Under the Spanish Stars (41 page)

‘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.

‘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.'

‘Really?' Although it shouldn't have surprised her as jazz music accompanied her father in the car, at home, at work … ‘What stopped you?'

‘Practicalities. I let my need for security outweigh fulfilling my dreams.'

‘Oh. I'm sorry.'

He shrugged. ‘That was my choice and no one else's. I understand you way more than you think I do.' He squeezed her shoulder. ‘You have a good heart, Charlotte. Keeping you caged isn't going to help anyone. I can see that now. Just promise me one thing.'

‘What's that?'

‘That whatever you end up doing makes you happy.'

‘I promise.' They entered the living room and she closed the doors, shutting out the cold and allowing an air of peace and calm to wrap around them. ‘So you're not angry?'

‘I'm angry with myself for trying to change your core. You know I'll always love you.'

‘I was scared you might not if you found out who I truly was.'

‘Oh, Charlotte.' He held her in a tight embrace and she relaxed into him, just like when she was a kid.

Stepping back, she said, ‘The
gitanos
believe in living in the moment, forgetting the past and moving forward. I need to allow myself to do that, Dad. I need to do that now.'

Slowly nodding his head, he said, ‘Then do it.'

* * *

After a decent sleep, Charlotte sat on the couch and stared at the mobile phone, wondering whether she should send Mateo another text. She missed his laughter, his smile, the imperfect bridge of his nose, his sandalwood scent, his beautiful, sensual hands and the way he … oh god, what was the point? His silence told her everything but maybe if she sent just one more text …
no, stop it!
She screwed up her nose and threw down the phone. Surely she had better things to do than become an international stalker.

Narrowing her eyes at the half-finished fire painting, she asked, ‘What am I going to do with you?'

Again with the talking to inanimate objects. Perhaps she should book herself into a loony bin rather than commence this soul-searching journey. With so many beautiful destinations in the world she could travel to, why did her mind keep wandering back to a small apartment opposite a bar in Granada?

Damn.

She needed fresh air to clear her mind. Grabbing her jacket and keys, she unlocked the door, yanked it open and stepped forward only to collide with a strong, manly chest. Looking up, she stared into the eyes of the man who had captured her heart.

A hot flutter spread through her body. She stepped back, barely able to
breathe.

‘Why are you in such a hurry? Is there a fire? In your belly, perhaps?' He offered a lopsided smile.

She crossed her arms, not sure what to do. A few moments ago, she was lamenting lack of contact from Mateo then he appears on her doorstep … and she's full of indignation? What was wrong with her?

‘You seem to make a habit of not returning calls,' she said, a little too sharply.

‘Or texts. Or emails. Yes, I know and for this I am sorry but I was a little busy flying over oceans and foreign lands. Also, I needed the time to think.'

‘Have you finished thinking now?'

‘I believe so, yes. It is amazing how much thinking one can do when forced to sit in those metal things that fly.' He leant against the door, his dark eyes boring into hers. ‘Could I please have some water?'

‘Of course.' She walked back into the apartment while he followed, his nearness unnerving her. Oh, how she wanted to push him against the wall, plant her lips on his and do whatever took her fancy. Instead, the air was thick with a strange formality that felt more like two strangers meeting. With a shaky hand, she gestured towards the couch. ‘Please, take a seat.'

She took her time getting a glass and pouring water from the filtered tap. Handing him the glass, she sat on the reading chair opposite, putting some distance between them. This man had jumped on a plane to see her yet he hadn't launched into why and it was killing her. And he drew things out by taking his sweet time sipping water and looking around the apartment. ‘It is very neat.'

‘Most times, yes.'

‘But over there, it is a mess.' He pointed at the paints and brushes strewn in front of the artwork on the table. ‘It is good to see you doing the painting again.'

‘I'm not. I tried but … it doesn't matter.' Since the talk with her father and getting his blessing, she'd been blocked. Perhaps it was a fear of failing. Or maybe the pressure of finally following her dream was too much. Whatever it was, this painter's block sucked. Scratching behind her ear, she asked, ‘How did you find me? I don't recall giving you my address.'