Bay of Secrets (50 page)

Ruby gripped on to Andrés’s arm. Walking across the sand, in the distance, away from them, was a female figure wearing a multicoloured patchwork dress of red, orange and blue. She wasn’t a young woman, though she held herself straight and tall. On her back she carried a red, faded rucksack. Ruby stared down at her. She was walking slowly but with a sense of purpose, towards the beach house – or towards the path that led to
el faro
, perhaps? And as she walked, she looked around her at the sea, at the rocks, at the sky. There was something so calm about her. Her fair
hair was blowing in the wind. She too looked as if she belonged.

‘We’d better go.’ Andrés’s voice jolted her out of her reverie. ‘Or we’ll be late picking up Sister Julia.’

‘Yes.’ But it was hard to look away from her, whoever she was.

Gently, he turned her to face him. ‘Will you come back, Ruby?’ he asked. His eyes searched hers. He seemed uncertain of what she might say.

‘Back here or back to England?’ she whispered.

‘Back to me,’ he said.

It was what she’d been waiting to hear.
Our life
 … Yellow evening light and sunsets of fire. Was this the place where she would make her future with the man she loved? The place that Laura, her birth mother, had also loved so much? Ruby could continue her work here as well as anywhere – her journalism, her music. And Andrés? That was easy. Andrés would continue with the artistic legacy his adoptive father had created. He had, after all, been born to it. Yes, somehow she knew now where he would be.

She looked again down into the bay, but she wasn’t surprised to see that for now the figure had gone.

‘Yes, Andrés.’ She lifted her face towards him. ‘I’ll come back. You can count on it.’ And she reached up and touched his lips with hers. ‘I’ll come back – wherever you are.’

I’d like to thank Teresa Chris my agent for her constant support and faith in my writing. She has been relentless in her encouragement and created some evocative visual pictures which have become integral to this story. And thank you to everyone at Quercus Books including Margot Weale who has been terrific, Kathryn Taussig, and most especially my editor Jo Dickinson, whom I cannot praise highly enough for her structural eye, sensitive editing and for being such a pleasure to work with.

This story has been a long time evolving. At its root was a different story – but one that impacted hugely on the finished product - and for their help in discussing with me the psychology and impact of the characters and events involved I should like to thank Caroline Neilson and Peter Fullerton, both experts in their field. Thanks to Alan Fish whose reading and comments are always much-valued. Thanks to Magda Taylor for helping me get to grips with the saxophone – so to speak – and to Chris Forbes, Grey Innes and Jackie Deveraux for discussions on painting in water colours. Thanks also to Peter English for his musical contributions, Bernie from the Tindaya Arms in Fuerteventura and
everyone else I have talked to over there who has given me information on the island’s history and culture. And thanks to Mario Pulini for his insight into Barcelona and the Spanish language. Have I forgotten anyone? I hope not. Special big thanks to Grey Innes, my wonderful, favourite idea-stormer, who also listens to everything with a very perceptive ear. And finally, massive thanks to everyone who worked so hard to promote The Villa, especially my daughters Alexa and Ana, who have been amazing.

I should like to add that although I have used actual historical events in this story, any resemblance to any actual person is not intentional; all characters are entirely fictitious. The Canales Clinic does not exist. Neither do the convents mentioned in this story. I have used various sources – both fictional and non-fictional - for the historical information and have tried to be as accurate as I can. Any inaccuracies are my own.

Keep reading for an extract from

A new novel by Rosanna Ley

Available in print and ebook spring 2014

Eva opened the front door and let herself into the house. She had been feeling pretty low when her grandfather had phoned her last night, and perhaps he had picked up on it because he’d immediately suggested she come home for the weekend. ‘You need a rest,’ he’d said firmly. ‘You sound exhausted.’

She was. But—

‘And besides …’ She heard the determination in his voice. ‘I’ve got something I want to talk to you about, my dear.’

