Sometimes. He thought he heard an accent as he listened but he wasn't sure. And then, lulled by the safety of the game, he decided to ask her.
Are you an American magic lady?
Still smiling at him in return, she shook her head. No, I'm not. Although she had married John Henry, she had remained a citizen of both France and Spain. She didn't see what harm could come of talking to Alex, who seemed to be staring at the collection of rings on both her hands. She knew what he was wondering, and knew also that he would have a hard time finding out what he wanted to know.
Suddenly she didn't want to tell him, didn't want to be Mrs. John Henry Phillips, just for a while. For a little while she wanted to be just Raphaella, a very young girl.
You haven't told me where you're from, Magic Lady. His gaze tore itself away from her hands. He had decided that whoever she was, she was successful, and he had been relieved not to find a solid band of gold on her left hand. He had decided for some reason that she probably had a wealthy father and maybe her old man had been giving her a hard time, maybe that was why she had been crying on the steps when he first saw her. Or maybe she was divorced. But the truth of it was that he didn't even care. All he cared about were her hands, her eyes, her smile, and the power he felt drawing him to her. He had felt it even at a distance, and it made him want to reach out to her again. And now he was much closer, but he knew he couldn't touch her. All he could do was play the game.
But she smiled at him openly now. For an instant they had become almost friends. I'm from France.
Are you? Do you still live there?
She shook her head in answer, suddenly more sober. No, I live in San Francisco.
I thought so.
Did you? She looked up at him in surprise and amusement. How did you know? There was something very innocent about her as she said it. And yet at the same time her eyes were wise. Her way of speaking to him suggested that she had not been much exposed to the big bad world. Do I look like a San Franciscan?
No, you don't. But I just had a feeling that you live here. Do you like it?
She nodded slowly, but the bottomless sadness had come back to her eyes. Talking to her was like sailing a boat through difficult waters, he was never quite sure when he was about to run aground or when he was safe and could sail free. I like it. I don't see very much of San Francisco anymore.
Don't you? He was afraid to ask a serious question , like why she didn't see much anymore. What do you do instead? His voice was so soft that it caressed her, and she turned to him with the largest eyes he'd ever seen.
I read. A great deal. She smiled at him then and shrugged, as though embarrassed. Blushing faintly, she looked away and then back at him to ask a question. And you? She felt very brave, asking something so personal of this strange man.
I'm an attorney.
She nodded quietly and smiled. She had liked his answer. She had always found the law intriguing, and somehow it seemed a suitable occupation for this man. She had guessed that he was around her own age. In truth he was six years older than she. Do you like it?
Very much. And you? What do you do, Magic Lady, other than read?
For a moment, with a touch of irony, she was going to tell him that she was a nurse. But that seemed an unwonted cruelty to John Henry, so she said nothing for a moment and only shook her head. Nothing. She looked up at Alex frankly. Nothing at all.
He wondered again what her story was, what her life was like, what she did all day long, and why she had been crying that night. Suddenly it bothered him more than ever. Do you travel a great deal?
Now and then. Just for a few days. She looked down at her hands, her eyes fixing on the large gold and diamond knot on her left hand.
Are you going back to France now? He had assumed Paris, and was, of course, right. But she shook her head.
New York. I only go back to Paris once a year, in the summer.
He nodded slowly and smiled. It's a beautiful city. I spent six months there once and I loved it.
Did you? Raphaella looked pleased. Do you speak French, then?
Not really. The broad boyish grin returned. Certainly not as well as you speak English. She laughed softly then and fingered the book she had bought at the airport. Alex noticed it with a twinkle in his eye. Do you read a lot of her?
Who?
Charlotte Brandon.
Raphaella nodded. I love her. I've read every book she ever wrote. And then she glanced at him apologetically. I know, it's not very serious reading, but it's a wonderful escape. I open her books and I am instantly absorbed into the world she describes. I think that kind of reading seems silly to a man, but it she couldn't tell him that the books had saved her sanity over the last seven years, he would think she was crazy it's just very enjoyable.
He smiled more deeply. I know, I've read her too.
