‘For how long?’ Luna was already slightly queasy with trepidation. She hadn’t been back to Spain since she was a child and, even though she had fond memories of the country and its people, she had no desire to reacquaint herself with her Spanish relatives. That aside, there was also the subterfuge the assignment would necessarily entail. Would that sit comfortably with her? Yet this was an opportunity, in more ways than one, not to be dismissed lightly.
‘We were thinking of a month or so. Maybe more,’ affirmed Vandenberg. ‘We’ll apply for an unpaid internship for you, which shouldn’t be too difficult to secure. Get one of our contacts at Princeton to send over your résumé, so the Institute doesn’t find out that you’re working for us. The magazine will cover your expenses.’
Luna’s mind was already formulating the perspectives. ‘So you want a carefully researched exposé of the Institute and its charismatic, rebellious leader?’
‘I expect that’s what we’re looking at, yes.’ Vandenberg dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee and stirred, regarding her. ‘Nothing that might discredit the magazine, though. Proper research.’
‘So you think there’s an added angle here? Pharma companies hacked off with a flaky treatment programme that’s stealing their media space?’
‘There might be a story there. I can’t believe the good doctor is affecting their revenues to any great extent.’
‘I’m presuming the medical establishment has been loudly dismissing his treatments as just another example of pseudoscience?’
‘Of course, but that doesn’t mean your article has to toe the party line. Like I said, unbiased.’ He sipped his drink and chuckled. ‘But no harm in adding a bit of spice to the pot, is there? In fact, your uncle was there last night at the dinner. He has a lot of cash tied up in his research and patents, as you can imagine. Doesn’t take kindly to the herb peddlers who try to pass him on the inside.’ He chuckled again. ‘Actually, it’s usually water off a duck’s back. These guys are normally small fry but there’s a rumour Dr Rueda de Calderón is raising money for trials, which means he might be on to something with one of his treatments. And, as you so rightly pinpointed just now, your uncle is downright ornery at all the press the doctor’s been getting.’
At the mention of her uncle, Luna’s face had become impassive, though her fingers tightened on the papers. She picked up her cup and tried to sound casual.
‘So what is Lorenzo doing in New York?’
‘He’s over from California for a few days before he heads off on his tour of Europe. Impressive man, Herrera. A lot of drive. It’s easy to see how he’s managed to make his pharma company the largest in Spain. He’s really started making his mark over here too. Good luck to him.’
Luna took an overly large sip of coffee, wincing slightly as the heat scalded her tongue. ‘Yes, Uncle Lorenzo has always been single-minded in getting what he wants.’
That’s an understatement, she thought, glad that California was almost three thousand miles away.
She quickly changed the subject. ‘How long do you think it would take to get everything in place?’
A smile spread across Vandenberg’s face. ‘I’ve already made enquiries to fast-track an application to the Institute. You could be in Cádiz this time next week.’
Luna put her cup down carefully on the desk, then looked at him intently for a few moments.
‘Okay, Ted. I’ll do it.’
* * *
A couple of hours later, Luna left the building and headed up Sixth Avenue to her favourite lunchtime deli. She had almost flinched when Ted mentioned alternative cancer therapy. It had been less than a year since Angelina’s death. Only twenty-one, her cousin had been so full of what she wanted to do with her life, her plans for the future. Luna’s grief was still so raw that whenever a recollection hit her, it was like a tooth coming into contact with something ice-cold, a pain that would jab away at her like a knife when she least expected it.
Pulling out her phone, she dialled a number and took a steadying breath. She listened to her aunt’s warm, enquiring voice at the other end.
‘Hi Aunt Bea. Yes, it’s Luna. I’ve got something important to tell you.’ Choosing her words carefully, she filled her aunt in on her conversation with Ted Vandenberg.
‘So, you see, this is a chance for us. Maybe there’s something positive we can get out of what happened to Angelina, if only to try to stop other people and their families falling prey to these charlatans,’ she continued, then waited, listening to the trembling voice of her aunt, before replying: ‘Yes, I agree. Clinics like this can’t get away with peddling false hope.
