Under the Spanish Stars by Alli Sinclair

out of her eye. ‘I believe we have, La Flama .’

CHAPTER
5
    â€˜How are you feeling, Abuela?’ Charlotte spoke into the telephone while she stared at the walls of her hotel room, wishing she was back in Australia and not in Spain trying to complete mission impossible.
    â€˜The food is horrid.’ Abuela’s voice sounded weaker than the day before. Even after so many years in England and Australia, she hadn’t lost her Spanish twang and still rolled her r’s.
    â€˜I’m sure Steve will smuggle in something good. I’ll send Mum a text and get her to cook the veggie soup you like so much. That’s got to be better than cold mashed potato, right?’ Charlotte tried to keep her tone light and not let on how concerned she was.
    â€˜Fine,’ sighed Abuela. ‘My daughter-in-law may not keep a tidy home but at least she’s an excellent cook.’
    â€˜You know you love her.’ Charlotte smiled, fondly remembering the strange dance between her grandmother and mother. They acted as if they could barely tolerate each other but in moments of crisis, like now, they clung together like twin sisters. Hence, one of the reasons it hadn’t been too difficult to convince Charlotte to get on the plane. With her mother Heather looking out for Katarina, Charlotte didn’t need to stress. As much as her father loved Abuela, he wasn’t anywhere near as reliable as Charlotte’s mother, a woman whose nurturing spirit matched Katarina’s.
    â€˜They want me to die,’ Abuela said, bringing Charlotte back to the conversation.
    â€˜Who?’ The question didn’t surprise her because Abuela had a habit of veering into strange rants lately.
    â€˜Everyone. You should see how many bunches of carnations I’ve received.’
    â€˜But you love carnations,’ Charlotte replied. Abuela’s love for thenational flower of Spain had never made sense as she avoided anything to do with her birth country. Perhaps she was finally seeing the error of her ways.
    â€˜I hate them now. They signify death and I am not ready to be wheeled out yet.’ An impatient tapping of fingernails against a hard surface echoed down the phone line. ‘When your brother comes in with that soup, I’ll make him get rid of these ghastly flowers. They’re death-bringers.’
    â€˜Abuela …’
    â€˜Steve needs to chuck them. Make sure he does.’ Since the heart issue that had caused her to fall and break her hip, the happy, round Abuela she’d grown up with had morphed into a thin, frail woman who’d lost her independence and patience. It pained Charlotte to witness the demise of the woman she’d always loved and admired.
    â€˜How’s that painting of yours going?’
    â€˜I have a job to do here. When would I have time to paint?’ She grimaced, wishing Abuela would let up on the whole Charlotte-ditching-art thing.
    â€˜When are you going to listen to my wise words and ignore your father?’
    â€˜Children are supposed to obey their parents, aren’t they?’ Charlotte’s lips twitched into a smile. ‘And shouldn’t you be siding with your own child, i.e. my father?’
    â€˜You’re twenty-seven, not seven. Quit that ridiculous job and devote time to the one thing you were put on this earth to do.’
    â€˜It’s not that easy.’ Just before she’d left for Spain, Charlotte had been subjected to yet another tirade from her father, Ian, about hippie artists and how they should get off their arses and get real jobs. She’d stood there clad in her designer two-piece suit and silk blouse, clutching the work phone that never left her side as she bit her lip and wished she had the guts to stand up to him. Instead, she’d endured his diatribe, which had been sparked when Charlotte gave her mother a handpainted scarf she’d bought at the local artists’ market.
    Abuela cleared