‘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?
CHAPTER
29
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—’
‘Yes, I am aware of this. She’s told me about it. But what is this, next to it?’ He pointed at her failed effort.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said and quickly covered it up with a nearby sheet.
‘It’s obviously something.’ He pulled the material away.
‘Dad—’
‘I didn’t know you’d taken up painting again.’
‘You don’t have to know everything I do.’ Her defensive tone felt justified.
‘You’re right, I don’t, but it concerns me you’re going to start thinking like a bohemian again. You can’t live on air alone, Charlotte.’
‘Just because I’ve started painting again doesn’t mean I’m going to ditch my career.’ She held a tone of conviction but why did she feel like she’d just told a dirty big lie?
‘I certainly hope not. How many conversations have we had about you painting?’
‘They’ve never been conversations, Dad. They’ve been you telling me to give up any hope of painting professionally because my life belonged to the family business whether I liked it or not.’ The fear that normally accompanied this topic hadn’t surfaced.
‘So you don’t like this?’ His sweeping arm gestured towards the swanky apartment. ‘You paid for this with money you earned in the family company. The same family business that paid for your top-notch education, that took you on expensive holidays and bought you many, many things.’
‘I realise this, Dad, and I thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Truly. I’ve tried so hard to be the person you want me to be.’ The bubble of confidence grew within and for the first time in a while, her usual anxiety of candour with her father had dissipated. ‘I can’t fake it any more, Dad. I can’t continue working six days a week, fourteen hours a day. And when I do have time off and see you in a social situation we end up discussing work again. I’m not the tough businesswoman you think I am.’
Her father said nothing as he leant forward and poured them each a cup of tea. He motioned for her to take a sip, but she sat on the couch and didn’t touch the cup.
‘Do you despise me?’ he asked, his face not revealing any emotion.
‘What? No! You’re my father and I love you. We just want different things, that’s all.’ For years she’d fantasised about this conversation and now that it was actually happening, she couldn’t quite believe it.
He rested his chin in his hand and rubbed his index finger back and forth along his cheek. A far away look formed in his eyes, as if he was debating with himself, something she’d seen him do many times over. ‘What is it you want?’
Charlotte took a deep breath, allowing her brain to click into gear. ‘I have no idea what I want. All I know is that what I’m doing right now doesn’t fit any more.’ It never did. ‘I’m unhappy, Dad. Really, really unhappy.’ The very moment one tear left her eye and ran down her cheek, others followed.
Her father remained silent, and focussed on the rug at his feet. For a man with the gift of words, he appeared to be struggling. Charlotte waited, her heart beating loudly, tension squeezing the muscles in her neck, as she tried to contain her emotions. She studied the man who’d raised her to work hard, to dig deep, to never give up. He’d instilled a sense of not wasting a moment and as much as she valued what he’d taught her, she needed to take the risk and jump into an uncertain future. Excitement grew just thinking about the possibilities.
After what felt like forever, her father stood, his large frame towering above her. His eyes didn’t meet hers as he walked over to the glass double doors, opened them and stepped onto the balcony. The cool breeze from the Yarra River drifted inside, the lights of bobbing boats below reflected on the glass. Unsure what to do, she bit the bullet and followed him outside, her need to put this to rest outweighing any fear of fallout. Wrapping the light cardigan tighter around her body, she stepped onto the balcony, cold air chilling her exposed skin.
Her father gripped the balustrade so tight his knuckles had turned white. His head hung low as he mumbled, ‘Have I truly been that blind? How long have you been unhappy?’
‘I don’t know. I just …’ She sniffed.
‘But you’re so good at what you do. What about your education? Are you going to throw it away?’
‘I’m pressing pause, Dad. Nothing’s going to be chucked.’
‘It doesn’t sound like it.’ He drew his brows together, his lips downturned. ‘I knew taking time off to help your grandmother would lead to trouble. What did Spain do to you?’
‘It helped me realise what I don’t want.’
