Mateo.
Why hadn’t he called?
Pulling out the phone, she unlocked the screen that displayed missed calls.
‘Damn.’
Charlotte checked the side of the phone and sure enough, she’d had it on vibrate since the library this morning. With all the walking she’d been doing no wonder she didn’t feel it ring. What an idiot. Dialling voicemail, she waited for it to play.
You have two new messages …
Two?
From Mateo two hours ago—‘I am coming. I promise.’
From Mateo ten minutes ago—‘I am sorry, Charlotte. I cannot be in your company today.’
Annoyed about missing his calls and even more cranky about him not offering a decent reason for standing her up, she shoved the phone in her handbag and scanned the room for photos. A cluster of framed black-and-white and colour images sat in the corner so she got up and studied the photographic history. A little girl with a young couple at the beach; the girl a few years older on a horse with a handsome man by her side; graduation of the girl, now older, still attractive; Felicidad dressed as a bride, and an older man, most likely Raul, with his arm around her, their smiles matching; Felicidad holding a baby—
The sound of Felicidad clearing her throat filled the room.
Standing upright, Charlotte said, ‘I’m sorry. I was just looking—’
‘Is okay.’ She gestured towards the couch. ‘Come.’
They sat and Felicidad placed a guitar case across Charlotte’s lap. Raul’s daughter nodded towards it and Charlotte ran her fingers along the battered casing, stopping at a small dent.
‘Gun … pew-pew,’ Felicidad said. ‘No all way. Guitarra safe.’
Quickly taking her finger off the dent, Charlotte tentatively opened up the case. A stunningly preserved guitar, its wood as shiny and perfect as if it were brand new, sat comfortably inside the well-padded case. Between the instrument and the case were fifty or sixty envelopes, in varying shades of off-white through to yellow. She pulled an envelope out. In spidery writing were the words:
Para Katarina Sanchez
Charlotte blinked then gingerly reached into the guitar case and retrieved more. All of them were addressed to Abuela.
Indicating that she wished to open an envelope, Charlotte asked, ‘May I?’
Felicidad nodded, a sad smile gracing her still very hot pink lips. It felt wrong to be opening Raul’s correspondence after admonishing Felicidad for reading Abuela’s, but Felicidad appeared keen for Charlotte to inspect the contents.
With great care, she undid the envelope and slid the letter out. The date was 30th August, 1948, and the letter began Querida Katarina and was signed, siempre tuyo, Raul. Charlotte scanned for words she recognised—heart, love, always, my soul. Pulling out another letter, she read the contents and it was similar to the one before. This time the date read 30th August, 1955. Carefully extracting more letters from more envelopes, Charlotte quickly had a pile of missives to Katarina, from Raul, all dated the 30th August and spanning decades.
‘Una carta por cada año.’ Felicidad held up a finger, indicating one letter for every year. ‘Por tu abuela, Katarina. ¿Qué romántico, no?’
‘Very romantic.’ Although why would a man who had a wife and daughter write to another woman every single year? And why didn’t he send them? Although the same could be said about Abuela—why had she held onto that one letter for Raul? And most important of all, why did she think he was dead?
‘Mi padre y Katarina …’ Felicidad swallowed, her eyes glassy.
Charlotte squeezed this lovely woman’s hand. ‘I know this is hard. I’m sorry.’
Felicidad clasped her hands around Charlotte’s and nodded towards the guitar and letters. ‘Por su abuela.’
‘For Katarina? Are you sure?’
‘Sí.’ She sniffed and reached into her sleeve for a handkerchief. After she’d wiped away the tears she gently put the letters into a pile on the coffee table and removed the guitar from the case. Felicidad ran her fingers slowly along the immaculate rosewood. Her lips turned into a slow, sad smile. ‘More of his love.’
‘He played guitar?’
‘Sí. Katarina,’ Felicidad waved her hands in the air like a flamenco dancer, ‘y mi padre,’ she pointed at the guitar.
‘Oh, wow.’ Charlotte wished it hadn’t taken until now for Abuela’s story to finally surface. To think she’d held onto the pain of loss for so many years. ‘Do you know Katarina and Raul’s history?’
