Letter from a Stranger (3 page)

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, 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 linking 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 backyard, 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 remodeled 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 which 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, free-standing 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 center of the gallery, on which 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 facedown 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 cellotape.

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 longest 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 blond girl who was her grandmother, the bewitching Gabriele. She knew, all of a sudden, that this was Anita.

Returning to the center 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 tranquility 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, 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 favor.”

“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 so very codependent on an emotional level.

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 Justine 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 … scatterbrained, 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 tires on the gravel, and 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 toward 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 color 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.”