Was that a ruse? Eva didn’t know and she didn’t care. ‘OK, then,’ she said. After the day she’d had, she needed something. Home was the best place to come for serious R & R – she could already almost feel the anxiety slipping from her shoulders.

She put down her small suitcase. ‘Grandpa!’ she called. ‘It’s me.’

‘Hello, my dear.’ He appeared in the kitchen doorway – a little more bent than the last time she’d seen him, but still tall and lean, hair snow-white, mouth creasing into a smile, blue eyes twinkling. He opened his arms. ‘Sorry to drag you away from Bristol,’ he said.

‘I wanted to be dragged.’ And the way she felt right now, she never wanted to go back there. Bristol meant the auction house and it meant Max. And right now she wasn’t sure which was the most unappealing.

She gave her grandfather a hug. Every time she saw him he seemed a bit more lined, a bit more fragile, but she wouldn’t think about that now. He smelt of eucalyptus and wood, a fragrance Eva seemed to have lived with all her life. Her grandfather loved wood too; he had worked with it most of his days and he’d passed his passion down to his granddaughter. Eva had left home at eighteen to do a degree in antique furniture restoration with decorative arts; wood and history – it must be in her blood.

They drew apart and her grandfather’s brow creased into a frown. ‘You do look tired, my dear,’ he said. ‘And thin.’

‘Whereas you look wonderful, darling Grandpa.’ Eva smiled, slipped off her coat and hung it on the hook by the door. He meant the world to her. He wasn’t so much a grandparent as the life force behind her childhood. ‘But what did you want to talk to me about? Is everything OK?’

‘Well now …’ He made his way back into the kitchen and Eva followed. It looked reassuringly the same as ever. The Aga’s cosy heat filled the room and there was what looked like one of Mrs Timms’s stews on the hob, a rich, meaty fragrance emanating from the pan. A bottle of red wine had been uncorked but not poured and the kitchen table of worn oak was set neatly for two. Grandpa had always been independent and with Mrs Timms to help with cooking and
housework, he could manage very well now that he was on his own. To be honest, Eva couldn’t see him anywhere else but in his own house, big, rambling and impractical as it was. It was part of him – it always had been.

‘I really didn’t like the sound of you on the phone,’ he said, scrutinising her once again. He shook his head. ‘But is it the right time? I had been intending to talk to you, to tell you …’

Eva was intrigued. ‘Tell me?’

He seemed to come to a decision. ‘But I think it can wait a bit longer. Get yourself warm. Have a drink. Relax.’ He sat down in the old rocker. ‘How’s Bristol?’

Eva didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She had dumped her boyfriend and lost her job in one day. How was Bristol? He might well ask.

*

Two hours later, after a dinner that whizzed her straight back to her childhood and two glasses of warming Bordeaux – Grandpa wasn’t so old that he couldn’t still appreciate a good wine; he was still a member of the local wine club – Eva had thawed out.

‘And what about work?’ her grandfather asked her. ‘You haven’t said much about that, Eva, my dear. Everything still going well?’

‘Not really.’ No, she hadn’t said much about that. Nothing, in fact. The truth was that Eva hadn’t loved her job; hadn’t even liked it much. But neither had she wanted to leave, at least not quite so suddenly. A job paid the rent – in her case for a small flat not far from the centre of town – and
the bills. She’d got to know the people who worked there, the salary was good, she knew what she was doing and it was well within her comfort zone.

OK. When she’d done her degree, she hadn’t envisaged working in an auction house in Bristol cataloguing and assessing the value of goods. Because yes, it was a long way from what she’d dreamt of: restoring furniture and textiles to something resembling their former glory, reliving their history, making good; all that seemed a bit like a distant dream these days. But it wasn’t the first job she’d had whose thread to the degree she’d done and the work she loved was more than a little tenuous. Before the auction house, she’d worked in a second-hand furniture shop for a man who specialised in house clearances and cold-calling with the express purpose of parting old ladies from family heirlooms with as little money changing hands as possible. That had lasted only six months; Eva could almost feel his smug smile destroying her soul. And before that she’d worked in a museum shop – little more than a glorified sales assistant, which wasn’t exactly the kind of museum work she’d wanted to put on her CV. Toss in a year or three working as a seamstress in wedding hire and some secretarial, and that summed up her job experience to date. So what now?

