Letter from a Stranger (19 page)

Nineteen

“And that, Richard, is Gran’s story of the estrangement, and what caused it,” Justine said, leaning back against the stack of pillows on the bed in her room at the
yali.

Thousands of miles away, her twin was sitting at his desk in the glass cube that was his studio at Indian Ridge, his feet up on the desk, the cell phone pressed to his ear. “So to sum up, what you’re saying is that it was all about money, our mother cut Gran off from us because of
that
!”

“That’s right, and we’ve always known she was grasping,” Justine answered. “She was obviously furious when she heard that Indian Ridge was in a trust for
us,
and not her, that she couldn’t have it, wasn’t getting it.”

“Right on, Juju. And I must say, I for one am thrilled. It’s great that Gran’s done this for us, so generous of her. So, go on, tell me about Anita’s letter, why didn’t she put her address on the envelope? Forgetfulness, I suppose. Or perhaps old age.”

“
Neither!
I think it was overload. Writing the letter several times, which she tells me she did, editing it, copying it out for the last time, and getting it to the post office. And listen, they’re not old. They’re two stylish babes in Valentinos and heels. And bright red lipstick. Fit as a fiddle, and not a sign of dotage.”

“Oh, my God, are you trying to tell me we’ve got a handful on our hands?”

“Not at all, just a fabulous grandmother and her special friend, who’s basically sweet, very motherly. They look marvelous, by the way, as no doubt you realize, and they’re both pretty vital, really with it.”

“Glad to hear it. So you’ve moved in?”

“Tonight.”

“What’s Gran’s house like?”

“Charming, Rich, and decorated in her usual style. Simplicity being the keynote, with some nice antiques, beautiful fabrics, mostly of her own design, from a collection called Tulipmania. She has a little design studio attached to the
yali,
and she’s going to show it to me tomorrow. She was too tired tonight.”

“You must be, too. It’s five here, so it must be midnight there.”

“It is, yes, but I sort of got a second wind. The excitement of finding her, our reunion, and meeting Anita. It’s been busy, I can tell you,” Justine explained. “The
yali
is smallish, but she did have rooms decorated for us, Richard. Can you believe that? Somehow she was always expecting us to suddenly appear.” Justine paused, finished, “She had no idea our mother had told us she was dead.”

There was a moment of silence, then Richard exclaimed, “God, that sounds awful, when you say it just like that. So blunt, cold, but that’s what her daughter told us. Gran must have been hurt and upset to hear those words. She was, wasn’t she?”

“Actually, she looked shattered, as if she’d been kicked in the stomach—”

“Well, she was, figuratively speaking,” Richard asserted.

“When she started to weep I went and put my arms around her, and comforted her as best as I could. She recovered, you know what she’s like, a real fighter. After that we had a lovely evening.…” Justine smothered sudden laughter, then said, “She had Anita’s chef make a Sunday lunch for dinner for me, for all of us. Because it was my favorite.”

“That’s our granny. By the way, did you explain why I wasn’t there with you?”

“Of course I did, and she understood and can’t wait to see you. With Daisy. I told her all about your little sweetie pie.”

“And she fell in love with her, right?” Richard said, chuckling.

“Naturally.”

“Justine, I just want to backtrack for a moment.… I understood everything you’ve told me and realize that Mom still harbors her money-grabbing ways, but there’s just one thing I’m not quite getting.”

“What’s that?”

“You said Gran told you that our mother broke into her writing case in London ten years ago, and stole jewelry and cash, also
invaded her privacy
—those were your words—because our mother found documents and read them.”

“What are you getting at?”

“You said documents
plural,
but you only mentioned
one
document. Gran’s marriage certificate … from her marriage to Uncle Trent. So what were the other documents?”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Justine finally said, “Gran only mentioned the marriage certificate.”

“Are you sure she said documents
plural
?”

