The Sun Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  And there was my grandmother, sitting as cool as a cucumber in the chair right next to the newsreader.

  ‘Thank you, Cynthia. I can tell you that more than awareness is needed at this point,’ Stella said. ‘We need direct action and aid from our politicians. HIV and AIDS have ravaged eastern and southern Africa, and three-quarters of all global AIDS deaths last year were recorded in those regions. The highest impact is on babies and young children, who . . .’

  I was so shocked, I didn’t really listen to what she was saying, just stared at her open-mouthed.

  I went to the hallway to shout for Lizzie and Miles to come see my grandmother on TV, but the door to the living room remained closed. By the time I got back to the kitchen, the interview had finished.

  ‘Damn it,’ I muttered, then, needing a distraction until the two of them finished talking, I went to my bedroom to begin to try on the clothes I’d pulled out from the rack earlier. Still, my mind refused to switch off from the person who was Stella Jackson, aka ‘Granny’.

  ‘Miss Uber Civil Rights activist, who still managed to lose her own granddaughter to Hale House somewhere along the way,’ I growled as I squeezed myself into a pair of tight black leather trousers that made me feel like a predatory panther and suited my mood perfectly. ‘Bet the interviewer would have liked to hear that story!’

  ‘Electra! We’re finished! You can come in now,’ I heard Lizzie say from the hallway.

  ‘Coming,’ I called back.

  ‘You look amazing,’ Lizzie said as she ushered me through into the living room. ‘You going out somewhere?’

  ‘No, just trying on the stuff I got sent today and working out what suits.’

  ‘Well, those leather trousers are like a second skin on you. Aren’t they, Miles?’

  I turned to see Miles’s expression, and it was fair to say that it was an extremely satisfying one. Very satisfying indeed. Which cheered me up a lot.

  He saw us both staring at him, and averted his eyes.

  ‘Yeah, you look great, Electra.’

  ‘Thanks. And you’ll never guess who I just saw on CNN – my grandmother! I had no idea she was famous.’

  Miles and Lizzie looked at me nonplussed.

  ‘Who is your grandmother?’ he asked.

  ‘Her name is Stella Jackson.’

  ‘That definitely rings a bell,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Hold it right there! You’re saying the Stella Jackson is your grandma?’ said Miles.

  ‘Um, yup, that’s her name. Do you know of her?’

  ‘Hah!’ Miles slapped his well-muscled thigh. ‘In the civil rights world, Stella Jackson is an A-lister goddess! At Harvard, they speak her name in hallowed tones. She was right there when Malcolm X was shot in the Audubon Ballroom, and at the rally in Washington when Martin Luther King Junior made his “I have a dream” speech. She came to talk to us law students at Harvard and I freely admit I sat there in tears. She’s your grandmother?’ he asked again. ‘I thought you had no blood relations, Electra?’

  ‘I kinda found her recently,’ I said, feeling guilty I hadn’t mentioned it to him.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Miles swore, so I knew this was BIG. ‘Wow wow wow! And you had no idea who she was?’

  ‘Nope, she never said,’ I replied, seeing what amounted to hero-worship in Miles’s eyes.

  ‘It’s rumoured that if Obama wins the presidency, she’ll have some form of role as an advisor. Those are some genes you’ve inherited there, girl. And actually, now I look at you, you’re the living image of her, especially with your new haircut,’ he added.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to know your grandmother is a powerful woman, isn’t it?’ said Lizzie, somehow sensing my tension. ‘I’m off to powder my nose after that very long and stressful conversation,’ she added, exiting stage left to the bathroom.

  ‘Was it a good chat with Lizzie?’ I asked him, determinedly changing the subject as I tried to sit down in my tight pants.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Miles shrugged. ‘I did my best, but she’s going to need a California guy to represent her. Divorce law’s very different over there, but I’ve given her the name of a good lawyer I know. Sounds to me as if that husband of hers will screw her to the wall if he can. The good news is, the law is on her side. And there’s nothing he can do about that, apart from draw the process out. Lizzie needs some cash – and a home – fast. It’s great of you to take her in, Electra. You’re a good person,’ he added. ‘Mind you, knowing your heritage, I’m not surprised. I’m still in shock.’

