Letter from a Stranger. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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Pearl eighteen, Tita sixteen.
Because their father had allowed the girls to stay, they fully understood they must help their mother in the house, and they had done so. But Pearl and Tita had longed to cook because they loved food, and it was her father who had taught them.
Justine closed her eyes, lost in sudden memories of her childhood, and saw them as they were all those years ago. She heard her father’s booming laughter, the girls giggling and Richard joining in the banter and the fun.
She had been troubled at that time because of her mother’s continuing absences – taken away from them by her work. Suddenly Justine now understood how much she had resented that in those days.
Rousing herself from her thoughts, sitting up straighter in the desk chair, Justine opened her eyes. And yet Pearl and Tita were still there, dancing around in her head. How devoted and loyal the two of them had been and still were.
They had stayed on after Estrelita had been taken seriously ill and had died here at Indian Ridge. The old house had become their beloved home over the years, just as it was her brother’s and hers.
Pearl had been married at the local church fourteen years ago and her father had given Pearl away; she and Tita had been bridesmaids. Pearl had married her third cousin, Carlos Gonzales, who had come to visit Pearl and Tita from Miami and had never left. Tony Nolan had given him a job as a gardener and carpenter; and after Carlos had married Pearl, his father had come from Miami to live with them, and help out at Indian Ridge. Like his son, Ricardo was a hard worker and a talented carpenter.
As she looked back, Justine realized that her mother had never really been part of their childhood at Indian Ridge, although her grandmother had. Deborah Nolan had always been aloof, remote, and had somehow managed to stand outside their joyousness over the years. In a certain sense, she had been like a stranger looking in.
What had made her mother tell that horrendous lie ten years ago? She had ruined Gabriele’s life, certainly caused her heartache. And she had caused them unnecessary grief. Only a monster would do something like that, something so cruel. Evil. What her mother had done was evil.
Her cell phone rang. She picked it up, put it to her ear.
‘It’s me. Jo.’
‘Hi. Where are you?’
‘I just arrived from New York. When did you get here, Juju?’
‘Early this afternoon. Any chance you can come to dinner with me and Rich? We need to pick your brains, quite aside of wanting to see you.’
‘I can. Delia will give Simon his supper. What do you want to pick my brains about?’
‘Istanbul. I have to go there for work. I need some introductions, your best contacts.’
‘God, I wish I could come with you, but I can’t. My contacts you can have. And what time do you want me for dinner?’
‘How’s seven?’
‘It’s a deal.’
The kitchen was filled with the most delicious smells… apples redolent of cinnamon, bubbling on the stove, sweet potatoes baking, and the most dominant of all was the spicy fragrance of the cloves studding the ham in the oven. Justine felt ravenous all of a sudden, her mouth watering, and she realized she hadn’t eaten lunch.
The moment Pearl saw her hovering in the doorway she put down the wooden spoon she was holding and rushed over to her, put her arms around her and held her close to her ample body. Just as Tita was petite and slender, her older sister was well padded and motherly. And yet they looked very much alike with their dark curls, dark eyes and permanent smiles. They both had warm and loving dispositions.
Finally releasing her, Pearl looked her over appraisingly. ‘Seems to me like you’ve lost weight!’
‘I have, that’s true. I’ve missed your cooking, Pearl, and you, too.’
Pearl beamed at her. ‘Joanne coming to supper?’
‘Naturally. Who’d pass up a chance to eat a meal cooked by you? You’re the best in the business.’
‘Flattery, flattery.’ Pearl laughed dismissively but looked pleased as she went back to the stove, stirred the apples in the pan and turned them off. She opened the oven door, glanced at the ham and nodded to herself, satisfied it was cooking nicely.
Justine walked across the floor and sat down at the big table. ‘Where’s Daisy?’
‘Tita took her up to her room to clean her teeth, wash up. She’ll be down soon to have her supper at six.’ As she spoke, Pearl stared at the kitchen clock, saw that it was five forty-five and hurried to the countertop under the window. She picked up a cottage pie in a glass casserole and carried the dish to the oven. ‘Got to get this brown,’ she muttered, more to herself than Justine.
‘Where’s Richard, do you know?’
‘He went up to his room. How about Parisian eggs to start?’
‘Gosh, Parisian eggs. I love them! We haven’t had them for ages. That’s a great idea.’
‘Good. Better check I’ve got anchovies and mayonnaise.’ Gliding over to the pantry, she went on talking. ‘Your grandmother taught me how to make Parisian eggs. She warned me …the eggs had to be boiled at the last minute. She used to say, “They must be really, really warm, Pearly Queen.”’
Pearl swung around, suddenly laughing. ‘Remember how she used to call me that, Justine? She said it was after the pearly kings and queens from that place in London.’
‘The East End, and the pearly kings and queens are always Cockneys.’ Memories flashed before her eyes unexpectedly: Gran in the kitchen here, teaching Pearl how to make cottage pie, steak-and-kidney pie, and fish and chips, as well as those hard-boiled eggs with mayonnaise and anchovies on top which they all enjoyed.
‘They wore clothes with pearls stitched on them,’ Pearl announced, closing the pantry door.
Justine slipped off the stool. ‘I’m going to get ready, but I’ll set the table first.’
‘No need, Tita did it,’ Pearl grinned. ‘It’s set for three.’
Justine laughed at the knowing expression on Pearl’s rosy-cheeked face, went out to the hall and up the stairs.
Richard’s door was ajar. She pushed it open and looked in. ‘Hi! I spoke to Jo. She’s coming over for dinner.’
He was at his desk. He turned around, nodded. ‘Good, it’ll be nice to see her.’
Justine came into his bedroom. ‘I did some research on Istanbul on the Internet,’ she said. ‘I remembered something all of a sudden, Rich. When Dad and Gran worked together at Dad’s showroom in the D & D Building on Third Avenue, they imported stuff from Turkey.’
Richard threw her a knowing look. ‘I thought of that myself. They had two companies, Exotic Places and Faraway Lands, and they bought furniture and accessories from China, Japan, Thailand and India. And Turkey, of course. Didn’t Gran used to go there from London? To Istanbul, I mean?’
‘I think she did with Uncle Trent,’ Justine said.
‘They were close friends,’ Richard murmured. ‘When he died thirteen years ago, Gran was very upset.’
‘Not long after Trent died, Gran went back to London… she said something about buying carpets to me,’ Justine said.
Instantly something occurred to Richard. ‘Hereke! That’s where the carpets are made. Dad showed me one when I was at the showroom with him on a Saturday; they’re made of silk, I think. Very beautiful, and expensive. The more I think about it, she knows Istanbul quite well – and you’re right, Juju, Gran’s more than likely there. It’s suddenly dawned on me that she had some special friends in Turkey.’
‘I want to leave next week, and as soon as