“Absolutely. She definitely did. But she only discussed
one
. So what were the other documents? That’s what you’re wondering. Also, why was our mother so upset? After all, Trent Saunders has been dead for years.”

“You’re quite right, and I believe our mother saw something lethal that set her off on a full-blown rampage. But Gran didn’t tell you
what
that document was. I think Deborah read something that shocked her. Certainly something much more important than an old marriage certificate to do with a man long dead.”

“What could it have been?” Justine asked in a puzzled voice, sitting up straighter on the bed, a worried expression on her face.

“I have no idea. But I don’t think our mother would go into a rage about Indian Ridge, which she never liked.”

Justine didn’t say anything, frowning, her puzzlement intact. “I find it very perplexing, Rich, now that you bring it up. And I can’t even make a guess.”

“I’m surprised
you
didn’t notice that she only told you about the marriage certificate—”

“So much was going on,” Justine interjected. “I’d just found her. We had so much to discuss. I wanted to explain why we hadn’t gone looking for her, and I also wanted to know what the estrangement was about. It was quite a lot to handle. And we got sidetracked in a way, because first there was tea at Anita’s, and then the dinner, and so much happiness and chatter.…” Her voice fell away.

Richard said, “Why don’t you ask Gran what she meant?”

“I don’t think I can,” Justine protested. “I don’t want to put her through …
an inquisition.
My God, we haven’t seen her for ten years, Richard! I’m not going to question her.”

“You’re right, don’t get excited. It was just a thought. And it doesn’t matter,” he finished quietly, realizing his error.

“No, it doesn’t,” Justine agreed. “And anyway, if there’s anything more to tell, she’ll explain in the next few days. When we’re more relaxed.”

“That’s true.”

They talked a little longer about Daisy, and the weekend, and then Justine exclaimed, “I forgot to ask you. Have you spoken to Joanne?”

“I have, yes, and she did get your message about Gran, and she was ecstatic that you found her finally. She didn’t call you back because she didn’t want to interrupt that first meeting with Gran. She told me to give you her love, and she’ll call you tomorrow. As I will. Now I have to go, Juju, to see my daughter. And you do, too. Hang up, you have to go to sleep.”

*   *   *

But she did not sleep.

It evaded her.

How could she sleep when she had so much on her mind?

Her brain was racing, working overtime. She endeavored to remember her grandmother’s words
exactly,
replaying the conversation once again in her head. And she heard her grandmother’s voice clearly, always so precise in its diction.
Documents
in the plural. Her Gran had said that.
Private documents.
She was certain of it.

What kind of documents had her mother read, and why had they set her off? Or was it only one that had done the trick?

Focusing on the kind of documents people usually kept safe, Justine made a mental list: a birth certificate, a marriage certificate, a child’s birth certificate, divorce papers, a death certificate, a will. Or maybe two or three wills … Uncle Trent’s? Gran’s auntie Beryl? She had left a will, and had favored her niece Gabriele. She had heard stories about Beryl’s affection for her grandmother years ago.

Had Deborah found evidence that her mother was much richer than she had previously thought? And she could be, no doubt of that. Gran had worked hard all of her life. And was still working.

Was her mother adopted? Could she have found this out for the first time that day, when she broke open her mother’s writing case?

No, that was an impossibility. Gabriele Hardwicke was far too honest to have hidden such a thing from her daughter, and for decades.

On the other hand, her mother did not look like Gabri. Not at all. She wasn’t as tall and lanky as Gran, nor was she a pale blonde. Deborah was shorter, curvaceous, and dark-haired with gray eyes; their characters were different, as well. Deborah was bossy and slightly crazy.

She herself had often wondered from whom her mother had inherited certain unsavory traits, her temperamental ways, her superiority, her snobbery. Certainly not from Gabriele Hardwicke, who was the exact opposite. And her granny had a much better character than her mother, who was mean-spirited.

