Under the Spanish Stars (25 page)

‘There was not much sense with anything from that era.'

‘True.' Although with the information she'd been gathering about Abuela's past and that of her family, the picture had started getting clearer. Making her way over to the rolltop desk, she tried to open the closed cover but it was firmly locked. ‘Key?'

They searched the shelves, under chairs, behind curtains, but to no avail. Charlotte caught a glimpse of the hallstand again and she went over and ran her fingers behind the pedestal, searching for a tiny gap at the back. She encountered nothing so pulled the stand away from the wall and found exactly what she was looking for—a tiny drawer. Prying it open, she discovered a small key with gold tassels. Hastily making her way back into the library she shoved the key in the lock, gave it a twist and … nothing.

‘It's stuck,' she said and wiggled the key around.

‘Maybe it isn't the right key? And how did you know it would be in the pedestal?'

‘Abuela always keeps her keys in a hidden drawer in a pedestal in the hallway. Ha.' She smiled. ‘Funny how she did exactly the same as her family yet she's been cut off from them for decades.'

‘Some things we learn and never forget. A bit like painting, yes?'

‘We're back to that again?' Charlotte asked, exasperated. ‘Let's just concentrate on the task at hand. If I could just …' Charlotte held her mouth tight, her tongue poked out one side with the hope it would give her magical powers of strength. She heard a faint click as the key found its target. ‘Aha!'

Slowly pushing up the rolling door, Charlotte held her breath, wondering what secrets this beautifully crafted desk contained. Crouching down, she peered into the recesses and opened and closed a series of small drawers then ran her fingers along the letter compartments.

‘What did you find?' Mateo had sidled up beside her.

‘Nothing yet. Perhaps the paperwork Señora Blanco Alves was given came from this desk.' Standing up, she wiped her hands on her thighs. ‘Well, that's disappointing.'

‘Did you think it would be that easy?' Mateo arched an eyebrow.

‘No, but it's going to take forever to search this house.' She drew her brows together. ‘What if someone else has gone through it?'

‘Do you think they would leave it this neat?'

‘Maybe the ransackers had OCD and tidied up after themselves.' Her nose twitched and she rubbed it with the back of her hand. ‘Shall I do
upstairs and you stay down here?'

‘Whatever you wish.' Mateo tenderly brushed stray hair from her eyes.

‘Mateo …'

‘I am sorry. It is just … I like being with you.'

‘I feel the same way but our time together can only be short and I—'

‘Need to get back to your
abuela
. I understand.' His dejected expression showed he more than understood—he felt her departure already.

Why did the first man she'd fallen for since her ex have to live in another country on the other side of the flipping world?

‘So,' he slapped the sides of his legs as if trying to force himself into a better mood, ‘let us do the looking and see what we can find. You really wish to go upstairs by yourself?'

‘I'm fine. I've got this to hit any large rodents on the head with.' Out of her bag she pulled the torch that doubled as a baton. ‘The hotel staff loaned it to me.'

‘Remind me not to start an argument with you.'

‘Deal.' They grinned at each other and the heavy atmosphere of the house lifted slightly.

‘We should start, yes?' Mateo asked.

‘Yes, we should.' Anxiety plagued her about going upstairs in a house that hadn't been occupied for decades.
Too many horror movies growing up
. She shook her head and made her way to the bottom of the stairs then stopped and rested her hand on the balustrade. Running her fingers through the dust, she exposed the beautiful rosewood. ‘It's hard to imagine my grandmother running up and down these when she was little and playing games with great-uncles I've never met.'

‘Perhaps, but lingering on what may have been does not get you answers, no?'

‘No, it doesn't.' Straightening her back, she said, ‘Okay, onwards and upwards and all that.' Turning on the torch she made her way up the stairs, slowly putting a foot on each creaky step. When she got to the landing she opened up the curtains and the sun found its way through the thick grime on the windows, bathing the threadbare carpet in light. Charlotte then made her way to each room, trying to figure out who had slept where. If the family once had photos on display they must have taken them.

