum when she sets her mind to something.
‘Desmond!’ She rapped on the window. ‘Juno’s here! Come in.’
That was the signal for Alannah and Cian to get up from the sofa and hug me. Dad, after he’d put out his pipe, came inside and did the same. Only the men remained on the sofa, though all of them agreed it was good to see me again.
‘You know, more than three months can go by without me seeing any of you in Dublin,’ I remarked in amusement. ‘There’s no need to make such a fuss.’
‘Of course there is,’ said Mum. ‘You’re the prodigal daughter. You were lost and you’ve returned.’
‘I wasn’t lost,’ I protested. ‘At least, not after the first night when I thought I might have been murdered on the road.’
‘Oooh, what happened?’ asked Cian.
I proceeded to tell them about my journey to the Villa Naranja, embellishing the eeriness of arriving at the house in complete darkness and Banquo’s eventual appearance.
‘You are so cool, Auntie Juno,’ said my nephew. ‘Nobody I know would stay in a haunted house on their own.’
‘It wasn’t really haunted.’ I carried on about Banquo’s metamorphosis into Ophelia and Ana’s successful sale of the house to the Navarros. Naturally, I made no mention of the hot sex with Pep Navarro.
‘Sounds interesting.’ Dad looked at me thoughtfully. ‘A TV series, perhaps. A Year in Provence. A Summer in Spain. Only grittier. You’d need more stuff going on, of course. Something sinister, related to the haunted house feeling, perhaps.’
‘There was a murder.’ I was revelling in my unaccustomed role as the storyteller of the family. ‘During the Civil War.’
‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Mum when I’d finished. ‘There’s your story, Desmond. That poor man being strung up, and his wife and children watching. Think of the trauma. And the drama.’
‘Maybe.’ Dad put his unlit pipe into his mouth and started sucking on it. ‘Historical is popular right now. Not for RTÉ, of course. They wouldn’t do it.’
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