Kitabı oku: «Letter from a Stranger», sayfa 2

TWO

Later that afternoon, when Daisy was taking a nap, Justine went into the small sitting room and sat down at the desk. It did not take her long to open the mail that had accumulated during the month she and Richard had stayed in New York.

The bulk of it was junk, which she promptly threw away; she then checked the bills, clipped them together, and looked at half a dozen invitations for local events, put these to one side as well.

At the bottom of the pile there was a square white envelope made of paper that looked foreign to her. Definitely European, she thought, as she picked it up.

Justine saw at once that it was addressed to her mother, Deborah Nolan, and that it bore an Istanbul postmark. Who did her mother know in Istanbul, of all places? On the other hand, how would she know? Her mother had friends all over the world. Looking at the back of the envelope, she saw there was no name of sender nor a return address. She stared at it for a moment longer, thinking that it may well be an invitation, such was its shape and size. She frowned, wondered whether to open it or not. Eight years ago, when her mother had moved to California, she had given them the use of this house. Her instructions to them had been very few: keep the house in good shape, pay the monthly bills and forward any letters if they pertained to legal matters.

This arrangement had worked well since its inception. Their mother paid the annual state tax, they took care of the overall upkeep and the salaries of the Chilean family who continued to run Indian Ridge with them – Tita, her sister Pearl, Carlos, Pearl’s husband, and his father Ricardo.

Now, for the first time in eight years, here was a personal letter. Justine shrugged, picked up the paper knife, slit the envelope, and took out the letter.

She noted the name engraved at the top of the writing paper, someone she had never heard of, and began to read.

ANITA LOWE

Dear Deborah:

I have wanted to write to you for some time, unfortunately my courage constantly deserted me. Now this letter cannot be put off any longer. You do not know me. I did come to see you in London when you were a baby but you won’t remember that. I am your mother’s closest and most longstanding friend and I write to you because I am extremely worried about her. For years she has been troubled and unhappy because of the estrangement between the two of you. Lately she has become even more morose and filled with a heartache I cannot bear to witness.

She longs to see you and Justine and Richard. She loves them dearly, just as she loves you. You are her only family.

I must ask you this, Deborah. Why are you keeping her away? I do not understand your behaviour towards your mother. Surely nothing is so bad that it cannot be repaired. Whatever the reason for this estrangement you must end it immediately, before it is too late, before she dies. After all, she is almost eighty, as you well know. And so I beg you to reach out to your mother, get in touch with her, bring her back into your life and the lives of her grandchildren. It is in your power, and yours alone, to end her suffering and heartbreak.

With great sincerity,

Anita Lowe

Justine was speechless. She sat staring at the words she had just read, feeling as if the earth’s tectonic plates had just shifted under her feet. Her shock was enormous. She noticed that her hand shook as she continued to hold the letter, then realized she was shaking all over. She could hardly believe what she had just read. Her grandmother was still alive? How could that be? What was this all about?

Taking a deep breath, she put the letter down on the desk, and endeavoured to control her swimming senses. After a few minutes she managed to calm herself, and leaned forward to reread the letter, wanting to absorb the words… they revealed something so momentous it took her breath away.

Her grandmother was still alive.

Therefore their mother had told them a horrendous and wicked lie ten years ago. She had told them their grandmother, Deborah’s mother Gabriele Hardwicke, had died suddenly in a private plane crash.

Her mind began to race. Was the letter genuine? Or was it a hoax? How could it be? Unless someone wanted to cause trouble. If so, why? For what reason? The letter had been written to their mother and it had the ring of truth to it. It was genuine, all right; there was no doubt in her mind about that.

Then unexpectedly it hit her. A wave of joy. Gran was alive. Blinking back the tears in her eyes, Justine noted the postmark. The letter was mailed at the beginning of April. Now it was almost the end of the month. The letter had been sitting here in this lacquered tray for three weeks. No one had responded to Anita Lowe. But then how could a response be made? There was no return address. And where was her grandmother actually? In London? Or was she in Istanbul? With Anita Lowe? She had frequently moved between both places in the past. And why had this woman not given more details of her grandmother’s whereabouts? Because she believed that Deborah knew exactly where her mother was. Obviously, that was the answer. Which brought her back to the lie her mother had told them.

Ten years ago, the day after they had graduated college, Deborah had explained their grandmother’s absence from the ceremony. Whilst they were in the midst of their final exams, Gabriele had been on a private plane that had crashed in Greece. No one had survived, no bodies had been retrieved.

