Under the Spanish Stars (14 page)

‘What?'

‘
El Jefe
didn't say much, but he just confirmed there is a definite connection between the clan and the Sanchez family. I imagine I'm right in saying the relationship was not a good one.' She stared at Mateo. ‘What the hell happened?' Turning on her heels, she started in the direction of
El Jefe
's dwelling. ‘He obviously knows something. If I just ask the right—'

Fingers dug into her bicep and halted her progress.

‘Ow!' She shook her arm free of Mateo's grip.

‘Charlotte, you cannot go back in. He's said what he's needed to and you won't get anything more. The fact he saw you at all is a blessing. Do not destroy your good work.' Mateo's words came out rushed and as he spoke, she realised there was more on the line if she upset
El Jefe
. Mateo, Leila and even Cristina had gone in to bat for her and she couldn't consciously cause them trouble by going back and hassling
El Jefe.
But Abuela needed answers. How could she get them now?

‘You need to play your cards right, yes? Maybe …' Mateo stiffened, then shook his head. ‘It does not matter.'

‘Maybe what?' Charlotte grabbed his hand.

‘Yes, what is this maybe what?' Leila asked as she sauntered towards them, wrapping a beautiful floral shawl around her narrow shoulders. ‘Did
El Jefe
help?'

‘He confirmed the artist is from this clan.' Charlotte deliberately didn't mention Syeria's name. ‘He said to contact immediate members of the Sanchez family, but I know from my own research they've fallen off the face of the earth.'

‘Your
abuela
, she did not keep contact with her family?' Leila asked.

‘She had a falling out when she decided to dance flamenco, then the Civil War broke out and we suspect her family left Spain before things turned worse. I've done my own investigating but haven't ever been able to find them.' She dreaded to think what Abuela would say if she ever got wind of Charlotte's researching efforts.

‘They could have changed their names, yes? This is something many
people did.' Leila said, then turned to Mateo. ‘You have contacts, yes?'

‘I …' He shifted from foot to foot. ‘It has been a long time.'

‘But her
abuela
is very sick, Mateo. You must help.' Leila placed her hands on her hips.

‘What does she mean?' Charlotte turned to Mateo who concentrated on the ground and dug the toe of his boot in the dirt.

‘It means I have to remember my own history and I am not ready for this.'

‘I'm not following,' said Charlotte.

‘It is a long story.' Mateo broke into a grin. ‘I believe you and I have this in common.'

‘So you'll help?' Leila asked, her pit-bull nature showing through.

Mateo furrowed his brows. ‘I will not make promises I cannot keep.'

Mateo's yellow car bumped in and out of potholes as they made their way back to the main road. He gripped the steering wheel, the skin of his knuckles luminescent white. Mateo hadn't spoken since Leila had nagged him about helping and even though Charlotte desperately wanted to quiz him, she suspected he needed to mull over whatever it was that had caused his distress. She just hoped he didn't stew too long because time was not her friend.

‘Your painting. Why is it a long story?' Mateo kept his eyes trained on the road.

Charlotte bit her lip and stared out the passenger window, the blue sky now turning a menacing grey.

‘You do not wish to talk about it, yes? Why not?'

She continued concentrating on the darkening sky. A flash of sheet lightning lit up the paddocks in the distance. Only this morning she'd felt like her own bolt of lightning had struck and inspired her to paint again and now, as the sky flashed bright around them, Mateo had asked about her painting. Was he a part-time mind reader?

‘It's just …' Where to begin? Perhaps opening up might help him do the same and she could get to the bottom of the strange conversation he had with Leila. But talking about her innermost feelings meant being vulnerable, like when she painted, and she wasn't ready to go there again. ‘It's nothing.'

‘This sad face and moping does not look like nothing. Charlotte,' he placed a hand on her knee and she jumped involuntarily, ‘it is okay to do the talking.'

Turning to face him, she studied his dark eyes. It would be so easy to get lost in there.

‘Charlotte?'

