Bay of Secrets (39 page)

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Do you speak English?’

The woman looked even more suspicious at this. ‘
Si
,’ she said. ‘A little.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and regarded Ruby with a steady gaze. ‘What is it you want?’

Ruby guessed that as the wife of a famous artist, this woman would have been catapulted into a very different world – whether she had desired that or not. She would have had to learn to communicate in other languages, dress up for formal occasions, play the role of artist’s wife. She didn’t look, though, as if she would have relished it.

‘I wondered if it would be possible to speak to Enrique Marin?’ Ruby said. ‘Your husband?’

‘I am sorry.’ It sounded like a set response. ‘My husband, he is ill. He asks not to be disturbed.’ She began to shut the door.

How could Ruby make her realise that she wasn’t just some hanger-on or art groupie? ‘I am looking for my mother,’ she said quickly. That should stop her in her tracks.

It did. ‘Your mother?’ Reyna Marin stared at her.

Ruby nodded. ‘I think your husband painted her,’ she said. ‘Many years ago.’

Inexplicably, Reyna Marin’s brow clouded. She looked upset, almost angry. ‘I am sorry,’ she repeated. ‘Those times are gone. He is not well … ’ The door was closing.

‘But—’ She knocked again on the door. ‘Please … ’ She hadn’t come all the way here to be fobbed off without even seeing the man, without asking him.

And then Ruby heard footsteps from round the side of the
house. Someone stood there – a woman of about her own age.

‘I am sorry if my mother was rude,’ she said in perfect English. ‘But it is true that my father is not well enough for visitors today.’

‘Izabella?’

Her expression changed from polite distance to interest. ‘How do you know my name?’ She came a few steps closer. Ruby could see the resemblance between mother and daughter; the same thick dark hair and full lips. But her hair was long and loose; she wasn’t tall like Andrés, but she too was slim.

‘I know your brother Andrés.’

‘Andrés!’ In two steps, Izabella was in front of her, eyes eager and full of hope. ‘Is Andrés here with you – on the island?’

‘No, he’s not.’ If only … ‘He lives near me in England. In West Dorset.’ She wouldn’t say any more about their relationship though, she decided – that’s if there still was one.

‘Did he send you here?’ Izabella’s eyes were wide. Ruby half expected her to call her mother back, to demand that Ruby was admitted. But she didn’t. She took Ruby’s arm and propelled her back down the path and out of the gate. Was Andrés so unwelcome then? Couldn’t his name even be mentioned on the premises? But Ruby allowed herself to be propelled. She was curious about Izabella, she might find out a lot from this sister of his, and anyway – she could always come back here later.

‘No, he didn’t,’ she admitted. ‘I wanted him to come with me – but he wouldn’t.’

Izabella’s face fell and Ruby felt the force of her disappointment. ‘Not because he didn’t want to see you,’ she said quickly. ‘But because of everything else that happened, I suppose.’

‘I miss him.’ Izabella kept hold of her arm and Ruby realised they were walking back towards the sea – not to the Old Harbour near the hotel, but further north.

Why not, she thought. Already she felt drawn to this woman. And Izabella clearly loved her brother very much. ‘Of course you do.’ She herself had never had a sibling – she could only imagine how comforting it must be. ‘And Andrés misses you.’

‘Does he really?’ Eagerly, Izabella turned to her. ‘If only he would come back to us.’ She sighed. ‘Even for a visit.’

She sounded so sad. But surely his own sister must know the reasons why? ‘But you’re not unhappy here on the island?’ Ruby asked her.

‘I am happy enough.’ Izabella shrugged. ‘But nothing is the same without Andrés. He is my brother. I long to see him again.’

Ruby nodded. He had to come back here one day, didn’t he? – if only for his sister’s sake? ‘What happened, Izabella?’ she asked. ‘Why has he never come back?’ And she realised that this visit was not just about looking for Laura; perhaps it never had been. It was about Andrés too and whatever it was that had made him leave.

They were on the outskirts of the village now. In front of them stretched a beach of pale golden sand, the blue sea beyond. The coastline seemed to go on for ever. Ruby blinked. This was more like it.

‘There was an argument,’ Izabella said softly. ‘Between Andrés and our father.’