Chapter 1
Northern Spain, a few weeks later
Ten o’clock at night and Barcelona was just coming to life. Luna made her way along the crowded pavement, heading for Las Ramblas, the city’s well-known promenade. A few hours before, the aircraft that had brought her to the ‘Old World’, as some Americans referred to Europe, had landed. The flight had been delayed and the journey had been tiring, but Luna needed to stretch her legs. In New York it would only be late afternoon and she was still wide awake.
When she had arrived at her hotel, the Casa Montaner, Luna had deposited her luggage in the lobby, lit alluringly by the soft yellow and pink glow of Gaudí-inspired lamps. It was an elegant art-nouveau building in the Eixample district, just north of the old part of the city, with marble and stone pillars sweeping up to a vaulted ceiling. Despite the hotel’s welcoming atmosphere, Luna had immediately asked the way to the seafront. The friendly young concierge, recognizing she was American despite her fluent Spanish, had given her clear directions to Plaça del Portal de la Pau and Port Vell, Barcelona’s oldest port.
‘Hay una magnifica estatua de Cristóba Columbu en la plaza, there is a magnificent statue of Christopher Columbus in the square,’ he told her. His appreciative gaze took in Luna’s long, champagne-blonde hair and the amber eyes that shone through a fringe of dark lashes under perfectly arched brows. ‘You’ll find Port Vell at the end of Las Ramblas. It’s a pedestrian-only street with plenty of restaurants and bars. You can’t do better in Barcelona for entertainment. In fact, nowhere in the world are the nights as lively as in our tascas,’ he added with pride. ‘But take care of your wallet, señorita. Hey muchos carteristas en todo, there are many pickpockets around. Late at night, the southern end of the street in particular becomes less respectable, shall we say.’
Luna smiled. She had no intention of taking any unnecessary risks. Besides, she was from New York so she figured she could take care of herself well enough. ‘Thanks for the advice. Is Las Ramblas far?’
‘Diez minutos a pie en la mayoría de los, ten minutes’ walk at the most.’ The concierge pushed the registration book across the gleaming teak desk. ‘May I ask, are you in Barcelona for business or pleasure?’
‘I’m here for the conference tomorrow at the hotel,’ Luna confirmed, signing her name. ‘Then I’m travelling on to Cádiz.’
The concierge nodded politely and offered her a broad smile. ‘Ah yes, a very prestigious speaker, apparently, Professor Goldsmith. Well, have a pleasant evening, señorita, and enjoy your stay with us.’
‘Muchas gracias, you’ve been very helpful.’
It was a fine spring night and the roads were teeming as Luna walked through the Gothic quarter. Curious and exciting smells, not one in particular but a succession of warm and spicy aromas, hung in the still air. She tried to single them out: garlic, seafood, pimientos, saffron, hot oil, fried tomatoes and a host of others that she did not recognize. Occasionally she would catch the scent of flowers from neighbourhood gardens, a heady mix of roses, jasmine and tuberose. There was the unmistakable imprint of city life on every street corner that echoed New York, and yet the sheer exotic, foreign nature of the place was exquisite.
Everybody was out. By the looks of it, the credit crunch had not crushed Barcelona. Shops were still open at this late hour, doing a roaring trade. Restaurants and cafés with bright awnings spi
lled out on to the pavements. Crowds strolled to and fro at a snail’s pace, refusing to be hurried, seeking bargains and looking at everything. Traffic crawled and fumed, nose to tail along the oneway street, and from time to time Luna would pass a stationary car blasting thumping music out of its open windows. She was in Spain!
She walked with the self-assurance of someone who has grown up before her time. Comfortable in her flat-heeled pumps and stretch-denim jeans that moulded themselves perfectly to the contours of her trim figure, Luna was oblivious to the interest the easy, swinging movement of her hips was attracting. Men’s heads swivelled and their gaze lingered, following her with fascination, but she was immersed in her own thoughts.
She felt light-hearted. More than ever, she knew she had done the right thing. Yes, a part of her had been undeniably reluctant to go to Cádiz in case she should bump into her Spanish relatives yet such was her fascination for Spain it had overcome any other concerns.
