Letter from a Stranger. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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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