She’s not a nice person, Justine suddenly thought, nor is she loving. How could she have done what she did? Why did she act the way she did, on that day so long ago now? Ten long years ago. She had issued a terrible edict and she had kept it in place. Kept Gran and them apart. Punishment for something? Was that it?

It dawned on her then that Deborah Hardwicke Nolan clearly hated her own mother, and with such virulence she cut her off from the rest of the family without a second thought, or any worry about the consequences.

What document had her mother read?

What secrets did her grandmother have?

Because there had to be secrets, hidden things, a
lethal
document, as Richard had said a short while ago. And how could
she
find out? Only two people could tell her the truth … her mother and her grandmother, and she did not relish the thought of asking either of them, Gran especially. It would be a rotten thing to do, a terrible intrusion on a woman who had been ripped away from her grandchildren years ago, and with such cruelty it was breathtaking. She had endured enough pain and sorrow already.… Justine couldn’t bear to contemplate what it had been like for her grandmother all these years.

She thrashed around for a long time, and then finally threw off the sheet and light eiderdown, got out of bed. Her grandmother had given her a beautiful room overlooking the Bosphorus and the gardens, which were immediately below her windows. Roomy and airy without being too big, it was beautifully decorated with a few choice antiques and fabrics patterned with tulips.

Opening the draperies, she looked down into the gardens and then across at the flowing Bosphorus, had the sudden and urgent compulsion to go outside. She needed to breathe in the night air, to feel the soothing power of nature all around her. Perhaps after that she would be able to sleep.

Sliding her feet into a pair of mules, she left her room.

*   *   *

How beautiful the garden was at night. Bathed in moonlight, it was filled with the mixed fragrances of peonies, roses, and night-blooming jasmine. Sweet and heady. There was a breeze ruffling the trees, and Justine felt immediately refreshed, her slight headache beginning to recede.

As she walked along a pebbled path toward the sea, she suddenly understood why her grandmother lived here, in Istanbul. The climate and the beauty of nature were intoxicating, and the way of life was relaxed, unhurried, and a peacefulness reigned at the two
yalis.
And then there was Anita, her grandmother’s friend since girlhood, her rock; they were each other’s rocks, weren’t they?

Unexpectedly, Justine came across a garden seat, and she immediately sat down under the blue-blossomed wisteria trees, relaxing against the wrought-iron back. Staring out at the straits, she realized there was a lot of traffic on it at this moment … two cruise ships, a couple of deluxe yachts, and one of those great cumbersome barges that transported goods to foreign places. Of course. It was a major waterway, flowing from the Mediterranean through the Dardanelle Straits into the Bosphorus and on to the Black Sea. Other places, other worlds, far-flung destinations …

As she relaxed, she opened her mind and let Michael Dalton creep in at last. She had held him at bay since the moment she had gone to bed, and perhaps that was another reason why she had not been able to sleep. He kept intruding, slipping into her thoughts when she least expected it. He was unlike anyone she had ever met. She had been startled that he had picked up on her comments about Jean-Marc Breton, read something into them, connected her to Jean-Marc instantly. She snapped her eyes shut. That was a place she did not want to go to tonight. Or ever again. Jean-Marc was all the things she had said he was, she had portrayed him accurately. Sadly, she did not like him.

Justine opened her eyes, and sat up straighter on the bench, tensing slightly. All of a sudden she had heard noises, footsteps crunching on the pebbled path, and she swung her head, was immediately alert. On guard.

There was a flash of white in the moonlight. His shirt. And then Michael was a few feet away from the garden seat. His face was serious when he looked down at her and said, “You couldn’t sleep, could you?”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Neither could I. So I thought I’d come and join you. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

Part Four

COUP DE FOUDRE

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

—Elizabeth Barret Browning,
Sonnets from the Portuguese

Twice or thrice had I loved thee,

Before I knew thy face or name.

—John Donne, “Air and Angels”

Twenty

Michael sat down next to Justine on the garden seat, laid his left arm along the back of it, and crossed his legs. He did not speak and neither did she.