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 t
he 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.
Therefore their mother had told them a horrendous and wicked lie ten years ago. She had told them their grandmother, Deborah’s mother Gabriele Hardwicke, had died suddenly in a private plane crash.
Her mind began to race. Was the letter genuine? Or was it a hoax? How could it be? Unless someone wanted to cause trouble. If so, why? For what reason? The letter had been written to their mother and it had the ring of truth to it. It was genuine, all right; there was no doubt in her mind about that.
Then unexpectedly it hit her. A wave of joy. Gran was alive. Blinking back the tears in her eyes, Justine noted the postmark. The letter was mailed at the beginning of April. Now it was almost the end of the month. The letter had been sitting here in this lacquered tray for three weeks. No one had responded to Anita Lowe. But then how could a response be made? There was no return address. And where was her grandmother actually? In London? Or was she in Istanbul? With Anita Lowe? She had frequently moved between both places in the past. And why had this woman not given more details of her grandmother’s whereabouts? Because she believed that Deborah knew exactly where her mother was. Obviously, that was the answer. Which brought her back to the lie her mother had told them.
Ten years ago, the day after they had graduated college, Deborah had explained their grandmother’s absence from the ceremony. Whilst they were in the midst of their final exams, Gabriele had been on a private plane that had crashed in Greece. No one had survived, no bodies had been retrieved.
Closing her eyes, thinking back in time, Justine remembered her mother’s words quite clearly. ‘I didn’t tell you about Gran’s death because I didn’t want to distract either of you when you were both under pressure.’
But none of that was true… this letter now revealed that. And their beloved grandmother was alive somewhere out there. The adoring grandmother who had come to stay with them so often and been such a big part of their lives.
According to Anita Lowe there was an estrangement between her mother and grandmother. About what? Something truly terrible? It must be, since it had lasted ten long years. All of those hours, days, weeks, months and years lost. Gone forever. For God’s sake, why? She had no answers for herself.
Fury with her mother swept through Justine, and she automatically reached for the phone, wanting to confront her; then her hand fell away. Her mother wasn’t in Los Angeles. Three days ago she had flown to China on a buying trip for her interior design business. From China she was going to Hong Kong, would not be returning for six weeks. She could not call her now. The time was all wrong.
She looked at her watch. It was almost three thirty. Richard would not arrive from New York for another hour. She needed to talk to him; they had to make a plan… the first thing they must do was find their grandmother. Before it was too late.
In the small back hall, Justine took Gran’s old loden green wool cape off a peg, threw it around her shoulders, then went outside. She needed to think coherently, to settle herself before her brother arrived.
A few moments ago she had been about to call Richard on his cell phone, then had instantly changed her mind. She knew she must curb her desire to immediately share this shattering news with him. That was their usual way of doing things, their modus operandi, and always had been.
As twins they were joined at the hip, and there was an extra special bond between them, an emotional attachment and a link that she realized was not exclusive to them. All twins were like that. But this afternoon she understood she must wait until he arrived, so that she could show him the letter and discuss everything with him face to face. Together they would come up with a plan of action, she was certain of that. They had been the best team all of their lives.
Crossing the back yard, she mounted the white wood staircase built into the hillside. Carlos, Pearl’s husband, had obviously repainted it recently, and it gleamed in the sunshine. Ten steps took her straight up to a wide landing, where on the left side of the hill there was a large gazebo, also freshly painted in readiness for the spring weather.
Her grandmother’s gazebo.
Justine paused and then stepped into it. She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the happy times they had spent here in her childhood. Opening her eyes, she glanced around, aware that anxiety about Gran was paramount. She couldn’t help worrying, wondering how she was, now that she knew she was not dead.
She left the gazebo and went on climbing the staircase until she came to the end. It stopped in front of a stretch of green lawn; just beyond was the gallery, originally built by her grandmother, then revamped by her father, and remodelled in certain areas by her brother four years ago.
