Justine’s eyes narrowed and she cried heatedly, ‘My mother! She was the impediment. She didn’t like Trenton Saunders. I was aware of that when we were little. She never wanted us to go with you to his house on Long Island. She was the impediment, wasn’t she?’
‘She was. But, darling, how did you know she didn’t like Trent?’ Gabriele sounded astonished, and looked it.
‘Because I was a very observant child, if you recall. And she didn’t exactly hide her dislike of him. I might go so far as to call it hatred. She harboured great hatred for Uncle Trent, and I can’t imagine why. He was so lovely.’
‘What you say is the truth. Your father loved Trent, and your father also loved me, and in the end he made me see sense. He said, “To hell with that bloody screwed-up daughter of yours. Just live your life and be happy, and make that devoted man happy while he’s still on this earth.” I’ve never forgotten your father’s words.’
‘Where did you get married, Grandma?’
‘City Hall in New York. Your father came along with us, jokingly saying he wanted to make sure we did it. Then he took us to lunch at Le Cirque afterwards. We never told anyone. Except Anita, who knew Trent well, and Larry Dalton, Michael’s father, who is my lawyer.’
‘Oh, Gran darling, what a story, but if only you’d married him years before…’ She let her voice trail off. The past was the past, and nothing could change it now.
Gabriele said, ‘We were married legally for one year. However, as far as I’m concerned, we’d been a married couple all of the years we were together. Thirty years, actually, and as I once said to Trent, “A bit of paper’s not going to make much difference to us, or our lives.” And he agreed.’
‘It does when it comes to wills and the legal stuff, though, doesn’t it, Gran?’
‘It certainly does, darling. Now, I cut you off before. What was it you wanted to tell me?’
Justine took a deep breath, and as she thought of the words she had to say, she began to shake inside. ‘Gran, you must have wondered why Rich and I never came looking for you ten years ago, and since that time—’
‘I figured your mother had told you some awful story about my behaviour, or suggested that I had dementia, or Alzheimer’s, and was in a home or an asylum, something like that.’
Justine’s eyes filled with tears and they rolled down her face, as she said in a half-choked voice, ‘She told us… she told us …you were dead, that you’d died in a plane crash.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Gabriele’s eyes welled. ‘Oh, my poor darling, you and Rich must have been so upset. And how could my daughter tell a horrendous lie like that?’
Justine jumped up and went to kneel next to her grandmother, took her hands in hers. Hands that had looked after her when she was ill, soothed her anguish when she was upset about something as a child. Those loving, caring hands, worn now and old, and she took them in hers and held them tightly, bent down and kissed them. ‘Upset is not the right word, Gran. We were heartbroken, and we grieved for you for years. When we found out you were alive I was dumbstruck and couldn’t wait to find you, and Rich felt the same way. And we were worried how you were doing, how you were… and we were afraid you’d think we didn’t care, didn’t love you, but you know we do.’
Bending forward, Gabriele put her arms around Justine and held her tightly. ‘I’ve never thought badly of either of you. Ever. I know the stuff you’re made of… let’s face it. Your father and I shepherded you through your formative years.’
Gabriele wiped her eyes, and so did Justine, and suddenly they looked at each other and began to laugh.
Gabriele said, ‘Thank you for finding me.’
Justine now gave her grandmother a very direct look, and said, ‘I want to ask you something.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why didn’t you come to New York immediately to see Richard and me? We wouldn’t have been influenced by our mother. We knew she was a liar and a cheat. We would have believed you, Gran.’
‘I thought you wouldn’t see me, or have anything to do with me. Deborah had been in such a fury she had frightened me a bit. She can be verbally violent, as you know. Then, just as I was getting my courage back, thinking about flying to New York, she sent me a letter and enclosed an e-mail from you and Richard.’
Gabriele went over to the desk, took out some papers. She explained, ‘Your mother wrote the following. “Mother: Be warned. Richard and Justine feel the same way about you as I do. They don’t want you in the family. They think you’re a liar. Which you are. They are disowning you as I did. Stay away from us. Deborah.”’