Her grandfather raised his white eyebrows. ‘In what way, “not really”, my dear?’

Eva sighed. ‘In the way that means I’m not working there any more.’ It had all been rather strange. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed something odd about the shipment of
antiques arriving from a dealer in the Far East. She’d questioned it before and been fobbed off by her boss, Colin Jones. The shipment didn’t go through the usual channels – it was whisked into the office rather than the warehouse and then a few days later it would mysteriously disappear. ‘It goes to a private buyer,’ Colin had said when she asked about it. ‘Nothing for you to worry about. The deal’s already done.’

When people told her there was nothing to worry about, Eva usually started worrying. She got the bit between her teeth and then waited for an opportunity to find out more. This time, she had managed to get a closer look at the stuff – it was supposed to be teak wood artefacts and she knew all about teak from Grandpa and from her studies. And it was supposed to be antique. But when she sneaked into the office at lunchtime and opened up a few boxes …

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Colin Jones was standing in the doorway, hands on hips, all jowls and fury.

‘I was just curious.’ Eva tried to stand her ground. ‘I’m interested in teak and—’

‘Do you know what curiosity did?’ He glared at her. ‘It killed the fucking cat.’

And apparently it did more than that because two hours later Eva had her marching orders. ‘You can’t not give me any notice,’ she’d said. She knew her rights.

‘I’ll pay you.’ And he pulled out a wad of notes. ‘Three months do you?’

Was she being paid to keep quiet? Eva dithered. She didn’t
like that idea. But did she want to stay here if there was something dodgy going on? Or did she want to pay the rent and consider what to do next without Colin Jones breathing down her neck? She shrugged, took the money and left the building. She’d always known Colin was rough – just not quite that rough. But she wasn’t going to take this lying down. Just wait till Max heard about it – he’d know what to do.

So she’d scooted round to Max’s place where he worked from home as a criminal lawyer – she knew he wasn’t in court this afternoon, he’d said something about working on a particularly tricky case. And …

‘There are plenty more jobs, Eva,’ her grandfather said. He was looking very thoughtful. ‘Why don’t you take some time to think about what you really want to do. What you’ve been trained for.’

‘I know. I will.’ He was right – of course he was right. She needed to recapture that dream – the dream that had inspired her to do her degree in the first place, the dream that had more to do with the scent of teak and the history of past lives than sorting and managing auction catalogues. It was no good just curling into a ball and hoping it all went away. It wouldn’t. As Grandpa said, it was time for a reappraisal of what she wanted to do with her life. And it was long overdue. At thirty-three years old weren’t you supposed to have your life mapped out? Weren’t you supposed to at least have some plan? You weren’t supposed – were you? – to feel so absolutely lost?

‘And I have a suggestion,’ he said. He leaned forwards and
adjusted the cushion in his chair. ‘I don’t want to take advantage of your situation, my dear. But it is, what you might say, fortuitous.’

‘Fortuitous?’ She’d like to know how losing her job could be fortuitous. And no doubt he was going to tell her. Her grandfather was old and frail – he was ninety-five, for heaven’s sake – but his mind was razor sharp; it always had been.

‘There’s something that needs to be done,’ he murmured, still deep in thought. ‘And perhaps, now that you have terminated your current employment …’

That was one way of putting it, she thought.

‘Yes.’ He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. ‘The more I think about it, the more I know for sure. You, my dear Eva, are the perfect person to do this for me.’ He nodded with conviction. ‘It will kill several birds, as they say, with one stone.’