“Thanks for breakfast. Shall I meet you back here in twenty minutes?” she asked, and stood.
He spun around, his eyes wide. “Ah—”
“It will be best to get an early start.”
“Make it thirty minutes,” he said, and rubbed at the bristles on his jaw line. “I need to take a shower and stuff.”
****
“I love the place.” Dena smiled so wide she thought her face might split. She clapped her hands together like a kid in a candy shop. “I really, really, love it.”
Zeke stood rigidly just inside the front door of his mother’s studio, like he expected her ghost to leap out and attack him. The place was dusty. His mother had died here, and she guessed he’d just locked the door and walked away.
“Sorry, it’s a bit untidy,” he said, and ventured one step closer to the living room.
“Nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix. Why do you keep everything locked up at the estate?”
He looked perplexed.
“The gates at the entry to Three C’s, the gates at the front courtyard.” She waved her arms around. “The side gates to the hacienda, the padlock on the gate to this casita?”
She walked over to the small bistro table with the four black iron-backed chairs, pulled one out, and sat. “You know the whole place is so…well, locked up so tight.”
Zeke scratched at his head and blinked hard at her questions. He looked baffled, as if he’d never noticed.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I guess it was a security thing my mother did, after my father died. It’s always been done this way, and—”
“Maybe it’s time to change,” Dena said softly, and assessed the tiny kitchen space where a black wrought-iron cat took up most of one wall. She understood why Zeke’s mother spent more time here than in the big house. It was comfortable, cozy.
Zeke entered the living area, picked up a magazine, shook it, and then leafed through it. Dena walked over to the bedroom and stood in the doorway.
She’d died here. Isabella Cabrera. She’d spent her last days in this room, in that bed.
Sadness washed over her, but she shook it off. It was all good. Everyone had to die somewhere. She walked inside, smoothed the duvet cover, and wondered if she would have liked the woman, if they would have become friends.
“Might as well test that, too,” Zeke said dryly, coming up behind her. He nodded toward the double bed.
Dena knew she’d been acting like a kid in awe of everything but wondered why Zeke would allow her to sit on the bed. She sat gingerly on the side of it, and bounced once. “It’s nice.”
She got up and checked the bathroom. There were perfume bottles, candles, potpourri and bath salts. It was feminine, romantic. “How pretty,” she called over her shoulder. “This is definitely a woman’s place.”
Back in the small L-shaped living area she drank in the ambience again, and ignored the dust. The four dark pink armchairs faced in toward a large wooden coffee table. The walls were soft yellow. Dark wood beams crossed the ceiling. The sun shone through the honey-colored plantation shutters and cast a warm glow over the room. Most of the furniture had a touch of black wrought iron, yet it wasn’t as severe or masculine a style as in the main house.
“Where are the paintings?” she asked.
Zeke pointed toward small boxes lined up alongside the wall. Disappointment crept in. They were such small boxes, and she’d hoped for large canvases.
“The bigger ones are in the bedroom closet. Those boxes,” he said, and waved a hand toward them again. “They hold the smaller paintings. Some of them are sets, or suites, or whatever she called them.”
Dena only half-heard him as she hurried back into the bedroom, opened the closet, and let out a huge sigh. “Oh, perfect. Fantastic.”
There had to be at least thirty paintings, some framed, some not. There were no clothes or personal belongings of Isabella’s. She pulled out one canvas, propped it on the bed against the pillows, and took a few steps backward, admiring the work from every angle.
“Mom sure had talent,” Zeke said from the doorway.
“She did. This is amazing.” Dena waved toward the painting of what she assumed was the Santa Rosa Mountains. “Did all of her art have a local flavor?”
“Far as I know.”
“Zeke,” she said softly. “Your mother wouldn’t be against selling the paintings for charity, would she?”
“No.” He pulled a couple of canvases out, and a flash of pride washed across