The gallery was beautiful, made of limestone, and was two storeys high; long, simple, yet elegant in its architecture, the central building was flanked on each end by a studio. Each one had limestone half-walls topped with huge plate-glass windows. The studios were actually part of the gallery and the whole structure was finished with a sloping, green-tiled roof. This was new, and had been designed by her twin, considered to be one of the best architects in the business today. She thought it was an inspired touch. The green-tiled roof appeared to float above the gallery and the glass ‘boxes’, and there was a lovely unity and fluidity to the entire building which was somewhat European in its design inspiration.
Justine went into the gallery and turned on the lights, then took off her loden cape, put it on a small wooden bench just inside the door. Because of the many paintings hanging in the gallery, some of which were rather valuable, the air was permanently controlled and remained the same temperature year round. It was cool and peaceful, and she appreciated the airiness, the spaciousness, the vaulted ceiling, the stillness and calm that existed here.
Slowly, she walked through the gallery, not focusing on any of the paintings as she sometimes did, simply moving determinedly through the flowing vast white space. Richard had designed a large, freestanding partition on rollers, which he called ‘a floating wall’, because it could be easily rolled around at will, and repositioned anywhere. He had used several of them in the centre of the gallery, on which were hung some of his own paintings, as well as many by other artists. Justine moved between them with ease, pushing them gently aside as required.
Within seconds she was approaching the far end of the gallery, heading toward the corner where paintings by her grandmother were displayed. Coming to a standstill, she zeroed in on one of them in particular which she had admired for years. It was a painting of two girls, most likely in their teenage years, and they were standing in a flower-filled meadow with dark green hills in the distance under an azure sky. The girls were enchanting in their gauzy summer dresses, their skirts billowing around them, their hair blowing in the wind. She had known for as long as she could remember that the taller of the two girls, the blue-eyed blonde, was her grandmother, Gabriele. The other had always been anonymous. Her identity a mystery.
Could she be Anita Lowe?
Leaning forward, Justine read the little wood strip on the wall next to the painting. It was called Friends in the Meadows. Underneath the title was the name Gabriele Hardwicke, and the year it was painted, 1969.
Unexpectedly, she remembered something – her grandmother’s penchant for detail, how she had kept careful records of almost everything.
Reaching for the small painting, Justine lifted it off the wall, c
arried it into Richard’s design studio adjoining this end of the gallery. Carefully, she placed the painting face down on an empty table and stared at the back of the canvas. And there it was, a small label, close to the frame and yellowed with age. On it was written A & G: 1938. And the label was secured under a piece of Sellotape.
Gabriele had painted this from memory, hadn’t she? And did the A stand for Anita? Perhaps. Certainly she couldn’t help wondering about that, because in the letter Anita Lowe had said she was Gabriele’s most longstanding and closest friend. So it must be her, surely? But in a way it didn’t really matter whether this girl portrayed was Anita Lowe or not. Because the real Anita had spoken out most eloquently and effectively, three weeks or so ago, when she had finally put pen to paper after obviously hesitating about doing so for a number of years. She had helped her friend at last. Thank God she had. Vaguely, at the back of her mind, she now remembered her grandmother speaking about her best friend… Anita.
Carrying the painting back to the gallery, Justine hung it in its place, then stepped back and studied it for a few seconds. The other girl had brown hair and sparkling dark eyes, and there was something exotic-looking about her. She wondered why she had never noticed this before… perhaps because she had been looking only at the dazzling blonde girl who was her grandmother, the bewitching Gabriele. She knew, all of a sudden, that this was Anita.
Returning to the centre of the gallery, where the high-flung cathedral ceiling came to its peak, she sat down in the only chair, a white canvas director’s chair. The cool white space, the silence and the overwhelming sense of tranquillity usually had a soothing effect on her, and today especially so: a perfect peacefulness was enveloping her. She closed her eyes, thinking of her gran and the last time she had seen her.
She was drifting with her thoughts when the shrilling telephone brought her up with a start. She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her cell phone, and pulled it out. ‘Hello?’