‘So you don’t want in on the family business?’ His hurt wrapped around the question.
‘I don’t know.’ She clenched her fists at her side. ‘That’s why I need time to figure it out. I need to live my life my way. I’m not you, Dad. Why can’t you see that?’
‘Calm down, Charlotte—’
‘No! For years I’ve stayed calm, letting you push me into a career I never fully wanted. I know you had my best interests in mind and that money and a career and material possessions are important to you but it’s what you want, not me. Flamenco taught me to embrace the essence of me. It taught me that it’s okay to take risks.’
He let go of the railing and turned to face her. ‘It’s that bloody flamenco again. Look at the trouble it’s caused your grandmother.’ He scratched his head. ‘I suppose I can’t entirely blame flamenco for your change in attitude. This conversation has been brewing for a long time. I’ve seen it. We all have. I just selfishly hoped it would go away.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Dad, I love spending my days with you and Steve but the work is not for me.’
Her father’s breathing slowed. ‘I think you’re making a mistake.’
‘No, Dad, the mistake I’ve made was trying to fit in where I don’t belong. This is your world. Steve’s world. Not mine. I—’
‘You’ve never stood up to me like this. Why now?’
‘Because I’ve never felt so passionately about anything before.’
‘You can’t come running back to me if it doesn’t work out. If you cut the ties with the business, then you’re on your own.’
Panic ripped through her. ‘You’re not meaning the family as well, are you?’ Could her father be that extreme? What right did he have to kick her out? How could he—
‘Is that how you see me? As an ogre?’ He turned to her, his large eyes full of hurt.
‘No, I just …’ How could she explain?
‘I am sorry you feel that way.’ He adjusted the lapel on his jacket and headed towards the balcony door.
‘Dad!’ She rushed forward and grabbed his arm. ‘You’re not an ogre, we’re just on different pages, that’s all.’
‘I’ve given you everything I never had. A good education, a chance to work in a family business so you would develop a sense of duty—’
‘Haven’t I just shown that by going to Spain and helping Abuela?’
His jaw tightened. ‘So this is what it is all about. Your grandmother has been in your ear again.’
‘Maybe.’ But they both knew the truth.
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‘She’s been in mine, also. She’s …’ He looked to the heavens and pushed out a long sigh. ‘She told me everything.’
‘About R—’
‘Everything.’ It came out hard and fast.
‘Oh.’ She studied her freshly painted toenails. ‘Are you okay?’
It couldn’t be easy to discover your mother pined after a man who wasn’t your father.
‘No, I’m not okay but I have to be, don’t I? I can’t spend the precious little time my mother has on this earth being angry with her. Your abuela—my mother—betrayed us and I am going to have to find a way to forgive her.’
‘She never lied about any of this, she just kind of … never talked about it. And from what she told me Grandpa knew about her life in Spain. Well, most of it. He certainly knew about … him.’ She’d already been cut off once for using Raul’s name so she didn’t want to invite a second round.
His large moist eyes fixed on her, and for the first time in years she felt he truly saw her. ‘She chose you to go to Spain because you’re the only person who understands her.’
‘Maybe not all the time.’
‘Most of the time. I don’t think anyone can fully understand another person. But you two … you’re peas in a pod. You both have that free spirit.’ His shoulders fell.
‘Perhaps it’s our gitano blood.’ Charlotte risked a smile.
Her father loosened his tie and stretched his neck. He did it for so long it became obvious he was stalling.
‘Dad? Did you want to say something?’
‘I was like you, once.’ His usual booming voice sounded much gentler, reminding her of their conversations when she was young and had finished school for the day.
‘Pardon?’
‘I had a free spirit in me, dying to get out. Perhaps,’ he smiled, ‘it was our gitano ancestry.’
‘Why didn’t you say something before?’
Her father reached out and placed his hand gently under her chin. ‘Because I’d quashed that desire to break free and pursue my dreams.’
‘What did you want to do?’
‘Jazz musician.’
Under the Spanish Stars Page 31