  ‘Well, when I see Stella, I just might ask her how I ended up in Hale House.’ I eyed him for a few seconds and I knew he’d got the inference. ‘Anyway, how’s Vanessa?’

  ‘Doing real well; Ida says she should be ready for a visit by the weekend. Right, I’d better be heading home. Work is crazy at the moment. If you see your grandmother, tell her I’m a fan. I’ll call you about Vanessa when I hear. Night, Electra.’

  ‘Night, Miles, and thanks,’ called Lizzie, appearing in the hallway as he closed the door behind him.

  I sighed heavily.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Lizzie stood there eying me, her hands on her hips.

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’

  ‘There’s obviously something. Is it to do with Miles?’

  I paced restlessly round the living room. My anxiety and irritation weren’t helped by the fact that Lizzie was pouring herself a fresh glass of white wine from the bottle on the table.

  ‘Come on, Electra, what’s eating you?’ Lizzie asked as I watched her take a large gulp.

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ I shrugged, knowing that if I wasn’t careful, my anger would boil over like a volcano and I didn’t want to traumatise poor old Lizzie.

  ‘It must be to do with Miles. Are you two in a relationship?’

  ‘What? God, no! Hah!’

  ‘Okay, Electra, keep your hair on.’ Lizzie grinned at me. ‘It’s just obvious that he thinks the sun shines out of your bottom, from the way he looks at you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s just peachy but . . . Listen, Lizzie, I didn’t say anything to Miles earlier because I thought I’d never get rid of him, but my grandmother is due here any second. And the thing is’ – I looked at her hard – ‘it’s her I’m really pissed at.’

  ‘Right.’ Lizzie took another couple of large gulps of wine and nodded. ‘I’ll go and make myself scarce, shall I? Central Park is so lovely on a summer’s evening.’

  The concierge phone rang and I went to pick it up. ‘Yup, send her up.’

  ‘Good luck, Electra. I’ll see you later, sweetheart,’ said Lizzie, as she grabbed her bag and walked towards the door.

  It banged shut behind her and I only just managed to refrain from draining what was left in her wine glass to calm my nerves. Instead, taking some deep breaths in, I was relatively composed by the time the bell rang to announce that Stella Jackson was at my front door.

  I went to open it and there she stood, wearing the same smart tweed jacket I’d seen her in on TV earlier. She must have come straight from the studio.

  ‘Hi, Electra, how are you?’

  ‘Good, thanks, Stella. How are you?’ I asked, smiling at her through gritted teeth.

  ‘I’m well, thank you, dear. I’ve had a very busy, but productive weekend.’

  ‘That’s, um, good then,’ I nodded as I watched her walk to her favourite chair and sit down. ‘Can I get you some water?’

  ‘Thank you, honey, that would be great. Oh my, those pants you’ve got on sure are tight,’ she commented, as I poured some water into a glass and handed it to her. ‘I like your hair, by the way; no one would doubt now that the two of us are related.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, as I sat gingerly on the couch, wishing to God I’d changed out of these pants before she’d arrived.

  ‘How has your weekend been, Electra?’

  ‘It’s been . . . interesting,’ I nodded. ‘Yup, interesting.’

  ‘May I ask in what wa
y?’

  ‘Oh, I discovered where I’d been found by my father.’

  ‘Did you now?’

  ‘Yup, I did.’

  ‘And where would that be?’

  I stared at her hard then, wondering if she was simply being disingenuous or playing some kind of weird game that I didn’t know the rules of.

  ‘Surely you must know?’

  ‘Why yes, I do, I was just checking you’d got your facts right.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got my facts right okay,’ I nodded, my teeth biting on my bottom lip to stop the anger exploding from behind them. ‘It was Hale House in Harlem, the place where they cared for babies of addicts and AIDS sufferers.’

  I kept my gaze right on her face and was pleased when she pulled her eyes away from mine first.

  ‘So you knew that was where I was found?’ I said.