Charlotte felt uneasy going through their personal belongings even
though the family hadn't lived here for years. But she kept reminding herself that she had no choice and besides, these people were her relatives.

Stepping into the first room, a haze of unease descended upon her. Although not one for believing in ghosts, Charlotte couldn't shake the feeling she was not alone. Kneeling in front of a metal trunk, she pried it open, the sound of creaking filling the room. Swallowing hard, she gently lifted a yellowed shirt from the top of the pile. It looked like it would fit a boy around eight years old, and Charlotte held it higher to allow light to shine on the details. As she did so, the collar came loose and the fabric of the sleeve disintegrated beneath her fingers.

‘Shit.' Charlotte gently placed the shirt back in the trunk and quickly closed the lid. The owner of the clothing was long gone. What bothered Charlotte was that whoever owned this shirt—just like the other inhabitants of the house—never got to fulfil his life in his home country because of the need for a rapid departure. This boy … these people … were great-uncles and great-grandparents she'd never met. Never would. And that brought more sadness than any disintegrating shirt.

Looking around the room, she found wooden trucks and cars, a metal train and a handful of children's books, possessions of her great-uncles who would likely be in their eighties by now. If they were alive. Although she had done some sneaky initial research to trace Abuela's family after they went to Morocco, being in this house inspired Charlotte to do more. This time she might actually tell Abuela about the research because the health scare had made her more open to tying up loose ends. Perhaps her family in Morocco might be one of them. And with technology changing so rapidly and more records being available online, Charlotte could possibly access information she hadn't been able to before. Or maybe she could travel to Morocco in the future, and if she just happened to stop in Granada on her way there or back …

Moving to the next room, she rested her hand on the cold, dark wood of the architrave. The space was neat, just like the other room, but it was sparse—no toys, no books, no telltale signs of the person who might have occupied this room. Crossing over to the dresser, she opened the drawers, expecting more clothes, but it was empty. She looked around for a wardrobe, or trunk, but found nothing.

Dejected, she gently sat on the edge of the bed. Thick clouds of dust tumbled through the stale air and she tried to ignore the layers now coating her clothes and skin. Could this have been Abuela's room? After Abuela confessed her love for flamenco it would make sense for her mother to erase all evidence of the daughter who, in her eyes, betrayed her. A daughter who wasn't even her own flesh and blood.

Puffing out her cheeks, Charlotte cast her gaze around the room, wishing a neon sign with an arrow would light up and show her where to search. What she was looking for, she had no idea, but surely in the haste to leave the premises the Sanchez family must have left something behind. Right?
Right?

Staring at the ceiling, Charlotte studied the mould growing around the plaster cornice where a delicate chandelier hung. Now that she thought about it, there were chandeliers of various sizes in every single room. How on earth did the Sanchez family have so much money and how come their house was never ransacked?

Charlotte returned to the hallway and peered over the balcony, hearing Mateo moving items around. ‘Any luck?'

‘
Nada
. You?'

‘
Nada
.' Making her way into the last room, Charlotte paused in the doorway. The room was larger but the bed was smaller than the others. Opening the curtains, she went straight to a door the other rooms didn't have. Twisting the handle and pulling it towards her, she stepped into a small, dark room. Turning on the torch, she shone it on an array of women's clothes hanging in perfect alignment according to the seasons. Dust had accumulated on the wide collars of the shirts and jackets, and at least a dozen evening dresses with diamantés were covered in the dust of decades. Fur jackets and wraps, all intact, hung as if someone had kept moths and other creatures at bay. It was as if the delicate fabrics were waiting for their owner to return. Taking a step back to admire the history before her, Charlotte's foot connected with a stack of hatboxes that toppled to the ground in a noisy, messy heap. She covered her mouth and nose to avoid breathing in the fine dust particles.

‘Crap!' Dropping to her hands and knees, she gathered up the hats and started sorting. Not returning the items to their rightful boxes seemed wrong as being in this house felt like she was disturbing someone's tomb.