And now here she was: Luna Emilia Ward – youngest daughter of Montgomery Ward, the well known American business tycoon, and Adalia Herrera, the beautiful Spanish socialite – back in Spain for the first time since those faraway childhood holidays. That evening, soaking up the unique atmosphere of the city, she wished she’d returned to her native country earlier, that she had been braver and had given in to the complicated tug of her roots.
Even though she was Spanish on her mother’s side, Luna had only been to Spain for short vacations when she was a child. What maternal coldness she had experienced in her early childhood had at least been offset by the joy of those holidays. The memories still glowed warmly inside her like a tiny, unextinguishable flame. They returned to her mind more vividly now than ever: playing in orange groves under the Spanish sun; the white hilltop villages; taking boats out in the perfect azure sea; the haunting sound of flamenco guitars; the endless festivities, and the friendly Spaniards, who were always so passionate about eating, drinking, making music and being happy. Something of the country had embedded itself in her and had slumbered all these years. She had kept up her Spanish, perhaps with the unconscious intention of returning one day.
Her parents had suffered an acrimonious divorce when she was seven. Adalia had taken the daughter from her first marriage, Luna’s half-sister Juliet, with her to Spain, while Montgomery had kept Luna in California. He had immediately packed her off to boarding school but she had, at least, the solace of holidays in California with her paternal grandparents. She also saw her cousin, Angelina, whenever she could. But she had never seen her mother again.
Luna had been twelve when Juliet, who was seven years older than her, died in a car accident while studying at a university on the east coast of America. Adalia, already an alcoholic by then, drank herself to death shortly afterwards. Adalia’s brother, Lorenzo, sought out Luna and, from then on, visited her and Montgomery twice a year in California.
As Luna later saw it, her Uncle Lorenzo, always astute when it came to serving his own interests, had made full use of her father’s business connections during his trips to the West Coast. Lorenzo Herrera owned a pharmaceutical company on the Costa de la Luz in Andalucía that was expanding into the rest of Europe, and his eye was firmly fixed on the US as his new base for Farmacéutica Corporationas. It was this, as much as his efforts at being an influential presence in his niece’s life, that had drawn him to California, though he always maintained he was chiefly there to ensure Luna never forgot her ‘proud Spanish heritage’.
His visits stopped abruptly around the time Luna was entering her teens. She had never found it in herself to accept a single one of her uncle’s invitations to his hacienda in Granada or his house in Cádiz. The very thought of having anything to do with her mother’s family had made her stomach churn. In fact, she ignored Adalia’s homeland altogether, just as her mother had mostly ignored the young Luna for the first few years of her life while in her care. When Luna grew up and started travelling the world on her own, she went to Egypt, Peru and China, never Spain.
It was not that she particularly minded spending most of her time alone while growing up. It meant that she could indulge her burgeoning intellectual curiosity unhindered. Fascinated by the precision and predictability of science and its quest for new discoveries about the universe, at high school her academic achievements soon stacked up, leading to places at Princeton and then Cornell. After that she had her pick of university research posts but, before she had a chance to decide on which offer to take up, Ted Vandenberg called. He’d read an article she’d submitted to his magazine, and now her investigative impulses switched direction. It had taken little persuasion to tempt Luna into journalism at Scientific US.
‘You have a nose for a story, scientific or otherwise,’ Vandenberg had told her.
Now she was to write her first big story for the magazine. Her hard work had paid off. As promised, the magazine had organized an internship. She would be assistant analyst and researcher at El Instituto de Investigación de los Recursos Naturales, The Institute for the Research of Natural Remedies. She gave a shiver of excitement. Tomorrow, after the conference, she would be on a plane to Cádiz, to a strange new life, albeit temporarily.
In Cádiz, she’d be near the sea. Maybe there she would sleep more soundly. Already she could feel an unexpected sense of freedom that seemed to permeate the air around her. Exhilarated by the vibrant surroundings, Luna walked quickly towards the main street, soaking up the atmosphere. She took a right turn and suddenly Las Ramblas was there. For a moment she stood, taking in the scene. The brightly lit promenade, adorned with plane trees, was seething with a river of people.
