Barbara Taylor Bradford - Letter from a Stranger

Kim, the nanny, had the weekend off, and Tita, one of the housekeepers, was hovering over her, encouraging her to use as many crayons as she wanted. ‘All the colours of the rainbow,’ Tita was saying, her voice loving.

Afternoon sunshine was streaming into the room and Daisy’s pale blonde curls shimmered in the light. What a lovely child she is, Justine thought, adorable in a variety of different ways, and it’s so hard not to spoil her.

Justine couldn’t help smiling to herself as she watched Tita being so attentive to Daisy, helping her. Tita and her sister Pearl loved Daisy as if she were their own, and, in a sense, she was. The two women had lived and worked at Indian Ridge for years and were part of the family by now.

She and Richard had grown up with them, and they appreciated everything the two of them did to keep the house, the gallery and their work studios in tiptop shape. They considered themselves blessed to have Tita and Pearl; Richard deemed them to be the salt of the earth.

Stepping into the room, Justine said, ‘What are you colouring, Daisy?’

Daisy and Tita both turned around on hearing Justine’s voice, and Daisy explained, ‘It’s a vase of flowers, Auntie Juju.’

‘She takes after her father,’ Tita grinned. ‘She’s got that talent he’s had since he was a boy.’

A small smile struck Justine’s face, and then she laughed. ‘Unlike the two of us! We weren’t very good painters, were we? Mine were a series of giant blotches.’

Tita joined in her laughter. ‘And mine, too, and there was more paint on me than the canvas.’

Daisy, staring intently at her aunt, said, ‘How much does it cost to go there?’

‘To go where, darling?’

‘To Heaven. I want to take my painting to Mommy. I’m doing it for her. I’ve got a lot of quarters in my piggy bank. Maybe ten dollars. It’s a big pig.’

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.

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.