Under the Spanish Stars by Alli Sinclair Page A

her throat. ‘It is easy, Charlotte. Tell your father to pull his head in and let you follow your heart.’
    â€˜My heart isn’t in painting any more.’ Since university, how many times had she sat at her easel and stared at a blank canvas? The desire that once drove her had vanished and the talent she’d once possessed had flown into the ether. Staring out the window of her hotel room, she concentrated onthe bright blue, clear sky. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of news.’
    â€˜Just because I am old and my heart could stop working at any moment, don’t think I can’t tell when you’re changing the subject.’
    Charlotte cringed as she pictured the expression of disgust Abuela would be sporting. Pushing on regardless, she said, ‘I’ve made some contacts, but it’s moving slowly.’
    â€˜You must …’ Abuela’s sentence fell away.
    â€˜Get answers. I know, Abuela. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power.’ Charlotte glanced at the clock beside the bedside table. ‘Shit!’
    â€˜Charlotte …’ Her grandmother might be frail and thousands of kilometres away but she could still guilt Charlotte over her choice of words.
    â€˜Sorry, I have to run, but I’ll send Steve a text as soon as I have news. Besides, isn’t it past your bedtime over there?’
    â€˜I’ve had too much sleep lately.’
    â€˜Doctor Charlotte says sleep helps you heal. Sorry, but I really have to go. Love you loads.’
    â€˜Love you too, dear.’ The phone clicked, then a continuous beep signified the end of their conversation. Charlotte smiled, happy the last few words sounded like the Abuela of her childhood, but the relief didn’t last long as reality slapped her in the face. Abuela’s heart attack had hit hard and fast, not only did it knock her to the ground and smash her hip but it knocked her confidence and shocked everyone. With her independence ripped away, Abuela now lived with the fear that next time, she might not be so lucky. It gutted Charlotte to know Abuela had spent her life doing all the right things—exercise, eating well, getting enough sleep, and only having the odd tipple—yet she ended up with a dodgy heart. Abuela’s poor heart was a ticking bomb being cocooned in prayers that a miracle would arrive.
    A lump formed in her throat and she fought back tears. Trying to avoid sinking into a downward spiral of helplessness about Abuela’s condition, Charlotte concentrated on checking her lipstick in the mirror, then grabbed her bag and dashed out the door of her hotel room. She flew down the stairs and across the foyer, out the front door and to the edge of the sidewalk. Preferring a fold-out map over technology, she hustled down the narrow alleyways and arrived at Plaza Nueva, the heart of old Granada.Charlotte studied the pavement beneath her feet, unable to comprehend the incredible engineering from centuries ago that had gone into building an entire plaza over the River Darro.
    Glancing around, she took in the teenagers hanging near the fountain and the couples and families dining at the numerous cafés. With no Mateo in sight, she sat and leant against a sun-drenched wall, soaking up the warmth of the early evening.
    Visions of dancing and echoes of music from the night before played in her mind. She’d seen flamenco in movies and on television, but nothing compared to witnessing a live performance in the heart of flamenco country. Mateo and the jealous dancer both possessed a captivating magic and Charlotte wondered whether she would fall in love with flamenco if she spent enough time in Granada. What would Abuela think if her granddaughter took a step onto the dark side of flamenco? Charlotte shook her head. There was no time for dabbling, even though it might help her get a better understanding of her grandmother’s history.
    The view from this quiet part