room.
There wasn’t long to wait before she found out. A tap on the door brought the answer. A young girl dressed in a maid’s uniform stood waiting on the threshold.
‘The car is outside when you are ready, Señorita Fuego Montoya,’ she announced in halting English.
‘Wilson. Señorita Wilson,’ Annalisa corrected gently, smiling at her. ‘But you can call me Annalisa if you like.’
‘Sí, Señorita Fuego Montoya,’ the young girl said, colouring up.
She doesn’t understand, Annalisa realised, hoping the shock of hearing her late father’s name wrongly applied to herself didn’t show on her face.
‘Are you ready, señorita?’ the maid pressed, hovering uncertainly on the threshold.
‘Yes. Thank you,’ Annalisa said, reminding herself to add Spanish lessons to her list of things to do. ‘And I’ll return the clothes—’
‘Oh, no, señorita,’ the girl exclaimed, holding up her hands to emphasise the point. ‘Señora Margarita intends you to keep them.’
‘But I couldn’t possibly,’ Annalisa protested.
The maid shrugged, as if the generous gift was of no consequence. ‘The señora has many such outfits, señorita.’
Wealth like this was hard to imagine… And yet she should try, Annalisa reminded herself. Quite out of the blue she had recently inherited a considerable chunk of land in Menorca, and even though she had precious little cash to throw around right now, if she sold the estate designer outfits like these would be well within her reach. ‘I should still like to thank Señora—’
But the girl had already started towards the staircase, and with a brief wave of her hand indicated that Annalisa should follow.
For just a beat Annalisa hesitated. If only her Spanish had been stronger she might have been able to ask the maid to arrange a brief meeting with Margarita. Then she could have explained her intrusion face to face, as well as thank her for the clothes. But for now she had no answer to the dilemma.
Annalisa frowned. Everything connected with Menorca seemed to have a dilemma attached to it as far as she was concerned. And the whole point in taking a sabbatical from the small law practice where she worked as a solicitor had been to resolve dilemmas, not create more. She had come to the island to uncover the truth about her Spanish father, not to involve herself in the lives of the island’s super-rich. Her mission was to discover what had prompted an elderly Spanish grandee to leave a vast estate to her, when he had abandoned her mother the minute he discovered she was pregnant. And had never been heard from again as far as Annalisa knew.
During her mother’s lifetime the relevant questions could not be asked. There had been an unspoken rule between them that strictly forbade all talk of the past. But her mother had died almost immediately after the news of Señor Fuego Montoya’s death, prompting Annalisa to embark on her own quest.
So, here she was…feeling increasingly uncomfortable as she followed the maid down the sweeping marble staircase. The young girl’s confusion over her name had caused the past and present to collide…and in the home of a man who might be as unprincipled as her father for all Annalisa knew. But thankfully she had the benefit of hindsight to guide her now…and better still there was no sign of her enigmatic neighbour.
Perhaps she had seen the last of him. And perhaps it was as well if she had. The chance to savour Margarita’s dream existence for a short time had been a heady experience, but reality beckoned and Annalisa knew that she could not allow a distraction like Ramon Perez to get in her way.
Although it was a relatively short swim from one beach to another, the drive back to the finca took quite some time. One main arterial road stretched the length of the island, and each cove could only be reached by returning first to this highway. Annalisa tensed on the soft kidskin upholstery as the limousine bounced in and out of the ruts on the track down to her new home, and knew just enough Spanish to feel embarrassment when she caught the word casucha as the chauffeur muttered something under his breath. The finca might look like a hovel to him, but by the time she had finished with it—
‘Thank you for the lift,’ she said, managing to bite her tongue as he got out to open the door for her.
She really would have to do something about the approach if she wanted the property to achieve its full market value, she realised, gazing around. According to the estate agent there were already several offers on the table.
But even if some of the renovations were beyond her pocket, there was no harm in investing as much as she could afford in order to reap the maximum return when she came to sell.
When the limousine drove off she was enveloped from head to foot in a cloud of fine white dust. This served to point out the fact that the walls were crumbling, not to mention the roof, which in some areas was open to the sky. If she didn’t sort that out before the rains came, the whole place would be flooded—that was if the infamous Tramuntana wind didn’t lift it off first. But in spite of all the problems there was something very special about the mellow, honey-coloured stone.
Excited yelps diverted Annalisa’s attention to one of the more forceful members of her ever-increasing menagerie. The welcome softened the worry lines that had been building up on her face all morning and replaced them with a smile. The ancient rag-tailed dog was so grateful for every second of her time that she had already adopted him, naming him Fudge for his colour. Along with Fudge, several cats, hens, and even a donkey had miraculously appeared on her doorstep, as if they accepted what she could not—that life on finca Fuego Montoya was about to resume.
They were more optimistic than she was, Annalisa thought, glancing around the cobbled courtyard at the daunting tasks that still lay ahead of her. Her immediate impression of the main house had been of overwhelming neglect. She had found it so dark and still the first time she’d walked through the curtains of dust motes suspended in the musty air. But somehow that hadn’t put her off. And her determination had been rewarded.
Traces of what must once have been a fine family home had soon become apparent in the quality of the furniture, as well as the interesting collection of cobweb-festooned paintings. And then she had been filled with the urge to breathe life into it again—to fling open the shutters, to clean out every corner and polish the windows until the whole place gleamed and vibrated with life.
She didn’t rest until each room was filled with the scent of beeswax and soap and flowers… But the outbuildings remained in a desperate state.
She closed her eyes briefly and drew a deep breath. Then, firming her lips, she opened them again. What she had started she would finish. So what if she had to learn to use a hammer and chisel? She had come a long way from her small solicitor’s office in an undistinguished town in the north of England. Here the sun warmed her face and it felt good. Winter was barely over, but in Menorca she could already detect the scent of blossom on the air.
Having changed out of the delicious outfit into a pair of battered old shorts and a non-descript T-shirt, Annalisa headed down to the kitchen. Clearing a space on the rustic table, she prepared to write a brief letter of thanks to Señor and Señora Ramon di Crianza Perez. But even as she put pen to paper thoughts and impressions invaded her mind—and none of them was connected with the brief note she had planned. The truth was she was furious with herself. Somehow a married man had slipped beneath her guard, jolting something deep within her…something fundamental. Like an alarm going off in her heart, she acknowledged with dismay.