Justine was aghast. ‘How horrible! It’s not true. Honestly, it isn’t.’
Gabriele said, ‘This e-mail from you to her was enclosed. It says, “Dear Mom: Anyone who lies like your mother has no place in our lives. You did the right thing to disown her. We disown her too. We’re on your side. Love Richard and Justine.” I’m afraid I believed this.’
‘Can I see the e-mail, please, Gran?’
‘Here it is.’ Gabriele handed both pieces of paper to her.
After reading the e-mail, Justine said, ‘It was sent from my computer. But not by me. It’s a forgery. She accessed my computer, sent it to herself. What a duplicitous woman.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Gabriele replied.
‘And inventing that plane crash! How rotten she is.’
‘Oddly enough, I did have a car crash just after I got back to Istanbul ten years ago, and I was incapacitated for a few months with a broken leg and a broken shoulder. I couldn’t travel for a long time.’
‘Thank God I found you, Gran. And thank God for flukes.’ Justine paused, then looked over at the arched doorway. A sudden smile illuminated her face.
‘Good evening, ladies,’ Michael said, coming into the room. ‘I’ve been sent to collect you by my boss, otherwise known as Anita. She’d like you to come and join us for supper. I’m here to escort you across the courtyard.’
EIGHTEEN
It was a beautiful night, the midnight-blue sky sprinkled with the brightest of stars. A huge silver orb of a moon, which seemed much closer than it truly was, looked as if it had been strategically hung over the gardens, resembling a set design in a movie. In the distance, the Bosphorus appeared to have been painted with silver, and it shimmered in the moonlight.
The French doors were wide open, bringing the outdoors inside, the sweet scent of varied flowers mingling with the salty tang of the sea drifting in on the warm air.
The dining room in Anita’s villa was unusual, circular in shape with a domed ceiling, the walls washed in pink, the floor covered in terracotta tiles. A round dining table took pride of place in the centre, covered in a floor-length Paisley-patterned cloth and partnered with antique French chairs.
Anita, dressed in a floating cyclamen and purple silk caftan, hurried forward to meet Gabriele, Justine and Michael, smiling broadly as she motioned them to come into the room. Taking hold of Justine’s arm possessively, she led her inside swiftly, explaining, ‘Mehmet has made a Sunday lunch for dinner, because Gabri told me how much you loved her Sunday lunches. Years ago, when you were growing up. We thought that’s what you’d enjoy tonight.’
Justine broke into laughter, and looked over her shoulder at her grandmother. ‘None of us have managed to get it right ever, Gran, not since you went back to London.’
‘Mehmet will. He’s an old hand at it,’ Gabriele replied, her soft blue eyes dancing with happiness.
Anita indicated where they should sit: Justine between herself and Michael, with Gabriele facing her granddaughter across the table.
Taking her seat, Gabriele smiled at Justine, truly happy to gaze at her lovely face. Gabriele’s joy at having Justine here in Istanbul knew no bounds; plus now, fully understanding why her grandchildren had not come searching for her before, she was also comforted. A sense of peace at long last.
Justine glanced at her grandmother surreptitiously, thinking what a beautiful woman
she still was – one who looked younger than her years.
There were several reasons for this: a head of thick, luxuriant hair, the same silvery-blonde it had always been, a broad brow, high cheekbones and an extraordinary complexion that was relatively unlined. Also, her enormous vitality gave her an aura of youthfulness, and Justine had noticed how quickly she moved, and with grace.
Justine could not help but marvel at her, and at Anita. The latter was full of energy, just like Gran, and seemingly as fit; a good-looking woman, smart and well put together, with short curly brown hair and twinkling dark eyes. There was a deep bond between the two of them, Justine knew that, and earlier she had picked up on their knowing glances.
After sipping their wine, toasting each other, Anita touched Justine’s arm lightly. ‘I apologize again for forgetting to put my name and address on the back of the envelope. Stupid! Whatever was I thinking about?’ She looked irritated with herself, and shook her head wonderingly. ‘I must be getting forgetful in my old age.’