As she joined the cosmopolitan throng, it felt like all of the action – Barcelona’s entire nightlife – was centred on this wide, tree-lined street, from cosy traditional Spanish bars and restaurants to clubs lit up with neon. The hubbub was indescribable. Although seventies disco had become largely a thing of the past back home, it seemed to thrive in Barcelona and the pulsating music reverberated in the warm night air. Decaying movie houses, abandoned garages and long-closed vaudeville theatres had all been turned into colourful nightlife venues.
Luna could barely take in the staggering parade of diversions. There were booksellers, souvenir stands, flamenco dancers, clowns and acrobats. A dozen street performers, painted bronze or white like statues, wowed the crowds in a fantastic array of costumes, some standing or sitting, others moving in jerky mime. Luna found them somewhat eerie and, unlike other tourists, didn’t stop to take their photograph.
She passed a bank, whose façade was decorated with a huge model of a dragon and an umbrella, the fairy-tale flamboyance of which made her smile. Interrupting her brisk walk, this time she allowed herself a few minutes to pause and take some snapshots of its eccentric charm. Further down, people were having their portraits painted by street artists. A caricaturist approached Luna, offering to draw her. ‘Incluso en la caricatura no seria menos bella, even in caricature you would not look less beautiful,’ he told her. But she merely smiled and shook her head politely. ‘Tal vez en otro momento, maybe some other time,’ she said as she moved on.
The lights turned red when she reached the edge of Plaça del Portal de la Pau. Traffic roared around the colossal, brightly lit Columbus statue, which stood proudly in the middle of the square overlooking the sea. Here, the crowds suddenly thinned and the pavement was almost deserted, except for a group of shell-game touts. They gathered around Luna, jostling for her attention, standing too close: ‘Which shell is the pea under? Where are you heading, señorita?’ The red light flashed to green and, with a sigh of relief, she crossed over to Passeig de Colom and the sea.
Slowing her pace, she glanced around her, wondering which way to go next. The wooden swing bridge of Rambla del Mar was visible ahead, heaving with crowds. Standing under a streetlamp, she pulled a small map from her pocket. Despite the noise on this wide avenue of palm and orange trees, she could hear the vague hissing roll of the Mediterranean as it licked t
he expansive shoreline and knocked against the smart yachts docked in the marina. Above the yellow glow of the city, the sky was a deep sapphire blue. The playful night breeze lifted Luna’s blonde mane, gentle, constant and cool. The air was sparkling, flavoured with the tang of the sea. Luna inhaled deeply, taking in the freshness of the night air. She passed her tongue over her lips and tasted salt.
Soon she was besieged by hawkers with a variety of cheap wares. She hung on to the small leather shoulder bag swinging freely by her side and clasped it firmly under one arm as she quickened her pace. The concierge at the hotel had warned of pickpockets in this part of the city; if she lost her bag, she would have only herself to blame.
She was about to turn back when she caught strains of music and bursts of clapping coming from a narrow side street to her left. Flamenco music … her favourite.
Luna hesitated, pondering whether to go off in search of it. It wasn’t part of her plan. The distant frenzied notes vibrated on the night air, sending a delicious hum through her body. She had been to a few flamenco shows in Las Vegas and in other parts of the US, but had always wanted to see a live show in Spain. The sensible voice inside her head told her that she would have plenty of opportunity to see flamenco over the coming months, and that it was foolish to follow a whim when she should be getting back to the hotel, but right at that moment Luna was tempted to give in to her curiosity and follow the sound. In fact, something stronger than curiosity beckoned, something more alluring and seductive, that seemed to stir her soul – a call of enchantment drifting through the night air. In answer, she stepped quickly into the alleyway.
The sinuous passage was paved with cobblestones and was badly lit. It was empty, save for a few couples that stood in the shadows, absorbed in each other. Both sides were lined with the colourful façades and beautiful wrought-iron balconies of secretive houses, their drawn-down persianas and wooden doors jealously guarding the lives of their owners. Luna wondered about the hidden inhabitants, just as she had done a few years back when gliding in a gondola past the magnificent but eerie shuttered palaces of Venice. Here, just as in the streets of the Gothic quarter, the air was laden with fascinating smells; this time the piquant aroma of cooking mingled with wood smoke and the ozone of the sea.
Legacy Page 2
