Orange Blossom Days Read online

  Constanza Torres held up her hand authoritatively. ‘Un momento por favor, Señor—’

  ‘¿Cuánto tiempo llevará esto?’

  He was asking how long this would take, Anna translated, guessing that he was a new owner also. Imperious, arrogant, and a tad rude were her first impressions of the Spaniard and she hoped that he wouldn’t be their immediate neighbour.

  ‘Be seated if you please. I’ll come to you when it is your time. There are others before you.’ Señora Torres spoke in English, unimpressed with her fellow countryman’s officious impatience. She gave a dismissive wave towards the cane lounging chairs dotted around the tiled terrace at the entrance to the building, where another couple, a tall redhead and an equally tall dark-haired American man waited to be given their keys. The community manager turned her attention back to the MacDonalds, a hint of exasperation flickering in her expressive brown eyes.

  Anna suppressed a smile. It was clear the other man was not used to being so summarily dismissed and ignored. His mouth opened in astonishment at the manager’s impertinence. He turned on his heel and marched over to a chair, glowering at them once he was seated, his fingers drumming a tattoo on the armrest.

  ‘Let me show you to your apartment building,’ Señora Torres offered, disregarding him.

  ‘Thank you, Señora.’ Austen stood back politely to let her precede him.

  Constanza bowed graciously and led the way across the terrace and down the steps to the pathway that led through the verdant gardens towards their whitewashed building – with its Moorish arches and mosaic-tiled finishes – that faced the sea.

  ‘Oh Austen, I’m so excited.’ Anna took her husband’s hand and he squeezed hers back. ‘Isn’t it something else that we own a place in Spain and can come out whenever we want? It will be great for the family to come over and join us now and again.’

  ‘Now and again,’ he warned. ‘Conor won’t be interested, Tara will come to flop, but you know what Chloe’s like . . . she’ll want to bring all her pals out to party. We’ll be lucky to get a look in!’

  ‘She’s just very sociable,’ Anna defended their youngest daughter.

  ‘Too sociable for me,’ Austen retorted. ‘This is our haven, Anna.’

  ‘I know,’ she agreed lightly. ‘I can’t quite believe it.’

  ‘Me neither. Imagine spending our winters out here away from freezing winds and non-stop rain. Imagine playing golf every single day!’ Austen grinned at her, his tanned face flushed with pride at the rewards their hard work over the years had now brought them. A penthouse apartment in a plush seafront complex on Spain’s southern coast. Who would have thought they would ever be able to afford such a luxury, he reflected, remembering that at the beginning of their marriage, all those years ago, he and Anna hadn’t had two pennies to rub together.

  ‘We deserve this and how!’ he declared, inhaling the scents of the flowering shrubs that wafted by on the balmy, salty sea breeze. ‘I was dreading retirement, but not now.’

  Anna laughed. ‘You mean you were dreading spending all that time with me. Sure, I’ll probably see even less of you now than I did before, if you’re going to be spending every day on the golf course.’

  ‘Well, not every day and not all the time. Think of what we can do for siesta in our little love nest,’ Austen murmured, winking and jangling the keys to their new abode.

  Señora Torres opened the door to the first block of apartments that faced the sea and led them through a cool, marble-tiled entrance hall painted in shades of cream and duck-egg blue, towards a lift. ‘Each floor has two apartments but the penthouse does not share a landing, it is most private,’ she explained as the doors slid open. She jabbed the button for the fifth floor and they glided smoothly upwards. Anna couldn’t contain her excitement when she stepped into the tiled hall and saw the white-painted door facing her with the number 9 in gleaming brass, just above the equally shiny brass doorknob.

  The concierge smiled proudly at Austen as though she was personally gifting them their new home. ‘You may open.’ She indicated his keys. ‘Enjoy your new penthouse. I’ll be in the office if you have any queries,’ she said before re-entering the lift, smiling at them as the door closed and the lift began its descent.