‘No, you’re not!’ Gabriele exclaimed. ‘Forget about age. It happened because you were obviously intent on getting that letter into the postbox. So I suspect, anyway.’
Justine turned to Anita, said gently, in a warm voice, ‘But I did find you, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
Michael suddenly interjected. ‘Justine, can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course,’ she answered.
‘Didn’t you think of hiring a private investigator to find them?’ He sounded puzzled, and threw her an odd look.
‘Yes! Of course! Richard and I did discuss that before I even left New York. But we decided not to because we didn’t want to upset—’ She broke off immediately, looking slightly chagrined.
Laughing, Michael finished her sentence. ‘Two old ladies. That’s what you were going to say. Correct?’
She nodded and laughed with Michael, and the two grandmothers did also, because they were aware they did not resemble old ladies at all. Not with their lovely hairdos and high heels, chic caftans and red lipstick.
A few moments later, Zeynep came into the dining room carrying a large platter, and Anita explained to Justine, ‘This is lakerda, local tuna from the Black Sea.’
Zeynep offered her the platter, and Justine took two of the thin slices of fish and a piece of lemon. ‘It looks delicious,’ she murmured.
Michael started to talk to her about the places she had visited in Istanbul whilst ‘on the hunt for Gabri’, was the way he put it, and the two grandmothers also wanted to hear what other sights she had seen, where she had been. ‘I’ve been to a han,’ she told them.
‘You have?’ Anita sounded surprised to hear this and stared at Justine, frowning. ‘Which han?’
‘Vezir Han. Iffet took me to Punto, and—’
‘Oh, my goodness, the carpet shop!’ Gabriele interjected. ‘I haven’t been there for some years. I used to know the owner quite well.’
‘I discovered that,’ Justine responded, and recounted the story of why they had gone to Punto, and the fact that the owner actually did remember her, had even referred to her as Gabri. Gabriele and Anita looked at each other and smiled.
Michael said, ‘Clever reasoning on your part.’ He grinned at her. ‘Quite the little detective, Justine.’ He sounded amused.
‘Not really, Michael,’ she answered evenly, even though she was annoyed by his tone. ‘I was a journalist before I started to make documentaries, and so I do know a bit about digging for information.’
Gabriele murmured, ‘Tell us more about your latest documentary, Justine. We’d love to hear. Do you mind?’
‘No, of course not, Gran. It’s about a man who is considered to be one of the world’s greatest artists, Jean-Marc Breton, the painter and sculptor. I did a filmed biography of him and his work, focused on his art, his studio in Provence and his homes. It’s two hours long. In fact, there’s a promo running currently on the network I’m associated with, CNI. You might catch it if you turn it on later. I did some interviews with local Istanbul newspapers about “Proof of Life”, actually in the hopes that you might see them, read them, and know I was in Istanbul.’
‘We were away. Oh dear, what a pity we missed them,’ Anita said, shaking her head regretfully.
Gabriele nodded.
Michael stared at Justine. ‘“Proof of Life”. That’s a strange title for a documentary about a painter, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a term used by the police and other agents; it’s hostage terminology. I chose it because it was strange, and therefore people would be intrigued, would want to know what the story was about. And it is apt, because Jean-Marc has been a recluse for many years, staying in the dark, so to speak. Some people thought he was dead. But he wasn’t dead, and that’s why I thought “Proof of Life” was an appropriate title. The film proves he’s alive.’
‘When you explain it that way, then I agree with you,’ Michael replied. ‘And I for one can’t wait to see it. I’ve always been an admirer of his art. What’s he like?’
‘Brilliant – a genius, in my opinion. A great artist,’ she enthused.
‘I meant what’s he like as a person, as a man?’
‘Oh, well, let me see…’ Justine frowned, looked reflective. ‘He’s fascinating, charming and difficult – impossible, in fact, depending on the time of day, or the day of the week. He can be extremely irritating because of his temperament. But he’s also one of the most attractive and beguiling men I’ve ever met…’
Justine stopped instantly, suddenly aware that Michael was staring at her intently, his eyes narrowed. She felt her neck growing warm, and then her face, realized she was blushing. She also knew that he had picked up on something in her words or her tone, or both, and she was angry with herself. She had given herself away.