Closing her eyes, thinking back in time, Justine remembered her mother’s words quite clearly. ‘I didn’t tell you about Gran’s death because I didn’t want to distract either of you when you were both under pressure.’

But none of that was true… this letter now revealed that. And their beloved grandmother was alive somewhere out there. The adoring grandmother who had come to stay with them so often and been such a big part of their lives.

According to Anita Lowe there was an estrangement between her mother and grandmother. About what? Something truly terrible? It must be, since it had lasted ten long years. All of those hours, days, weeks, months and years lost. Gone forever. For God’s sake, why? She had no answers for herself.

Fury with her mother swept through Justine, and she automatically reached for the phone, wanting to confront her; then her hand fell away. Her mother wasn’t in Los Angeles. Three days ago she had flown to China on a buying trip for her interior design business. From China she was going to Hong Kong, would not be returning for six weeks. She could not call her now. The time was all wrong.

She looked at her watch. It was almost three thirty. Richard would not arrive from New York for another hour. She needed to talk to him; they had to make a plan… the first thing they must do was find their grandmother. Before it was too late.

In the small back hall, Justine took Gran’s old loden green wool cape off a peg, threw it around her shoulders, then went outside. She needed to think coherently, to settle herself before her brother arrived.

A few moments ago she had been about to call Richard on his cell phone, then had instantly changed her mind. She knew she must curb her desire to immediately share this shattering news with him. That was their usual way of doing things, their modus operandi, and always had been.

As twins they were joined at the hip, and there was an extra special bond between them, an emotional attachment and a link that she realized was not exclusive to them. All twins were like that. But this afternoon she understood she must wait until he arrived, so that she could show him the letter and discuss everything with him face to face. Together they would come up with a plan of action, she was certain of that. They had been the best team all of their lives.

Crossing the back yard, she mounted the white wood staircase built into the hillside. Carlos, Pearl’s husband, had obviously repainted it recently, and it gleamed in the sunshine. Ten steps took her straight up to a wide landing, where on the left side of the hill there was a large gazebo, also freshly painted in readiness for the spring weather.

Her grandmother’s gazebo.

Justine paused and then stepped into it. She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the happy times they had spent here in her childhood. Opening her eyes, she glanced around, aware that anxiety about Gran was paramount. She couldn’t help worrying, wondering how she was, now that she knew she was not dead.

She left the gazebo and went on climbing the staircase until she came to the end. It stopped in front of a stretch of green lawn; just beyond was the gallery, originally built by her grandmother, then revamped by her father, and remodelled in certain areas by her brother four years ago.

The gallery was beautiful, made of limestone, and was two storeys high; long, simple, yet elegant in its architecture, the central building was flanked on each end by a studio. Each one had limestone half-walls topped with huge plate-glass windows. The studios were actually part of the gallery and the whole structure was finished with a sloping, green-tiled roof. This was new, and had been designed by her twin, considered to be one of the best architects in the business today. She thought it was an inspired touch. The green-tiled roof appeared to float above the gallery and the glass ‘boxes’, and there was a lovely unity and fluidity to the entire building which was somewhat European in its design inspiration.

Justine went into the gallery and turned on the lights, then took off her loden cape, put it on a small wooden bench just inside the door. Because of the many paintings hanging in the gallery, some of which were rather valuable, the air was permanently controlled and remained the same temperature year round. It was cool and peaceful, and she appreciated the airiness, the spaciousness, the vaulted ceiling, the stillness and calm that existed here.

Slowly, she walked through the gallery, not focusing on any of the paintings as she sometimes did, simply moving determinedly through the flowing vast white space. Richard had designed a large, freestanding partition on rollers, which he called ‘a floating wall’, because it could be easily rolled around at will, and repositioned anywhere. He had used several of them in the centre of the gallery, on which were hung some of his own paintings, as well as many by other artists. Justine moved between them with ease, pushing them gently aside as required.

Within seconds she was approaching the far end of the gallery, heading toward the corner where paintings by her grandmother were displayed. Coming to a standstill, she zeroed in on one of them in particular which she had admired for years. It was a painting of two girls, most likely in their teenage years, and they were standing in a flower-filled meadow with dark green hills in the distance under an azure sky. The girls were enchanting in their gauzy summer dresses, their skirts billowing around them, their hair blowing in the wind. She had known for as long as she could remember that the taller of the two girls, the blue-eyed blonde, was her grandmother, Gabriele. The other had always been anonymous. Her identity a mystery.

Could she be Anita Lowe?