Footsteps behind her announced Mateo's arrival. ‘You are okay?'

‘Yes, I'm fine, just clumsy.' She smiled as he got down on the floor and helped. Being in his vicinity again made her want to reach over and kiss him long and hard.

What was she, a sex-crazed teenager?

Thankfully oblivious to her lusting, he said, ‘You made a good mess, yes?'

Oh, how that statement could pertain to so many things in her life but she refused to go down that road.

As Mateo placed the last hat in the box a crack in the boards caught her eye. Crouching lower she wiped away the dust to reveal a warped floorboard that looked like it hadn't been nailed down for years.

‘Check this out,' Charlotte moved closer and shone the torch on the gap.

‘What?' Mateo squeezed beside her, sending her pulse racing.

‘Look.' Digging her fingers under the crack, she tried to pry the panel away but it wouldn't budge. Shuffling to a different position, she attacked it from another angle but still no luck.

‘What do you think is in there?' he asked.

‘I don't know, but my gut's telling me to pull it back and find out.'

‘It could be just a loose board. It is an old house, no?'

‘True but …'

‘You would like to find out anyway.'

‘Yep. I'll go to the kitchen to see if I can find something to pry it open. Back in a moment.' Charlotte went to move, but Mateo grabbed her arm.

‘I have this.' Mateo whipped out a Swiss Army knife and flicked it open.

‘Were you a boy scout?'

‘No, but sometimes I use the nail file or scissors for emergency repair on my nails.' His smile almost lit up the dark room. ‘Like the boy scouts, a flamenco guitarist must be prepared at all times, yes?'

‘Apparently so.'

‘Would you like to do the honours?' Mateo moved so Charlotte could shuffle forward and get a clear go at the wood.

She inserted the knife and jiggled it around. ‘It's stuck.'

‘I would never have guessed this is so.'

‘You seemed to have mastered the art of sarcasm in English.'

‘Thank you. I try my best.'

She didn't need to look up to know he had a wicked grin. She pointed the knife at the crack again and shoved it in hard. The wood gave slightly, but the knife slid free.

‘
¡Mierda!
' Mateo said.

Charlotte gave a small laugh. ‘Shit sounds so much nicer in Spanish.'

Stabbing at the gap again, Charlotte put all her strength behind it and a harsh cracking sound reverberated in the tiny room as she shouted ‘Aha!' and pulled back the floorboard. Mateo shone the torch into the dark hole but there was nothing, not even creepy crawlies.

‘Bugger.' Disappointment weighed on her shoulders.

‘I am sorry there was nothing.' Mateo sat back on his haunches and wiped his forehead.

‘Thanks anyway.' Charlotte picked up the board to put it back but the light from the torch caught an off-white square taped underneath. ‘Ooh!'

Grabbing the wood with both hands, she peeled back the tape. It came away easily, the stickiness having dissolved over time. She turned the paper over to reveal a photo of a woman with a paintbrush in her hand, a half-finished painting in the background. Her long, dark hair was swept up in a neat bun, except for a strand that fell down the side of her angelic face. The young woman wore a serious expression, except her eyes held a hint of cheekiness. Turning the photograph over she found beautiful, swirling handwriting in a language she'd never seen before.

She shone the torch on the paper but it caused too much glare. ‘I need a better look.'

Charlotte moved out into the main room and stood in front of the window. She squinted for a moment until her eyes adjusted to the light again. Mateo got up and followed, leaning in closer than he needed to.

‘What language is this?' she asked.

‘It is
caló
, a dialect of the Iberian Romani people.'

‘How do you know?' His knowledge impressed her.

‘I have seen it written before at the Giménez community. I am not sure what this writing means but I know someone who does.'

‘Leila?'

Mateo nodded as she turned over the photo to study the young woman. A rush of certainty ripped through her. ‘I think this is Syeria and if it is, then it would confirm what Señora Blanco Alves said about the birth mother being connected to the Giménez clan. Why else would there be a
photo taped to the bottom of a floorboard? And
why
would Abuela's father do this?'