After studying her for the longest moment, his eyes riveted on her, Michael murmured, ‘It sounds as if he made a very strong impression on you, and a favourable one. You’ve no doubt made a wonderful documentary about him.’
She nodded, but did not respond, then noticed that Gabriele and Anita were looking at each other oddly. Picking up her glass, she sipped her wine, mortified. Michael Dalton was far too intuitive and clever. But then he’d been trained as a Secret Service agent, hadn’t he?
There was a silence at the table. No one said a word.
Fortunately, Zeynep came in and removed the fish plates, and put down clean ones. The arrival of Mehmet pushing a meat trolley, with a large leg of lamb reclining on the carving board, seemed to lighten the atmosphere.
‘This is going to be a treat, Justine,’ Anita said, and forced a laugh, relieved that the chef had come into the dining room. ‘And your grandmother says it’s the best Yorkshire pudding outside Yorkshire.’
As she spoke she stole a glance at her grandson, wondering what was wrong with him. He had sounded so sarcastic a few seconds ago, and his eyes looked darker than ever. They became almost black when he was angry. Why was he angry now? Aha! Because of Justine’s remarks about the painter. Oh, my goodness, Anita thought, he likes her. Maybe more than likes her? She hoped so. Vanessa had been wrong for him. Beautiful, yes, but hard, selfish, self-involved and manipulative, and not very bright. Street smart perhaps, but no intellect.
No one had been happier than she when her grandson had broken up with her. Anita wanted Michael to meet the right woman; wanted him to have the kind of woman he deserved.
Was Justine that woman? In her opinion she was. Justine was solid as a rock, had real character and strength, Anita had become aware of that this very day. She herself had fallen in love with Gabri’s beautiful granddaughter, and in an instant. Had he?
Had her Michael been struck by lightning? She prayed to God he had. What she needed for him was a coup de foudre. She needed him to be swept off his feet, enraptured, captivated. And she needed Justine to experience the same feelings – otherwise it wouldn’t work.
But now she must play hostess.
Mehm
et was rattling on about the lamb and the Yorkshire pudding, smiling and gesticulating; finally he started to carve the joint with great skill. All slices were paper thin, in the way they liked them, the English way.
Gabriele and Anita were responding to the chef in their usual friendly manner, both of them hoping the atmosphere would change, ease up. They were so in tune, they knew each other’s thoughts, just glanced at each other from time to time.
Michael was silent. Furious with himself. He never displayed weakness, never lost face, and yet he had done just that tonight. He had broken his own rule. Why had he overreacted to Justine’s words about Jean-Marc Breton? Because he somehow instinctively knew she had been involved with the famous French artist, might still be involved. And he was… jealous.
How unbelievable that was. He had never been jealous before. And he had been confident about his ability to attract the opposite sex all his life.
Picking up his glass, he finished the white wine in a gulp, and pushed himself to his feet. Walking over to the sideboard, he picked up the decanter of red he had put there earlier, and noticed that his hand shook slightly. As he carried the wine over to the table, he wondered what the hell was wrong with him.
Somehow he managed to pour the wine into everyone’s glass without spilling a drop, and when he placed the decanter in a silver wine coaster on the table he was glad to see his hand was steady again.
Mehmet served the lamb and Yorkshire pudding, adding gravy, and Zeynep carried the mint sauce to each person so they could help themselves. Roast potatoes and other vegetables were served, and indeed it was a typical English Sunday lunch, made in Justine’s honour.
Michael had no appetite. His stomach was in knots, and that weird feeling in his chest had returned; it was like tight bands encasing him. How could she be affecting him in this way? He had just met her this afternoon, he hardly knew her. Oh, but you do, a small voice in his head told him. You’ve heard about her for years, and you felt something for her at once, the moment you saw her rushing across the garden to Gabriele as if her life depended on it. You raced after her, wanting to grab her, pull her into your arms. That was when she stole your heart.
Letter From a Stranger Page 14