âCAN I ask what happened, Reyes?â
Ross didnât answer his mother for a momentâinstead he carried on sorting out clothes, stray earrings, books, make-up, and a shoe that didnât have a partner. He loaded them into a suitcase.
Heâd been putting the job off, and when heâd finally accepted his motherâs offer to sort Imeldaâs things, he had accepted also that with her help might come questions.
Questions that he couldnât properly answer.
âI donât know.â
âWere you arguing?â Estella asked, and then tried to hold back a sigh when Ross shook his head. âI loved Imelda,â Estella said.
âI know,â Ross said, and that just made it harderâImelda had loved his family and they had loved her too. âShe was funny and kind and I really, really thought I could make it work. I canât honestly think of one thing that was wrong ⦠It was just â¦â
âJust what, Reyes?â His mother was the only person who called him that. When he had arrived in Australia aged seven, somehow his real name had slipped away. The other children, fascinated by the little dark-haired, olive-skinned Spanish boy who spoke no English, had translated Reyes to Rossâand that was who he had become.
Ross Wyatt.
Son of Dr George and Mrs Estella Wyatt. Older brother to Maria and Sophia Wyatt.
Only it was more complicated than that, and all too often far easier not to explain.
Sometimes he had to explainâafter all, when he was growing up people had noticed the differences. Georgeâs hair, when he had had some, had been blond, like his daughtersâ. George was sensible, stern, perfectly nice and a wonderful fatherâbut it wasnât his blood that ran in Rossâs veins.
And he could tell from his motherâs worried eyes that she was worried that was the problem.
Estellaâs brief love affair at sixteen with a forbidden Gitano, or Romany, had resulted in Reyes. The family had rallied around. His grandmother had looked after the dark baby while his mother had worked in a local bar, where, a few years later, sheâd met a young Australian man, just out of medical school. George had surprised his rather staid family by falling in love and bringing home from his travels in Europe two unexpected souvenirs.
George had raised Reyes as his own, loved him as his own, and treated him no differently from his sisters.
Except Reyes, or rather Ross, was different.
âIt wasnât â¦â His voice trailed off. He knew his mother was hoping for a rather more eloquent answer. He knew that she was worried just from the fact she was asking, for his mother never usually interfered. âThere wasnât that â¦â He couldnât find the word but he tried. He raked his mind but couldnât find it in English and so, rarely for Ross, he reverted to his native tongue. âBuena onda.â His mother tensed when he said it, and he knew she understoodâfor that was the phrase she used when she talked about his father.
His real father.
Buena ondaâan attraction, a connection, a vibe from another person, from that person.
âThen youâre looking for a fairytale, Reyes! And real-life fairytales donât have happy endings.â Estellaâs voice was unusually sharp. âItâs time you grew up. Look where buena onda left meâsixteen and pregnant.â
Only then, for the first time in his thirty-two years did Ross glimpse the anger that simmered beneath the surface of his mother.
âPassion flares and then dims. Your fatherâthe father who held you and fed you and put you through schoolâstands for more than some stupid dream. Some gypsy dream that youââ She stopped abruptly, remembering perhaps that they were actually discussing him. âImelda was a good woman, a loyal and loving partner. She would have been a wonderful wife and you threw it awayâfor what?â
He didnât know.
It had been the same argument all his life as his mother and George had tried to rein in his restless energy. He struggled with conformity, though it could hardly be called rebellion.
Grade-wise he had done well at school. He had a mortgage, was a paediatricianâa consultant, in factâhe loved his family, was a good friend.