  Anna’s first impressions were of bright lemony light, as sunbeams spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the honey-tinted tones of the marble floor. The smell of new wood and fresh paint was intoxicating and she stood in the centre of the lounge breathing in the scents, remembering, unexpectedly, her exhilaration when she and Austen had got the keys to their three-bed semi in a newly built estate in Swords, over thirty-two years ago.

  Where had those years gone? How was it possible that she had two daughters, twenty-eight and twenty-three, and a son of twenty-five? How was it possible that in four years time she would be sixty? Sometimes the notion shocked her to her core!

  Don’t think about it, enjoy this new chapter in your life, she told herself briskly, gazing around at her surroundings. She would paint the lounge a buttery cream, she decided, with light blue accessories: this was going to be fun with a capital F.

  Standing on the terrace looking out over the sapphire Mediterranean, a molten silky sheath with hardly a ripple on its gilded waters, Anna wondered would she wake up and discover it was a dream. Austen was going to retire from his position as senior account manager with an international advertising agency, and she was going to hand over the reins of the cleaning company she’d built up – from a two-person operation to a company employing forty – to her manager.

  It was going to be a massive change, she admitted, handing over control of the company she’d birthed, grown, fretted over and run, with time-consuming passion, for so much of her married life. Would she adjust to a life not controlled by the demands of business? Even now, on holidays in Spain, she was edgy, constantly restraining herself from checking emails on her phone, expecting calls about some crisis or other. Austen had warned her to stay off her mobile. His was turned off. He’d no problem disconnecting, or retiring.

  ‘I want to enjoy life while I’m still able to, before sinking into decrepitude. It’s not all about work and material things, Anna, and I want to enjoy time with you. It’s our time.’ Austen was surprisingly firm about it. And he was right, she admitted with some relief. She was exhausted, burnt out, and flying on fumes. Being a full-time wife, mother and MD was getting harder to juggle as she aged. In her thirties and forties she’d had boundless energy, but not anymore. She lived with a permanent weariness, chasing her free time like a miser chasing gold.

  Her husband was right: they had worked damn hard for decades. He was sixty-two, she was fifty-six; their three children were reared and two had flown the nest. From now on it was all about reaping the rewards of their endeavours.

  She couldn’t wait to start decorating and buying furniture. They were going to employ the services of a German woman – a friend of theirs had suggested employing her – who operated from Marbella and was an expert at fitting out new apartments . . . fast.

  Anna and Austen wanted to be able to use the penthouse as soon as they possibly could, without the hassle of waiting for furniture and drapes and kitchenware to be delivered. This Jutta Sauer person came highly recommended. She would supervise all deliveries and have the apartment cleaned and ready for occupation the next time they came out to Spain. They were meeting her later for an initial consultation and then the following morning to start furniture shopping immediately.

  They were staying at a friend’s apartment further up the coast, and though it was gorgeous, and they’d always enjoyed visiting, now that their own was handed over to them, they were longing to move in.

  ‘Oh Austen, look!’ Anna exclaimed, noticing the bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and two champagne flutes on the kitchen counter. ‘What a classy touch,’ she remarked, reading the welcome card from the sales firm who had sold them the penthouse.

  ‘Let’s crack it open! That’s
the joy of taking taxis. You can imbibe at any time of the day.’ Austen expertly uncorked the bottle. He poured the sparkling golden liquid into the glasses, handed her one and raised his to hers. ‘I’m so glad we’ve done this, Anna. I know you weren’t too sure at first when I showed you the brochure, but right this minute I couldn’t think of anything better to do with my lump sum. It’s an investment that’s going to give us a lot of pleasure. To retirement, to us!’ he toasted, his eyes glinting with anticipation.

  ‘Yes, Austen, to us,’ Anna clinked back, feeling a surge of love for her husband. ‘We’ve done our bit, now it’s all about us!

  Austen tucked into a feast of perfectly cooked mussels in his favourite chiringuito on the southern coast of Spain: El Capricho. Anna was relishing every mouthful of her crispy lemon whitebait. ‘I love this place, I love the staff, I love the food and I love the views,’ his wife said, taking a sip of chilled white wine and offering him one of her fish.