‘It must have been a massive one,’ Ruby said. Families always argued. There had to be more.

‘They never got on.’ Izabella sighed. ‘Andrés, he would always try to protect our mother. Things he said made my father angry. My father is a great painter.’ There was pride in her voice now. ‘And great painters sometimes have … ’ She said something in Spanish. Gesticulated with her hands.

‘Great egos?’ Ruby had been able to see that just from the pictures on his website. He hadn’t looked like a man who liked being crossed.

Izabella nodded. ‘I think so,’ she said. They crossed over the road. Ruby shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun, which was already hot, and looked out along the coastline to a stretch of sand drifting into dunes, crops of black rock at the water’s edge and semicircular pods of volcanic lava dotted around the beach, just like in the photographs …

‘It was a long time ago,’ Ruby said. ‘Isn’t it time they put it behind them and made up?’

Izabella looked at her sadly and shook her head. ‘You do not know my father,’ she whispered.

No. They were both artists but there the resemblance ended. The father was clearly nothing like the son. Even so,
Ruby couldn’t wait to meet him. ‘What did Andrés say to him?’ she asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘Not exactly. They wouldn’t tell me. But my father has a terrible temper.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And Mama said that Andrés had just gone too far this time. My father … ’ She looked beseechingly at Ruby. ‘He threw him out of our house. And Andrés was so proud that he never tried to come back.’

‘You don’t know what it was about?’ Ruby asked. Andrés must have really touched a raw nerve with the great Enrique Marin.

‘No.’ Izabella shook her dark head. ‘I only know that after he had gone … After he had gone … ’ Her eyes glazed over and she seemed to shake herself as if she realised she had said too much. ‘Nothing was ever the same,’ she said.

They wandered over the sand and down to the water’s edge. Izabella took off her shoes and let the water curl between her toes and Ruby followed suit. The touch of it was soft and refreshing. There were a few people on the beach and in the sea, but it wasn’t crowded. And the sand and rocks stretched out as far as the eye could see. ‘Shall we walk a little way?’ Izabella asked her. ‘There’s something I’d like to show you.’

‘Of course.’

They remained barefoot and stayed by the water’s edge as they walked. ‘What’s wrong with your father?’ Ruby asked, though she wasn’t sure if Izabella’s mother had been making it up as an excuse to keep her out of the house. ‘Your mother said he was ill.’

‘He has lung cancer.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Izabella’s words were so stark. But as Ruby turned to her, she saw that she was barely holding back the tears. She touched her arm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Does Andrés know?’ she whispered.

‘
Si
. He knows.’

‘He knows?’ Ruby was shocked. ‘But … ’ Why on earth hadn’t he told her? It was such a big thing. Wasn’t she the woman he was supposed to be in love with? The woman he spent his time with? The woman who – she had thought, not so long ago – he might even have a future with? My God … He was clearly a hell of a lot more secretive than she had realised.

And Ruby had had more than enough of secrets. It was bad enough not opening up to her about whatever had happened with his father and his reasons for not seeing his family. But now. His father had lung cancer and he hadn’t even bothered to mention it. Did that mean he just didn’t care? About his own father? About her?

Izabella led the way up and over some smooth rocks. ‘You expected him to tell you?’ she said. ‘You are in love with my brother?’

Was she? She knew that she’d been falling … She looked helplessly at Izabella.

Izabella took her hand. ‘Look,’ she said.

From the top of the rocks they had a vantage point to the north and to the south. And in front of them was what the
rocks had hidden from view before. A perfect horseshoe-shaped bay. A luminescent turquoise lagoon of gently rippling water, surrounded by black volcanic rock; leading down to it from the bank of rocks, a sheet of smooth pale sand. ‘It is beautiful – do you not think?’

‘It is, yes.’ Ruby stared. It was truly stunning.

‘And it is a secret.’ Izabella put her finger to her lips. ‘You have to walk this far to even know it is here.’

Ruby smiled. This was true. On the far side of the bay she could see a strange-looking building built on the beach. Some sort of Moorish beach house, perhaps, with a sculptured roof and chimney. And in the distance … She felt like letting out a whoop of excitement. There was a red and white striped lighthouse.