‘I'm fine.' She turned back to the grey-black sky, aware of his hand on her leg. Lightning continued to flash, then a loud clap of thunder broke above. Seconds later, fat drops of rain pelted the car and the visibility disappeared.

Mateo took his hand off her leg and turned on the wipers, but they were useless in the deluge. Turning onto a small road, he parked the car away from the towering trees. ‘It appears nature is forcing us to stop. Perhaps now would be a good idea for a conversation.'

Charlotte closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Unless she wanted to make a dramatic exit into the storm she was stuck here with an attractive, albeit frustratingly persistent, Spaniard.

‘Like you, there are things I prefer not to talk about,' she said.

‘You prefer not to talk or refuse?' Mateo arched an eyebrow and leant in close. His sandalwood scent tickled her nostrils and she tried to refrain from grabbing his collar and pulling him towards her so she could try out those beautiful, soft lips.

‘Painting is just a hobby,' she blurted out.

‘I do not know a lot about art, but I can see the material you bought is professional.'

Thunder broke above them again and goosebumps broke out on her skin. The temperature had plummeted and she ran her hands up and down her arms, totally unprepared for the change in weather. Removing his jacket, Mateo passed it to her and she took it, not wanting to discourage his chivalrous gesture. The warmth from his body remained on the fabric and his luscious scent lingered.

‘Thanks, Mateo.'

‘It is the least I can do. Now, Charlotte Kavanagh, tell me about this business of the painting. Do you paint because of the picture your grandmother has?

‘No!' she said, a little too strongly.

Mateo moved back, holding his hands in the air as if defending himself.

‘Sorry,' she mumbled and studied the intricate weaving on the sleeve of his dark green woollen jacket.

‘This is okay. We are all prone to the outbursts, yes? So, tell me, why the change in the mood?'

With the storm outside making it impossible to drive and a gorgeous
flamenco guitarist giving her his full attention, she didn't have any chance of avoiding the subject. Better to bite the bullet and get it out in the open.

‘My grandmother thinks I should follow my heart and paint professionally. I once had a lot of galleries interested in my work. Despite my father thinking art is a waste of time he gave me leave to work on an exhibition. If it proved successful I would be free to walk away from the family business.'

‘This is a lot of pressure for one exhibition. Does it not take years to get a reputation?'

‘Yes.'

‘And?'

‘Many critics loved my work, but the public didn't vote with their wallets. I … I failed.' The rain pelted so hard she worried the roof would cave in.

‘Did you sell any?'

‘Only one—to my grandmother. She wouldn't let me give it to her. She said I had worked hard and therefore needed to be remunerated for my efforts.'

‘She loves and supports you very much, yes?'

‘She does. That's why I'm so desperate to help her.'

‘Of course, I understand. But I must ask this: if you received the praise from the critics, it would only be a matter of time before you sold all your paintings, yes?'

‘I didn't have that luxury. I'd stupidly made a deal with my father and I had to follow through. The sale to Abuela didn't count in my father's eyes and, as much as I hate to admit it, I do understand where he's coming from.' Hurt surged through her, the humiliation of the financially unsuccessful exhibition still fresh in her mind. ‘You need to understand that my grandparents struggled with money and so my father grew up without much. He had a lot of love, sure, but that's not enough for a growing kid. Food, shelter, clothing … there were times he had none of these, even though Abuela and my grandfather worked extremely hard. When he became an adult and had his own children he pledged that none of his family would live in poverty and the only way to avoid that was for his children to get a good education.'

‘If your grandmother is poor, how did she find money for the painting?'

‘My father may be opinionated but he is very generous. My grandparents used to live in rural Australia and they owned a small insurance business servicing farmers. Unfortunately, they barely made any money. So my father bought the firm and paid my grandparents handsomely, setting them up for life. My father moved the business to the city and now it's a major success. We still look after the farmers—they're my favourite clients. I love going out to see them. There's something special about rural Australia.' Her head filled with images of red dust, affable farmers and scones with jam and cream.

‘From what I've seen, your outback looks beautiful. Your father sounds like a kind man.'

