Letter from a Stranger

Justine was unable to speak for a moment. Her throat was suddenly constricted. Swallowing several times, she finally managed to say, ‘It’s a bit more than that, I think.’

‘Oh.’ Daisy nodded, pursed her lips. ‘I’ll have to get some more quarters then. I’ll keep the painting for Mommy, and take it to her later. When I’ve saved up.’

‘That’s right.’ Justine’s low voice sounded hoarse. To her relief Daisy turned back to her colouring book, her blonde head bent over it once more in concentration.

The two women exchanged glances.

Tita was on the verge of tears, her dark eyes stricken. She was biting her bottom lip, struggling for control.

Clearing her throat, Justine said, ‘Come on, Tita, let’s go and plan the picnic for tomorrow.’

‘A picnic!’ The five-year-old swung her head, her bright blue eyes suddenly sparkling. ‘In the gazeboat?’

‘Gazebo, darling,’ Justine corrected gently. ‘And yes, it will be there, weather permitting. And guess what, Auntie Jo is coming with Simon.’

‘Oh goody! Simon’s my bestest friend.’

‘We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us for anything, Daisy.’ Justine beckoned to Tita, who almost ran out of the room ahead of her; she followed in concern.

Tita was clutching the sink, hunched over into herself, still fighting the tears.

Crossing the kitchen quickly, understanding exactly how she felt, Justine put her arms around Tita and held her close. ‘I know, I know, it’s hard. Some of the things she comes out with take my breath away, tear me apart, and Richard too. But suddenly she brightens up – you know that, Tita. Especially if she’s distracted. And she does forget.’

‘Yes… but I suffer for her. I can’t help it.’

‘We’ve got to keep her busy, Tita. Look how she reacted when I mentioned the picnic and Simon. And I’ve learned a lot from Kim, who packs her days with activities, keeps her very busy when she’s not at school. We’ve got to do that this weekend, as we’ve been doing for the last two years, actually.’

‘I know, I know…’ Tita cut herself off, blew out air, pulled herself together, and said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Let’s have a cup of tea.’

‘Good idea.’ Justine smiled at Tita, squeezed her arm. ‘She’ll be all right.’

Tita nodded and went to fill the kettle.

Justine walked over to the fire and stood in front of it, glancing around. The kitchen was a comforting room, warm, inviting, and one of her favourites in the house. Copper pots and pans hanging down from the saucepan rack affixed to the ceiling gleamed brightly. In between the pots were strings of onions and garlic, bunches of lavender and thyme, whole sausages and salamis, all of which added a French Provençal feeling.

It had always been the hub of the house, where everyone congregated, because part of it was furnished as a living room. A sofa and wing chairs, a television set and a Welsh dresser were all grouped near the fireplace, while a large wooden table, which seated ten, was used to divide the room; beyond the table were countertops and the usual appliances. With its terracotta tiled floor, pale-peach walls and floral fabrics, the kitchen had a certain charm and a welcoming air about it.

The phone started ringing, and Justine stepped over to the small desk in a corner near the fireplace, and picked up the receiver. ‘Indian Ridge,’ she said, and immediately sat down in the chair when she heard her assistant’s voice. ‘Hello, Ellen.’

‘Hi, Justine. I guess you made it up there in record time.’

‘I did. What’s happening?’

‘All’s well. I just had a call from Miranda’s PA, and she wants to see the film on Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock, instead of Thursday morning. I told her I thought it would be fine, but that I’d better check with you. There’s nothing in your book.’

‘I’ve a pretty empty week, I know that. So yes, we’ll screen the film whenever Miranda wants.’

‘I’ll confirm it with Angie. Everything’s okay there, I suppose.’

‘It is. I’m here with Tita, and Daisy’s busy with her colouring book. I haven’t seen Pearl yet – she went to the market; and apparently Carlos and Ricardo are up on the ridge, working on Richard’s current project.’

‘The guest house.’

‘Which we don’t really need. On the other hand, he needs it, Ellen, because it gives him work to do up here. It takes his mind off things.’

‘There’s still a lot of grief on him,’ Ellen murmured. ‘I wish I knew somebody nice to introduce him to.’

‘He wouldn’t be interested, I’m afraid,’ Justine shot back. ‘Anyway, I’ll now come back on Tuesday morning instead of Wednesday. Have a nice weekend, Ellen.’

‘And you too.’

As she hung up the phone, Justine had no way of knowing that her world, and Richard’s, was about to change forever.

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.