  ‘Not at the time you were actually taken there, but after the fact, yes. Your father told me.’

  ‘Okay. So you’re saying you didn’t know that I – your granddaughter – was actually in a home for young addicts and HIV sufferers?’

  ‘Yes, I am saying that.’

  ‘I mean, you, who I saw earlier on TV talking about the AIDS crisis in Africa, you, the great champion for civil rights in this country, you didn’t know that your own granddaughter was left at a place like that?!’ I stood up then, partly because I could no longer sit in the pants, but also because it made me feel strong to tower over my grandmother, who I saw had slumped from her normal elegant posture right down into the chair. I noticed she suddenly looked old and there was something in her eyes as she gazed past me into the distance. I realised it was fear.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure that the media would just lap this story up, wouldn’t they?’ I continued. ‘Especially given my profile. I bet you wouldn’t like that, Granny dearest?!’ I almost spat.

  ‘You’re right, I wouldn’t, because yes, it would destroy my reputation. But I guess if I was you, it would be what you thought I deserve. And maybe I do deserve it.’

  I began to pace the living room. ‘The burning question is, where the hell was my mother in all this? Who was she? And why, if she was in such big trouble, weren’t you there for her? And for me?! How you can sit there spouting your shit on TV, with everyone thinking you’re some kind of a goddess of goodness . . . Jeez, Stella! How do you live with yourself?!’

  ‘I . . .’ Stella gave a long sigh. ‘As I said, at the time I didn’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t know that your daughter was a drug addict or an AIDS victim or had a baby girl?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Then where the hell were you?!’

  ‘I was in Africa at the time, but it’s a long story, and you can’t begin to understand it until I’ve told you what happened before your mother was even born.’

  ‘Does it really matter what led up to it? It’s not going to change the fact that you weren’t there for me, or my mom, when we needed you, is it?’

  ‘No, and you have every right to get angry, Electra, but please, I beg you, just hear me out. Because if you don’t, you’re never going to understand.’

  ‘To be blunt, Stella, I don’t think I’ll ever understand, but okay,’ I sighed. ‘I’ll try. As long as you can swear to me that I, or my mother, or you, or some goddamned relative of mine gets into the story!’

  ‘I can swear that, yes,’ she said. I saw her draw a handkerchief out of her purse – the kind that the Queen of England always carried – and that her hand shook a little. I immediately felt sorry for her. She was old, after all.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to change out of these ridiculous pants, and come back in some comfy ones, okay?’ I said.

  ‘Okay. You like hot chocolate?’ she asked me.

  ‘Yeah, Ma – my sort-of mom – used to make it for me before bed.’

  ‘Well, I make the best darned hot chocolate in the whole of Brooklyn. If you have the ingredients, I’m going to make us both a mug of it.’

  ‘I do. Great, fine.’

  Ten minutes later, we were both sitting back in the living room, nursing what even I had to admit was a pretty good hot chocolate. I was still trying to feed the anger in my belly, but somehow it had all dissipated, which was kind of weird because normally I was good at holding grudges – too good.

  ‘Okay, so you remember that last time I told you Cecily had just lost her baby?’

  ‘I do, yes. Does the story get a little more relevant to me in this bit?’

  ‘Electra, I swear, this is the part of the story that you’ll hardly believe . . .’

  September 1940

  Cecily sat back and wiped her sweating brow, stuck the trowel into the soil, then stood up and walked into the house to pour herself a glass of cool lemonade from the refrigerator. She stepped out onto the veranda to drink it and admire her handiwork. The garden was really starting to take shape now; the green lawns that swept down towards the valley were edged by beds of hibiscus and clusters of white and red poinsettias.

  She heard Wolfie barking from his pen at the side of the house and left the shade of the veranda to go and release him.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, as she knelt down and the enormous dog smothered her in wet kisses. She almost lost her balance as he reared up to place his great paws on her shoulders; she smiled as she remembered the tiny puppy that Bill had presented her with a few days after they’d buried Fleur, her daughter.