Leaning forward, Justine read the little wood strip on the wall next to the painting. It was called Friends in the Meadows. Underneath the title was the name Gabriele Hardwicke, and the year it was painted, 1969.

Unexpectedly, she remembered something – her grandmother’s penchant for detail, how she had kept careful records of almost everything.

Reaching for the small painting, Justine lifted it off the wall, carried it into Richard’s design studio adjoining this end of the gallery. Carefully, she placed the painting face down on an empty table and stared at the back of the canvas. And there it was, a small label, close to the frame and yellowed with age. On it was written A & G: 1938. And the label was secured under a piece of Sellotape.

Gabriele had painted this from memory, hadn’t she? And did the A stand for Anita? Perhaps. Certainly she couldn’t help wondering about that, because in the letter Anita Lowe had said she was Gabriele’s most longstanding and closest friend. So it must be her, surely? But in a way it didn’t really matter whether this girl portrayed was Anita Lowe or not. Because the real Anita had spoken out most eloquently and effectively, three weeks or so ago, when she had finally put pen to paper after obviously hesitating about doing so for a number of years. She had helped her friend at last. Thank God she had. Vaguely, at the back of her mind, she now remembered her grandmother speaking about her best friend… Anita.

Carrying the painting back to the gallery, Justine hung it in its place, then stepped back and studied it for a few seconds. The other girl had brown hair and sparkling dark eyes, and there was something exotic-looking about her. She wondered why she had never noticed this before… perhaps because she had been looking only at the dazzling blonde girl who was her grandmother, the bewitching Gabriele. She knew, all of a sudden, that this was Anita.

Returning to the centre of the gallery, where the high-flung cathedral ceiling came to its peak, she sat down in the only chair, a white canvas director’s chair. The cool white space, the silence and the overwhelming sense of tranquillity usually had a soothing effect on her, and today especially so: a perfect peacefulness was enveloping her. She closed her eyes, thinking of her gran and the last time she had seen her.

She was drifting with her thoughts when the shrilling telephone brought her up with a start. She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her cell phone, and pulled it out. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m almost there,’ Richard said.

‘I’m glad. Where are you?’

‘What is it? You sound odd.’

‘I’m fine. Where are you?’

‘Just leaving New Preston. Why?’

‘I want you to do me a favour.’

‘Of course, what is it?’

‘I want you to drive right up here to the gallery, where I’m waiting for you.’

‘I’ll come up after I’ve said hello to Daisy.’

‘Please don’t do that, Rich! You must come here immediately! Something’s happened, and—’

‘What? Tell me what’s wrong!’

‘I can’t on the phone. Please, Rich, just come here first. Please.’

‘All right. See you shortly.’

Impatient, anxious for her brother to arrive, Justine stood up and headed in the direction of his glass-windowed studio. She would wait for him there. As she approached the glass cube, another painting caught her eye, and she went over to look at it, stared for a long moment. It was of her and her brother and had been painted by a famous portraitist in New York when they were about four.

The woman had captured them very well. How alike they looked with their fair hair and dimples and the same light blue eyes. Yes, definitely twins, she muttered under her breath. And emotionally co-dependent.

Their father had commissioned the painting, and he had always loved it. But not their mother. In fact, she was very much against it right from the beginning, before it had even been painted.

Now it struck her quite forcibly that her mother’s reaction had been odd, and she couldn’t help wondering why. What on earth had she had against it? No answer to that conundrum, she thought. But Deborah Nolan had been an odd bird then, just as she was an odd bird now… scatter-brained, a flake – and sometimes downright irresponsible. And a liar, she added to herself.

Sighing under her breath, turning away from the portrait, she went into Richard’s studio and glanced around. As usual it was sparkling clean, thanks to Tita and Pearl and their dedication to Indian Ridge.

Suddenly she heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel. Not wanting to wait for him, she hurried out of the studio, almost running through the gallery to the front door.

A second later Richard was alighting from the car, striding towards her, a worried expression in his eyes, his face tight with anxiety.

‘I know something’s wrong,’ he said, mounting the steps. ‘So come on, tell me. And how bad is it?’

She ran into his arms, hugged him tight, and then, as they moved away from the door and went inside, she answered, ‘Really, really bad. But part of the problem is good. Wonderful.’

She closed the door behind them, took hold of his arm and led him down the gallery. ‘Let’s go to your studio, I want you to read a letter I found today. But I must warn you, Rich. It’s going to shock you.’