  ‘Me too. There’s some fine restaurants in San Antonio del Mar, and the chiringuito on the beach is good, but El Capricho has something that brings you back time and again, doesn’t it?’ Austen shucked some of his mussels onto her plate.

  ‘I always feel completely relaxed the minute I sit down and order a G&T here. I love that Svetlana and Maurizio always know our drinks order every time we come back.’ The waiting staff of the popular restaurant were consummately professional but great fun, and there was always a lot of good-humoured banter between them and the diners. Eating there had become a much-enjoyed ritual of their annual holidays.

  It was coming to stay regularly with his golfing friends over the years that had persuaded Austen to consider buying a property on the coast. When he’d seen a glossy brochure for La Joya in the golf club in Marbella, he’d shown it to Anna and persuaded her that they should buy. She’d demurred at first, and he knew that part of her reluctance was because of their ‘children’, as she persisted in calling them, to his mild irritation. She spent too much time running around after them. They were adults now, he pointed out, perfectly capable of running their own lives without their parents by their sides. She was only using them as an excuse, he’d insisted. His wife had got defensive, and told him he was talking rubbish and gone into one of her snits, but he’d stuck to his guns and told her she’d need to make a decision quickly as the apartments were getting snapped up. He’d bulldozed her, he admitted privately, but she’d come around to his way of thinking and had given the joint purchase her blessing.

  Now that they owned a property abroad, and he was retiring, he intended spending long chunks of time with Anna, exploring the cities and diverse regions of Spain at their leisure.

  Leisure, what a delightful concept, Austen thought contentedly, sitting back in his chair, replete, signalling Maurizio to refill their glasses. Anna might have difficulty letting go of work; he would have none. After years of conscientious hard graft, Austen was looking forward to a work-free, ‘child’-free retirement immensely.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SALLY-ANN / CAL

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ Callahan Cooper closed the door behind the concierge and stood with his arms folded, looking around the clinically white lounge of the penthouse with its breathtaking views of the Mediterranean, the distant coastline and mysterious mountains of Morocco and the massive slab of limestone rock that was Gibraltar.

  ‘Awesome, Cal, truly awesome,’ his wife, Sally-Ann, enthused, gazing at the vista before stepping outside through the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors onto the large wraparound terracotta-tiled balcony. ‘And that breeze is to die for,’ she sighed, running her fingers through her mane of auburn hair.

  They explored their new business acquisition, admiring the size of the rooms, their views, and the high-end finish, which was certainly on a par with many of Cal’s other properties Stateside. Buying rentals in Europe had increased his property portfolio enormously, and added another dimension to his company. In spite of all that had happened between them, Sally-Ann couldn’t help but admire his business acumen.

  He opened closet doors, running an expert eye over their layout. ‘This is just fine,’ he approved. ‘An excellent finish.’ His cell phone rang and she saw him glance at the number and slide it back into his chinos pocket.

  ‘Take it,’ she said coolly. ‘It must be important, this is the third time it’s rung in the last hour.’

  ‘It’s cool. I’ll catch them later,’ her husband shrugged, walking along the hallway towards the third bedroom. Sally-Ann’s lips tightened. This latest bimbo was persistent, for sure. There was something different about this one. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Cal was edgy, preoccupied. Perhaps this was ‘The One’ that would finally lead to their divorce. Sally-Ann felt a knot tie up her gut. It had always been on the cards that this day would come. She wandered out to the balcony again, enjoying the way the breeze lifted her hair from her forehead, caressing her skin with its welcome, feathery touch.

  After she’d found out for the first time several years ago that Cal had been unfaithful to her, and once the initial shock, anger and grief had lessened somewhat, she’d decided for the sake of the children not to sue for divorce until they were older. Privately, she and Cal had agreed to go their separate ways. They could each see whomsoever they wanted to see, but her bottom line was no children with other partners unless they were divorced; and if either of them met someone they felt they could make a future with then they would divorce as amicably as possible.