‘¿Historia? No. Mi padre give me,’ she pointed at the guitar and letters, ‘before he die. Say I keep. Say muy especial. No more …’ Felicidad furrowed her brows, ‘history, I know.’
‘I can find out for you. I will ask Katarina.’ Maybe this news about Raul would encourage her grandmother to open up. Or seal her lips forever.
‘Gracias.’ Miming writing with a pen Felicidad said, ‘Me email?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Charlotte reached in her bag and pulled out her business card and Felicidad did the same. They exchanged the cards and a long, friendly hug. When they pulled away from each other, Charlotte said, ‘What made you change your mind about talking with me? Was it Katarina’s letter?’
‘Mi padre … my father … love my mother, but she die when I young.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Is okay,’ Felicidad shrugged but pain clouded her delicate features. ‘He love mi madre but they amigos, no romantic love. No like love he have for Katarina.’ Felicidad chewed her lip as if searching for the right words. ‘I have great love, but he die. I know pain of love no more. My father say Katarina die.’
‘And she thought he’d died.’ The more layers they peeled away the more they discovered underneath.
‘Is mystery, yes? Katarina letter show big love. My heart break.’ She held her closed fist against her chest. ‘Mi padre, he,’ she made the sign of writing with a pen, ‘same day he think she die every year.’
What would have happened had they known the other was alive? Selfishly or not, Charlotte felt a pang of jealousy on her grandpa’s behalf. Did he know about this Raul? What had he thought about this?
Standing, Charlotte carefully packed the guitar and letters back into the case. Closing the lid and snapping the locks into place, she grabbed the handle and used her spare hand to squeeze Felicidad’s. ‘Gracias. You have been so kind and I promise I will do my best to discover the real story behind Katarina and Raul’s grand love.’
CHAPTER
27
Charlotte stood inside the main entrance of the Federico García Lorca Airport, tickets in hand, luggage checked in, except for a handbag and the case containing the guitar and letters. The airport buzzed with reunions and sad departures and, although she usually enjoyed people-watching, a cloud of melancholy hung around her.
After leaving two more messages for Mateo, she’d given up and sadly gone online to arrange her flights home then made her way to the airport. She’d hoped to say goodbye but his evasiveness only assured her it wasn’t meant to be. Her head tried to believe this, but her heart—her silly, mischievous heart—told her she shouldn’t give up on the one man who had made her think, even for a fleeting second, that she could fall in love again.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘You always swear in the airport?’ Mateo sidled up as though he hadn’t been playing Mr Elusive.
A shiver of happiness raced up her spine then Charlotte remembered she was cranky with him. She stood the guitar case on end and rested it against her leg as she tried to remain calm. ‘Airport swearing is reserved for when people don’t return my calls.’
‘I did return calls, yes?’
‘You called to say you couldn’t make it when you said you would help. Then you ignored my returned calls. Listen, I understand other things crop up, but an explanation would be nice.’
‘I have had many pressing things.’ Guilt flicked across his handsome features.
‘And?’
‘And that is all. Tell me, why do you leave so soon?’
‘Because I have important information for Abuela and she needs to hear it in person, and soon. They’re moving her into the respite section at St Thomas’s Private Hospital.’ Why did she insist on running off at the mouth? Nerves were the only explanation. His arrival had caught her off-guard and now the uncomfortable air between them was full of unspoken feelings and questions, but she had no idea where to start or whether it was worth pursuing.
‘May I ask what you found out?’
‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss with anyone until I’ve spoken with Abuela.’ Her words were clipped even though she didn’t want their last moments to be riddled with angst.
‘You were happy to keep me informed before, yes? What has changed?’ His look of genuine puzzlement made her shoulders taut.
‘You’re seriously asking this? You haven’t told me anything about why your brother chooses to use you as a punching bag and you’ve never divulged much about your parents. You once told me you were an open book and I foolishly believed you. I’ve got enough going on without having to navigate stormy relationship waters.’
‘Charlotte …’
Mateo reached out for her hand, but the guitar case started slipping from its resting place against her leg and she grabbed it before it crashed to the floor.
‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘Something for Abuela.’ She didn’t like these evasive answers but what could she do? She’d given him a chance to talk and prove her wrong but he didn’t take the bait. Did she need to make a neon sign? Hurt settled around her. To think they once had the makings of a great relationship, even if it was going to be long-distance.
‘That is all you have to say?’ He arched his eyebrows. ‘After everything we shared?’
‘There’s lots I want to say, Mateo, but what’s the point? You’ll go back to your life here and I’ll be living mine in Australia. I will, however, cherish our moments together.’ She bit her lip and cursed the tears welling in her eyes.
‘We could have more moments, yes?’ His deep, soft voice made her heart ache.
‘We have different ideas on so many things, and we live so far apart,’ she said quietly. ‘Look at our thoughts on family. I understand a family is not always related by blood. Lord knows, I’ve seen enough examples of blood-related families that have been disastrous. As, I suspect, is the case with your family.’
‘The Giménez clan is my family.’
‘Okay—as I suspect is the case with your birth family. I can understand why you are so attached to the Giménez clan. It’s obvious they love and care for you and I imagine it took a lot for them to welcome you into their world. That says a great deal about you, right? You did enough for them to trust you and, honestly, I thought I had done enough for you to trust me by letting you in on my family secrets, sharing my turbulent relationship with painting, and allowing my heart to fall in love again. I guess I was wrong.’ Oh god. What had she done? She’d just taken the biggest risk of all, and for once in her life, she hadn’t thought about it twice.
Mateo’s eyes widened. His mouth opened then closed, allowing a few long seconds to pass. ‘You love me?’
‘Yes!’ How could he not know this? She wanted to slap him with her palm in the middle of his forehead in the hope she’d whack some sense into him. So much for taking risks. You’re an idiot, Charlotte Kavanagh. ‘But you don’t need to worry. My plane leaves soon and I’ll be out of your hair. Again, thank you for helping—’
‘Charlotte.’
‘Yes?’ She bit her lip, praying he’d confess to feeling the same way. She waited impatiently while Mateo shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet.
‘Never the mind.’
The announcement for her flight echoed in the departure hall.
‘It’s obviously important.’ She had seconds to get it out of him before the gates closed. Please, please say you feel the same.
‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘Not really important.’
Oh god. How stupid can you be, Kavanagh? Frustration and disappointment collided as her grip around the guitar case handle tightened.
‘I need to go.’ She leant forward then regretted it the moment her lips met his warm, rough cheek.
Damn, she loved his cologne. Damn, she loved this man.
Mateo stood still, not reacting to her parting gesture. Hoisting the handbag on her shoulder and adjusting the weight of the guitar in her hand, she gathered all the strength she possessed to hold back the tears. ‘I wish you well, Mateo. You’re a good person. I’m sorry things didn’t turn out differently.’
She took a hesitant step, then one more and when Mateo didn’t move to stop her, she quickened her pace to get through security and to the gate. The guitar case felt heavy but her heart even more so. What a fool she’d been to think something lasting could have come out of the relationship with Mateo. The words she’d read in the tourist magazine at the hotel echoed in her mind: ‘Flamenco awakens passion in the soul, just like love.’ If heartbreak was a form of passion then she didn’t want a bar of it. Flamenco and love needed to be kicked to the curb.
* * *
Charlotte placed the guitar case under the bed of her grandmother’s room at the hospital, then sat on the chair next to Abuela. The trip to Australia had felt twice as long as before as the distance between her and Mateo grew. The awkward goodbye they’d shared played on her mind and no amount of jetlag or distraction helped erase the pain. She hadn’t eaten for 24 hours, her stomach unable to handle food and even though she tried to tell herself she wasn’t worried, Charlotte had checked her messages and email the second the plane touched down in Melbourne but much to her disappointment, nothing had arrived from Mateo. It irked her that she cared so much.
Turning her attention to Abuela, she studied the woman who had stood by Charlotte all her life, the faith in her granddaughter never wavering. Now Charlotte had to tell Abuela that Raul had been alive for decades, writing her letters, confessing his love. The second part to this revelation—that Raul had passed away recently—could be her grandmother’s undoing.
