In Baltasar’s room the shutters were half open and the room was cool and dark and quiet, and yet it seemed to hum with memories of the boy who’d lived there.
Her throat felt tight; the feelings she tried so hard to contain were swamping her. Her legs felt so rigid she thought they would snap—and then she saw it on the wall. A painting of two boys. Brothers. The older was smiling, clearly enjoying the attention. Loving it, in fact. And suddenly she found she was smiling too, for even on canvas his smile was infectious. He was blue-eyed, like his mother, and handsome. His grey-eyed younger brother seemed less at ease, more serious.
What held her gaze, though, was not the brothers but the gap between them. Or rather the lack of it. Turning, she gazed at the collection of photographs on a beautiful inlaid chest of drawers. Some were of the two boys, some included their parents—she frowned—and grandparents, maybe an aunt and uncle. But in each photo there was that same closeness.
Her earlier panic was fading. Maybe she would be able to take these photographs after all…
*
Sofia was sitting on the balcony, basking in the late-afternoon sun. Beside her Agusto dozed peacefully. Looking up, she smiled at Cristina. A book lay in her lap—a thriller that promised a ‘breathtakingly brilliant and compulsive read’. But Cristina knew that it would be a miraculous book that could compete with Sofia’s memories of her son.
‘Was Pilar helpful?’
Striving for an appropriate level of enthusiasm, Cristina nodded eagerly.
‘Yes, and I have an idea for the photographs. But…’
She hesitated. In her head, it seemed such a good idea. But what if she couldn’t explain it properly? She had always been so bad at expressing herself—especially if it came to anything personal.
As though sensing the reason for her hesitation, Sofia patted the chair beside her. ‘Start at the beginning. I find that usually works for me.’
Cristina felt some of the ache inside her chest ease.
‘I was supposed to go to art college at eighteen, but I messed up.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘I was a bit of rebel at school, so I didn’t end up going until a couple of years ago.’
Sofia nodded. ‘That was a brave decision.’
Cristina shrugged. She hadn’t felt brave. More like terrified. But she had wanted it so badly.
Glancing down at the cover of the book, she felt her heart start to race. Her need to learn, to improve, to be a good photographer had been compulsive.
She met Sofia’s gentle blue eyes. ‘I loved it,’ she said simply. ‘All of it except this one thing. We had to do a final project. The theme was “Legacy”, and I couldn’t make it work.’
Remembering her growing sense of panic, her hands tightened around the portfolio she was holding.
‘Everything I tried felt fake. And then I was at home one afternoon and the post came, and there was a letter for my dad.’ She hesitated. ‘He was gone by then.’ Gone was easier to say than left.
Sofia held her gaze, then nodded. ‘And it inspired you?’
Cristina stared at her in silence.
In a way, yes. It had come almost nine years after he’d left. Nine years of silence—except that one time at the hotel, and then she had been the one doing the talking, or rather shouting.
They had probably moved six or seven times over those years. And yet there it had been, on the doormat. Her father’s legacy to her—a letter from a clothing storage company, requesting payment for the two fur coats they had in cold storage.
She felt a tug on her heart. She hadn’t shown her vegetarian mother the letter. But she had found inspiration for her project—a project that had been seen by Grace.
‘Yes. It inspired me to take these photographs.’ She held out the portfolio. ‘I’d really like you to have a look at them.’
She sat with Sofia while she looked through the photographs.
Finally, the older woman closed the portfolio.
‘Thank you, Cristina, for sharing these with me. I think I understand what you want to do, and I believe it will work beautifully.’ Brushing a tear away from her cheek, she smiled. ‘You’re a very talented young woman, and your father would have been very proud of you.’
Cristina swallowed past the ache in her throat. Understandably, Sofia had thought that the photos were a memorial to her father. How could she reveal the truth?
That he had been a ghost in her life only this portfolio was not a record of his death but his absenc