THREE

The moment they entered Richard’s glass-enclosed studio, Justine sat down in one of the small modern chairs and indicated that her twin should take the other one.

He shook his head, went over to the empty drawing table and leaned against it, his tall, lean frame looking lankier than ever. It struck her that he had lost weight.

‘I don’t want to sit,’ he explained, his eyes not leaving her face. ‘I think best standing up.’

‘I knew you were going to say that.’

‘You always know what I’m going to say, just as I know what’s going to come out of your mouth… but not today, I don’t think.’ A brow lifted quizzically, and he continued to stare at her.

Justine nodded, put her hand in her jacket pocket and took out the envelope, handed the letter to him. ‘I’d better give you this.’

Richard looked down at it, his brow lifting again. ‘It’s addressed to Mom—’

She cut him off. ‘And be glad she isn’t here, didn’t get to open it, and that I did! Otherwise we might never have known the truth.’

His blue eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, Juju? What is this all about?’

‘Gran. I have to tell you something…’ She cut herself off and took a deep breath. ‘The letter says Gran is still alive, Richard.’

‘What?’ He was flabbergasted by her words and he shook his head vehemently. ‘That can’t be…’ His voice trailed off; he was so shocked he was unable to finish his sentence.

‘It’s true,’ she answered, trying to keep her voice steady.

Richard pulled the letter out of the envelope and began to read it avidly. When he came to the end, he went over to the empty chair and sat down, looking as if he’d just been punched hard in the stomach.

Justine saw how truly stunned he was, as she herself had been earlier. All of the colour had drained from his face, and he was immobile in the chair. It was obvious to her that he was shaken to the very core of himself. And why wouldn’t he be? The news was incredible.

‘It’s hard to come to grips with it, Rich, I know that, and I—’

‘Do you believe it?’ he interrupted sharply, then looked down at the letter he was still clutching, bafflement on his face.

‘I do, yes. It has the absolute ring of truth to it, and why would this woman write such a letter if Gran wasn’t alive? That doesn’t make any sense,’ Justine pointed out.

‘I wonder why she didn’t write to Mom before?’ He gazed at Justine, puzzlement still flickering in his eyes.

‘I’ve no idea. But I do think something important has happened recently, which made Anita Lowe put pen to paper. Finally. She does say that Gran seems more unhappy – “morose” was her word – and look, Gran might even have been taken ill. Or maybe, in her desperation, Gran asked Anita to write.’ Leaning forward, Justine stared into her twin’s face. Her own was very serious and her eyes were troubled.

‘You could be right,’ Richard muttered. ‘In fact, I’m sure you are.’

‘We have to find Gran as quickly as possible,’ Justine announced.

‘Yes, I agree.’ He rose, walked over to his desk, a huge slab of thick glass balanced on top of two steel sawhorses. Sitting down behind it, he was thoughtful for a few seconds, staring out of one of the windows at the trees.

He finally brought his gaze back to his sister. ‘She lied. Our mother lied to us ten years ago. What a rotten thing to do. Telling us Gran had died. It was wicked, cruel. I remember very well how upset we both were, how we grieved for her.’ He snapped his eyes shut for a moment, and when he opened them he finished in an angry voice, ‘It’s the most unconscionable thing I’ve ever heard of, and it is unforgivable.’

Justine was silent. He had voiced everything she had thought earlier; but then they were like two halves of one person and had been since the day of their birth. There was only fifteen minutes’ difference between them; Richard had always teased her that he was the eldest, having been born first.

She said, ‘God knows what happened between Gran and our mother to cause this… estrangement. But to carry it on for ten years seems outrageous. Really ridiculous to me. It’s all our mother’s doing, obviously.’

‘Certainly Anita Lowe indicates that, Justine. Anyway, let’s not forget our mother was always a bit ditzy.’

Justine was taken aback. ‘That’s putting it mildly, don’t you think?’

‘I’m being kind, I guess. She was actually a weirdo when we were growing up. Unreliable, irresponsible, a flake, and you know what else.’

Justine frowned. ‘I do know, but let’s not go there today, okay?’ The thought that their mother might have been a little wild and unfaithful to their father always troubled her.

‘Okay. I know exactly how you feel about that.’

Justine simply nodded, thinking about their mother, and their strange childhood, and how much they had depended on their father. He had brought them up, if the truth be known. After a moment, she said, ‘For her to tell a lie of such magnitude, and to us, her children, about her own mother…’ She paused again, sighed, and finished in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, ‘It was evil, Rich; such an evil thing to do.’

