After fiddling with the microphone for a few moments, she tapped it, the thuds of her finger reverberating through the packed room.
‘Can everyone hear me?’ she asked in Spanish.
Cheers rang round the room.
‘Okay, then.’ She cleared her throat. When she next spoke, her voice was clear, fluent and full of warmth. ‘Before I start the auction, I would just like to say, on behalf of all the children, their families and the staff of Poco Rio, the most enormous thank you to each and every one of you for being here tonight and for spending your hard-earned money on our centre. I promise you, every cent will be spent wisely.’
Even more raucous cheers carried around the room. She stood there beaming, waiting for quiet. ‘I would like to extend especial thanks to the wonderful man who made this night happen.’
Suddenly her eyes were on him.
Prickles ran up his spine.
Her smile faded a little but the warmth in her voice grew. ‘If it wasn’t for Raul, we wouldn’t be here and nor would Poco Rio. Please, everyone, raise your glasses. To Raul.’
The word, ‘Raul,’ echoed around the room, everyone staring at him and drinking to him.
He wanted to smile and accept the toast with good grace but he couldn’t do it. It was all wrong. They were toasting the wrong person.
Before he could get to his feet, Charley had started talking again and the auction was up and running.
* * *
Once the auction was over, Charley disappeared. He was about to seek her out—he knew she couldn’t go far, not with the ship being in the middle of the Mediterranean—when his mother rose and took hold of his father’s wheelchair.
‘Can’t you ask your mum?’ Charley had said. He’d dismissed her suggestion out of hand.
But, since he’d driven her out of his life the second time, he’d had time to reflect and suddenly the conversation became imperative.
He followed his parents through to one of the lounges, where he helped his mother settle his father in a quiet corner.
Raul waited until drinks had been served to them and they were all comfortable before talking.
‘Why did you just let me walk away from the family business?’ he asked, addressing his mother. His father’s reaction hadn’t been any surprise but it had always played on his mind that his mother’s reaction had been negligible.
A look of surprise crossed her Spanish features. ‘Could I have stopped you?’
‘No.’
‘There is your answer.’
He stared at her. ‘You didn’t even try.’
‘But I knew you would be okay whatever you did.’
‘How?’
‘Because you are just like your grandfather, Nestor.’
‘I am?’ Nestor had created the Cazorla empire but his name was one seldom mentioned in the privacy of the Cazorla home.
‘Of course.’ She nodded at her husband, who was gazing at the pair of them, his eyes flashing as if he was desperate to join in with the conversation, then sighed. ‘Your father never got on with Nestor any more than he got on with you.’
‘But why?’ Now he addressed his father directly. ‘I always felt as if I were a huge disappointment to you. There were times when I felt as if you hated me and wished I’d never been born. Nothing I did was ever good enough and I need to know why.’
A grunting sound came from his father’s throat. His mother patted his knee with a manicured hand, and smiled at Raul. ‘I thought you would have worked it out by now; you’re an intelligent man. Too intelligent, just like Nestor. He will hate me for saying this but your father had to work hard for what came naturally to you. He struggled with the business. He knew there would come a time when you took over and it would show up the failures he’d made. You intimidated him.’
Now there was a flash of pain in his father’s eyes. Suddenly Raul wished he’d chosen to have this conversation out of his earshot. His father couldn’t defend himself.
‘I intimidated him? He treated me like dirt.’ He shook his head and looked at his mother. ‘And you allowed it to happen.’
‘Allowed what to happen? For your father to correct you, as was his right as your father?’
At least she wasn’t pretending not to understand.
‘My own father was far harder on me than Eduardo ever was with you.’ She lifted the sleeve of her arm and showed him the old silvery scar that ran along her biceps. ‘My father did this to me in a drunken rage when I was seven. For all his faults as a father, Eduardo never once lifted his finger to you.’
He felt as if he’d been punched. She’d always shrugged it off as a childhood accident. ‘I never knew.’