Izabella turned to her. ‘But why have you come to our island?’ she asked Ruby.

This could be the place. This could really be the place. ‘I came here, Izabella,’ she said, ‘to look for my mother.’

He must get on.

Andrés began to take some of the sitting-room floorboards up with his crowbar and a hammer, so that he could get to the pipes. He was stripping out some old plumbing for one of his clients. It was the kind of job he could do without, but despite the fact that his business was now very healthy and he wanted to spend more time on his art, he still found it hard to say no to work. It had taken him a long time to get to this position – and it was perhaps the fate of the self-employed; to always worry where the next pay cheque was coming from.

He leant on the crowbar. The dusty old board creaked. Out with the old … It was a sobering thought.

Andrés thought of Ruby over there in Fuerteventura. His girl. He had thought that not so long ago. Now … He wasn’t so sure. If his suspicions proved to be correct then there was no future for them, it was as simple as that. And if he was not correct … Well, by not going back to the island with her, by not helping her and supporting her as her man should, then he had already blown his chances, as the English might say.

It was a no-win situation. He put the floorboards to one side and grabbed the pipe wrench from his tool bag. This might be a dirty job but it was just the thing to be doing when you were feeling pissed off with the world. Bloody angry, in fact. Angry that she was there. Angry that she couldn’t understand why he hadn’t gone back there with her. And angry with him – that lecherous old bastard he called his father. Why should he? Why should he just drop everything and run back to see him – the man who had never had time for him, had barely a word of praise for him; never a moment of love. What did he owe him? What did he owe him really?

Especially after …

Andrés switched to the hacksaw, turning the blade so that the teeth faced forwards. He started to saw the pipe; the rasping sound of metal to metal filled the air. Harsh.

And he thought of his father in his studio entertaining all those women – little more than girls, some of them. He’d seen them coming through the house, singly or sometimes in pairs, giggling and whispering together. So impressed by the man. In awe of the great artist. He’d seen his father’s face when he looked at them. Lustful old goat. And he’d seen his mother’s expression too, although she always went out around the back of the house or turned her face away. How many times had Enrique Marin humiliated his wife? Too many times to be counted.

Andrés had sneaked up to the studio when his father went out to the Bar Acorralado and he’d seen what the old bastard had been doing, how he’d been painting them. People
thought that he was a great man, but some used their talents and their greatness to wield power over the more vulnerable. That was Enrique’s tool of trade. He had something – a charisma, Andrés supposed you would call it, that made others bend to his will; that enabled him to even know what you were thinking sometimes. But what was he using it for?

Enrique Marin had a huge talent. But he had many strings to his artistic bow.

‘Why do you not put a stop to it?’ Andrés had asked his mother more than once. ‘Show him he cannot go on like this.’

His mother had bent her head. ‘He is an artist, son,’ she said.

An artist! ‘Have you seen what he draws?’ he asked her. ‘Have you seen what he paints?’ Life drawing could be a beautiful thing. But not his. Some of it was so tacky it made Andrés’s skin crawl.

His mother turned on him then. ‘I do not want to see!’ she shot back. ‘I do not want to know.’

‘But, Mama,’ he had pleaded with her. ‘It is not right that you hide your head in the sand, you know. It is not right that you allow this to continue.’

She had brushed this away. ‘He is a great man,’ she said. ‘With a great man, you will always have a dark side.’

Andrés didn’t believe this for a moment. His father had always had a temper – yes, and he had always been hard to satisfy. But everything had changed when the man became successful. It had turned his head, made him think that he
was something he was not; made him use the power he had to control others. To get what he wanted.

But Andrés had to stand by and watch his mother’s continued humiliation. Her husband did not take her to exhibitions, launches or parties. Why should he when there was always someone younger or more beautiful to hang on to his arm and on to his every word? Why should he take the woman he was married to, the woman who had borne him his two children? Andrés used to seethe. But what could he do to change things?

Was it just drawing and painting? he used to ask himself. How could it be? And he was determined to catch him out.

One afternoon, Andrés came back to the house when he was supposed to be out till supper time. It was his mother’s shopping day and his father was alone in his studio.