‘Yes,’ was all he said, knowing how right his sister was. After a moment, he asked, ‘Isn’t she in China?’

‘Yes, and I know what you’re thinking. You want to confront her right now. On the phone. But the time is off, and anyway I think we should wait, confront her in person. I want to see her expression when she understands that we know exactly what she is – a bitch – and that we know what she did to Gran.’

‘And to us. We’ve been hurt. We’ll deal with our mother when the time is right though. How are we going to find our grandmother? Shouldn’t we call our mother, demand to know?’

‘No. She won’t tell us. She’ll say Gran is dead. We’ll do it through Anita Lowe. I have a feeling they live close to each other,’ Justine replied.

‘So you’re saying Gran is in Istanbul, not London, is that it?’

‘I think she probably is, because Anta lives there obviously, and she must know Gran’s not well. We have to go to Istanbul.’

‘I agree. But when?’

‘Immediately. She’ll be eighty in June. I don’t think we should waste any time.’

Richard stood up, and Justine turned around and also stood as Daisy came running down the gallery, calling, ‘Daddy! Daddy! Here I am… I’m coming to get you, Daddy!’ Tita was following hard on the child’s heels.

Justine said, ‘Let’s talk later. Your daughter is looking for you.’

‘All right, later this evening,’ he murmured.

‘Listen, Rich, just one thing. Do you mind if I tell Joanne about this situation?’

‘Why would you want anyone to know about this horrendous thing our mother has done?’ he asked, sounding horrified.

‘I don’t, and Joanne isn’t anyone, Rich, she’s our best friend, we grew up together. But the point is this… She knows Istanbul well, and has a lot of contacts there, many friends. We’re going to need help, and I think she can give us names and some good introductions.’

‘Then tell her. Confidentially, though,’ he answered.

Walking around the desk he swung his child into his arms as she came rushing into his office, her face full of smiles.

A few seconds later Richard was carrying Daisy out into the gallery, as she begged, ‘Swing me, Daddy, please swing me.’ And he did so.

Putting her down on the floor, he wrapped his arms around her from behind and, turning slowly, he swung her around and around, her legs flying out in front of her, her happy laughter echoing in the quiet gallery.

Richard started to laugh too, and watching him Justine was pleased he was enjoying this carefree moment with his daughter. She knew how upset he was about their mother’s incredible lie, as angry as she was herself about the whole terrible matter. Still, he was sheathing it well at this moment, and for obvious reasons. He did not want Daisy to know there was anything amiss.

The thought of their mother enjoying herself in China, having a great time there, as she undoubtedly was, filled Justine with sudden fury, made her see red. Then she blinked, and turned to Tita, who was standing by her side, speaking to her.

‘I’m sorry. I missed that,’ Justine said. ‘What did you say?’

‘That Richard’s a great father.’

‘That he is, Tita. By the way, I’m thinking of asking Joanne to dinner. I’m assuming there’s enough food.’

‘Oh yes. I made three cottage pies, and Pearl has a ham baking, and there’ll be lots of vegetables. Plenty for everyone.’ She grinned. ‘An army.’

Justine smiled. ‘As usual! I’ll call Joanne now, and I’ll let you know if she’s coming later.’

‘No problema,’ Tita answered, and went down the gallery, calling to Daisy, ‘See you soon, Honeybunny.’

Justine continued to watch her brother, wondering if he would be able to come with her to Istanbul. He wanted to desperately, she knew that; on the other hand, he was still working on a huge architectural project. His new boutique hotel in Battery Park was almost finished, and she was aware that the final and rather complicated installations would be taking place in the next couple of weeks. She just wasn’t sure he could break free – and anyway, she was not afraid to go alone. Justine was accustomed to travelling the world for her documentary filming, but Richard was overly protective of her, and he wouldn’t want her to go by herself; also, he was as anxious to find the truth as she was.

Richard finally stopped turning and put Daisy down. He held her close to his legs, stroking her hair, asking, ‘You’re not dizzy are you, Bunnykins?’

‘No, I’m not, Dad, I’m good.’

He looked across at his sister, standing in the door of his studio, and said, ‘About our friend… I think I would prefer it if you just said you might be planning to shoot a documentary in Turkey, and leave it at that.’

‘Agreed. It’s better to stay… cool on this matter, don’t you think?’

He nodded and, releasing Daisy, he walked over to Justine and said, sotto voce, ‘That letter is lethal, and our lives will never be the same again.’

‘I know,’ she responded, staring into those blue eyes remarkably like her own. ‘A lot of lives are going to be changed.’