‘He can be—when he wants. He's made sure Abuela doesn't need to scrimp and save these days and she's appreciative, but it doesn't stop her from speaking her mind with him.' Charlotte smiled with fond memories of Abuela wagging a finger at her son over family lunches and telling him to stop being so pig-headed. He took it like a good son did, but still went on his merry way, doing what he felt was best for him. Always him …

‘I can understand the wish of your father for his children to have a good education and secure job but sometimes the soul needs to be free or else it will wither and die.' His tone held barely concealed bitterness. ‘Why would you let your father dictate what you should be doing?'

‘In the end there was no point in arguing with him. I realised that I'm not good enough to paint professionally.'

‘You say this after one exhibition? If I gave up flamenco after my first performance I would never have ended up this happy. I did the drowning thing. Played so badly, made many, many mistakes but I did not let it stop me.' Mateo gave her a gentle push in the arm. ‘You need to grow some
cojones
.'

Charlotte let out a small laugh. ‘Maybe.'

‘There is no maybe. You grow the
cojones
and you follow your dream.
¿Entiendes?
'

‘Yes, I understand.' She tried not to grit her teeth.

‘You should quit.'

‘Quit what?' she asked, completely confused.

‘Tell your father you quit, then follow your dream to paint. If the risk is small, the success is small. If the risk is big, the success is big.' He spread his hands, palms up. ‘What are you waiting for?'

‘I'm not a quitter.' She crossed her arms, aware she was being defensive, but decided to leave them where they were.

‘Yes, you are.'

‘Am not.' How did Mateo make her revert to sounding so childish? It was like being in Abuela's presence with the relentless questions over her choice to dump her artwork. ‘Besides, since I've spent the last few years assessing risk for work, it's impossible to take risk in my own life.'

‘How can you expect to be happy if you do not do what makes you happy?'

‘But painting makes me miserable.'

Mateo glanced at her, perplexed. ‘I do not understand.'

‘Neither do I.' Mateo opened his mouth and she held up her hand. ‘Please, let me finish. Perhaps I have enough talent to become a professional, but I don't have the confidence. That first exhibition affected me deeply. Painting is like music and dance—the minute we make it public we are judged. I don't want people to constantly assess my work, but if I'm to make any money from it then I have to let them, right? I just don't know if my skin is thick enough for that kind of life.'

‘So you would rather pursue a career that makes your father happy, but your life miserable. Does he not want to see his daughter making the most of her abilities and find peace with herself?'

‘Of course he does, he's not an ogre by any means. He thinks he's doing a favour by pushing me to have this career so I can set myself up for life. I don't blame him for it at all. But there's no point in giving up my current career if I don't have the guts to become a full-time artist. Basically, it's lose-lose.'

‘If you want to look at it that way.' Lightning flashed above the hills in the distance. ‘Family is important, yes, but sometimes dreams are much bigger, much stronger and we should embrace them even if they make us scared. If we do not follow our passion, then we cheat ourselves from finding our true self. Would you run a marathon and quit just before the finish line?'

‘Of course not. I'd drag myself on my hands and knees if I had to.'

‘Then why do you not do this in real life? Get yourself across the finish line, Charlotte Kavanagh. Do not waste a minute worrying about what other people think. It is your marathon, your life, your dream, and no one has the right to tell you otherwise.' He punctuated his speech with a sharp
nod of the head.

‘You sound like my grandmother.'

‘She is a wise woman. I think I would like her very much.'

‘I think she'd like you, too.'

The rain let up and the thunder and lightning rolled into the distance. Mateo started the car, the wheels sloshing on the waterlogged road. When they reached the highway the car gained speed and Charlotte's mind didn't have a problem keeping up. Thoughts about her artwork, her father, her dreams whirred in her head, tugged at her heart. Why, when she was in the presence of Mateo Vives, did she have a burning desire to lose herself in Spanish and
gitano
culture? Had he found a way to tap into the very small part of her Spanish genes? And why hadn't she been to Spain before now? Probably because Abuela always gave the impression that Spain was the land of the devil.