Abuela coughed in her sleep, the deep rattle disconcerting. Even in the short time Charlotte had been away, Abuela had deteriorated dramatically and she looked greyer than before. The doctors were still concerned with her slow progress and even if she did get better, her returning home was impossible. In order to break the news to Abuela, Charlotte had to accept the inevitable, but saying and doing were entirely different. Especially when she factored in the latest developments concerning Raul in Spain.
Oh Abuela, how are you going to handle this news?
Abuela coughed again and the headphones attached to the iPod slipped off her head. Charlotte smiled, amused at Abuela happily embracing most technology but still avoiding email and tablets like the plague. Gently removing the headphones, and bringing them up to her ears, Charlotte had a listen then pulled it away when she realised it was Paco de Lucía, the same guitarist Mateo admired and listened to.
Why was Abuela listening to flamenco? Charlotte had never witnessed this before.
She placed the headphones back on her grandmother’s head, the music appearing to lull her into a state of bliss. Charlotte bit her lip. She should have taken the extra time to drop her bags at the apartment and take a shower but if she did that she’d likely chicken out about breaking the news, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good.
‘Abuela.’ Charlotte gently rubbed her grandmother’s hand, the skin now drier and thinner.
‘¿Sí?’ It wasn’t uncommon for Abuela to revert to Spanish, especially when stirring from sleep.
‘It’s Charlotte.’
‘Charlotte!’ Abuela’s eyelids flew open and a large grin graced her dry, cracked lips. She wrapped her bony hands around her granddaughter’s. ‘Did you deliver the letter?’
‘Yes.’ Charlotte’s heart ached at seeing her grandmother so happy. This would not make w
hat she had to say any easier. ‘I managed to find the gravesite. I … uh …’
‘You what?’ Large, expectant eyes pleaded with her.
‘I found where he was buried and I put the letter on the grave like you asked. I said a prayer on your behalf and … and …’ Puffing out her cheeks she tried to buy time, but it was of no use. ‘He died recently.’
‘No, no. He died 30th August, 1944. I saw it with my own eyes.’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘You must have the wrong Raul. Oh, that’s so disappointing. To think the letter is on the wrong grave. I know you tried, my dear—’
‘I got it right, Abuela. I promise you. I know he is the right Raul because I met his daughter.’ There. It was out and she couldn’t take it back. No one had a right to deny this beautiful lady the truth, so why did it feel like Charlotte had just opened up a Pandora’s box that should have remained sealed?
Abuela shook her head vehemently. ‘He never had a daughter.’
‘I’m afraid he did, Abuela. Her name is Felicidad and she’s in her fifties.’ Pausing, she allowed her grandmother to absorb the words. ‘Do you want to know?’
‘I …’ Abuela’s sunken eyes misted over and her lips trembled. She placed her hand over her heart and panic ran through Charlotte. She reached for the buzzer, but Abuela grabbed her hand, the strength in her once frail fingers surprising Charlotte.
‘I am not having a heart attack.’ Her voice sounded stern.
‘I’m sorry, Abuela—’
‘I’m the one who should be sorry.’ Her voice now soft. ‘I shouldn’t shoot the messenger, I just …’ She took a deep breath, ‘I wasn’t expecting this.’ Abuela’s shoulders shook and Charlotte feared this could be the start of another turn. ‘But he was dead. I … he …’ She placed her head in her hands. ‘I saw him die.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe—’
‘Do not be ridiculous. You did the right thing telling me. No one gets to this age without some heartache and disappointment.’ Abuela’s chest rose and fell, as if she was struggling to remain in control. She stared out the window, at the storm clouds massing and the wind shaking the leafy trees. Outside the room nurses and doctors talked in hushed voices, and trolleys with medical gear clanked as they were wheeled up and down, while the distinct smell of antibacterial hand wash pervaded the air. Minutes ticked by and Charlotte grew antsy but didn’t want to interrupt Abuela’s reflecting.
Under the Spanish Stars Page 29