  It had worked out reasonably well once she’d turned her back on her emotional longing for her husband and faced what had to be faced in her usual pragmatic way. But sometimes she felt she was being cowardly, using her girls as an excuse not to face the trauma and upheaval of divorce. Perhaps that dreaded time was now imminent, Sally-Ann surmised wearily.

  ‘I’m tired. I’d like to go back to the hotel; it’s been a long day.’ She walked back into the lounge, the stiletto heels of her Manolos echoing in the empty space.

  ‘Sure thing,’ Cal agreed. ‘I’m going to play a round in Estepona. You have a siesta and we’ll have dinner at the hotel. I’ll book a table for eight.’ Sally-Ann saw the look of relief flash across her husband’s face.

  Couldn’t wait to get away and ring his lady-friend, she thought sourly as he closed and locked the door before following her across the entrance hall to the elevator.

  They sat in silence while he drove along the winding coastal road that led from the apartments to the exclusive spa hotel in the charming town of San Antonio del Mar, west of Estepona. The whitewashed villas with their riotous abundance of colourful hanging baskets and the busy restaurants and tapas bars with their jaunty bright awnings soothed her irritation a little as she stared out through the car window and thought how gloriously vibrant Andalucía was.

  One of the perks of being married to the owner and CEO of a holiday let firm was the opportunity to travel. Cal had branched out into European properties in the last few years and Sally-Ann had very much enjoyed her trips abroad. European culture and the fascinating histories and traditions of the countries she visited were such a contrast to her native Texas and she soaked it all up eagerly and felt, sometimes, that she’d been born on the wrong continent.

  ‘Go have a massage or a manicure and pedicure or whatever,’ Cal suggested, pulling up to the pillared portico of their hotel, where a doorman stood ready to open the car door for her.

  ‘Perhaps I will. Enjoy your golf, and ring your lady-friend and put her out of her misery.’ Sally-Ann slanted a cool glance at him.

  Cal couldn’t meet her eye. ‘You’ve had your flings,’ he muttered sullenly.

  ‘Only after you had yours first. See y’all.’ She nodded at the doorman and he opened the passenger door with a polite smile. Sally-Ann swung her long tanned legs out of the car and made a graceful exit. Head up, her face a mask of bland disinterest, she didn’t look back.

  Cal sighed a force ten sigh as he watched his wife stride purpose
fully into the hotel. Women were the bane of his life, he scowled, revving the car engine and pulling away from the kerb. Maybe he wouldn’t go and play golf, maybe he’d just go and tie one on and give himself some Dutch courage for what was to come.

  His cell rang again and connected to the Bluetooth. Four phone calls in less than two hours. Lenora could take lessons from his wife in how to behave in a cool manner.

  ‘Yup?’ he growled, taking the call.

  ‘Have you said anything yet?’ His mistress’s voice was as clear as a bell. Hard to believe she was in a suite in the Ritz in Paris, nearly two thousand kilometres away.

  ‘Nope!’

  ‘Cal!’ she exclaimed exasperatedly.

  ‘Tonight, babe, tonight, I told ya that. Now quit buggin’ me or I won’t say anything.’

  ‘Aw hon,’ she sighed.

  ‘It’s OK, calm down, sugar doll. Why don’t you go and de-stress with a massage or a manicure and pedicure,’ Cal suggested to a woman for the second time that day. ‘Put it on the tab.’

  ‘OK. I miss you, sweetie,’ Lenora said dolefully.

  ‘I miss you too, darlin’. I’ll see you when I see you. Bye now.’ He didn’t give her time to respond but clicked off the phone vowing to take no more calls this day.

  He headed towards Estepona, enjoying the fast drive on the coastal autoroute. Spanish drivers were less civilized than their French counterparts, he acknowledged, listening to a cacophony of horns beeping at an unfortunate tourist who’d got his lanes confused. European driving didn’t faze him, he was used to driving on the left. If he had the choice he’d drive straight to Malaga airport, fly to Paris, collect Lenora and take the first flight out of Charles de Gaulle to Houston, but he couldn’t leave Sally-Ann high and dry. He had to tell her that everything was going to change. She was his wife. She played her role with grace and panache and always had. That had to count for something, he thought grimly.