  ‘He needed someone to take care of him,’ he’d said as he’d handed the squirming, furry bundle to her. ‘He’s a cross between a husky and an Alsatian, so the owner told me. In other words, dependable and loyal – but aggressive if he needs to be.’

  Wolfie – who’d been named very unimaginatively for his resemblance to one – was certainly no beauty, with his strange mixture of white and black markings, not to mention one blue and one brown eye, but there was no doubting his affection for his mistress. At the time, so drowned in grief, and not caring about anything at all, Cecily had found his late night and early morning whining irritating, until she had discovered that he slept peacefully if he was allowed into her bedroom. She’d often wake up in the morning with him sprawled belly-up next to her, his head mimicking hers as it lay on the pillow. Despite her determination not to love the puppy, Wolfie had been equally determined to demand it of her. And slowly, with his endearing nature and antics that made even a sullen Cecily crack a smile, he had won.

  Wolfie bounded around her as she walked with him back to the veranda to finish her lemonade. He had a horrible habit of digging up seedlings, so he had to be restrained while she was gardening, but the rest of the time, he followed at his mistress’s heels.

  ‘I’ll take you for a walk in a minute,’ she told him. ‘Now sit down and be quiet.’

  Cecily drank the remains of the lemonade and thought that she had more conversations with Wolfie – however one-sided – than she had with any human being. War in Europe had broken out only a couple of weeks after she had lost Fleur; she’d still been in the hospital at the time. When she’d eventually returned home, the black fug of devastation had hung so thickly around her she’d barely registered the start of the conflict. All it had meant was that Bill was away even more than he had been before, though in truth, she didn’t much care. Whilst her body had had the time to recover, her spirit had taken far longer.

  She remembered the day when Kiki had driven up to see her at Paradise Farm, and she’d hidden away behind the closed shutters in her bedroom, begging Bill to say she was too ill to see her godmother. Kiki’s hampers of champagne and pots of caviar, let alone her enforced air of jollity, were anathema to Cecily. The only person she had been able to countenance seeing was Katherine, who had been so very kind and patient with her. With Katherine nearby, she had holed up in the comfort and safety of Paradise Farm while the rest of the world went to war. Her mother and father had been desperate for her to come home to the sanctuary of America, but by the time she’d been well enough to contemplate i
t, even Bill had admitted that it was just too dangerous a journey.

  ‘Sorry, old thing, no one wants to risk you being blown to bits by either a German bomber or one of their U-boats. I’m afraid you’ll just have to stick it out here until things calm down a little.’

  ‘Things’ hadn’t calmed down, but at least she could hide away here, gardening as well as ploughing through Bill’s extensive library of books. If she’d been in New York, she knew her mother would have done her best to rehabilitate her, getting her ‘out and about’, the thought of which horrified her. However, a year on now from her loss, the numbness she’d felt had lifted just a little and she found she missed her family . . .

  Not that she spent time focussing on them, or on anything else that went near the emotional bone – she had learnt that life was simply to be endured, not enjoyed. Any loving relationship she had ever tried to forge outside her family had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

  ‘Except for you, Wolfie darling,’ she said, dropping a kiss on his head. Apart from Wolfie, Cecily knew she was alone. Even though Bill had stood by her side and held her hand when they had lowered Fleur’s tiny coffin into the red earth, she thought he’d been relieved that he wasn’t saddled with bringing up another man’s child. Or any child, come to that; the doctors might have saved her life, but they had destroyed it again only twenty-four hours later by telling her that she would never bear further children. Bill had seemed genuinely sad about this – and to be fair to him, he had insisted on staying at home with her until war had forced him to Nairobi. Cecily was sure the gesture was borne of a guilty conscience – Dr Boyle had let it slip that Bill had been uncontactable when she’d been taken ill. He had been on a game drive, and it was only when Bobby had finally hunted him down that he’d come to the hospital.

  These days, she no longer listened to Bill’s explanations of where he was when he was away and how he could be contacted if he was needed. She was cordial to him when he was home, but no longer wished that he would wrap his arms around her or join her in the marital bed. Whether she could have children or not was irrelevant, given that they had never even attempted the process of making them.