Have you? Raphaella looked at him in nothing less than amazement. Charlotte Brandon's books did not seem like the sort of thing a man would read. John Henry certainly never would have. Or her father. They read books of nonfiction, about economics, or world wars. Do you like them?
Very much. And then he decided to play with her for a little longer. I've read them all.
Really? Her huge eyes widened further. To her it seemed an odd thing for an attorney to do. And then she smiled at him again and held the book toward him. Have you read this one? It's the new one. Maybe she had found a friend after all.
He nodded as he glanced at the book. I think it's her best. You'll like it. It's more serious than some of her others. More thoughtful. She deals very heavily with death, it isn't just a pretty story. She's saying a great deal. He knew that his mother had written it the previous year, before she'd had some fairly important surgery, and she had been afraid it would be her last book. She had tried to say something important with it, and she had. Alex's face was more serious as he looked at Raphaella. This one means a lot to her.
Raphaella looked at him strangely. How do you know? Have you met her?
There was a moment's pause as the broad smile returned to his face, and he leaned over and whispered to Raphaella, She's my mom. But this time Raphaella laughed at him; the sound was that of a silvery bell and it pleased his ears. No, really, she is.
You know, for a lawyer you're really very silly.
Silly? He tried to look outraged. I'm serious. Charlotte Brandon is my mother.
And the President of the United States is my father.
Congratulations. He held out a hand to shake hers and she slid her cool hand gently into his and they shook firmly. By the way, I'm Alex Hale.
You see! she said, laughing again. Your name isn't Brandon!
That's her maiden name. She is Charlotte Brandon Hale.
Absolutely. Raphaella couldn't stop laughing now as she stared at him and laughed more. Do you always tell stories like this?
Only to total strangers. By the way, Magic Lady, what's your name? He knew it was a little pushy, but he desperately wanted to know who she was. He wanted to lose their mutual anonymity. He wanted to know who she was, where she lived, where he could find her, so if she disappeared again into thin air, he'd be able to track her down.
But she hesitated in answer to his question, only for an instant, and then she smiled. Raphaella.
He shook his head dubiously with a small smile. Now that sounds like a story to me. Raphaella. That's not a French name.
No, it's Spanish. I'm only half French.
And half Spanish? Her coloring told him that it was true, the raven-black hair and black eyes and porcelain-white skin were what he would have expected from Spain. Little did he know that she got her coloring from her French father.
Yes, I'm half Spanish.
Which half? Your mind or your heart? It was a serious question and she frowned as she considered the answer.
That's a difficult question. I'm not sure. I suppose that my heart is French, and my mind is Spanish. I think like a Spaniard, not because I want to so much but mostly
out of habit. Somehow that whole way of life pervades everything that you are.
Alex looked over his shoulder suspiciously and then leaned toward her to whisper, I don't see a duenna.
She rolled her eyes and laughed. Ah, no, but you will!
Really?
Very much so. The only place I'm ever alone is on a plane.
How strange, and rather intriguing. He wanted to ask her then how old she was. He guessed twenty-five or -six, and would have been surprised to learn she was thirty-two. Do you mind being chaperoned all the time?
Sometimes. But without that it would probably seem very strange. I'm used to it. Sometimes I think it would be frightening not to be so protected.
Why? She intrigued him more than ever. She was different from every woman he had ever known.
Then one would have no protection. She said it with great seriousness.
From what?
She paused for a long moment and then smiled at him and said gently, People like you. He could only smile in answer, and for a long moment they sat together, with their own thoughts and questions each about the other's life. She turned to him after a little while, and her eyes were curious and happier than they had seemed before. Why did you tell me that story about Charlotte Brandon? She couldn't figure him out, but she liked him; he seemed honest and kind and funny and bright, as best she could judge.
But he was smiling at her now in answer. Because it's true. She is my mother, Raphaella. Tell me, is that really your name?
She nodded soberly in answer. It is. But she had offered no other, no last name. Just Raphaella. And he liked that name a great deal.
In any case she's really my mother. He pointed to the picture on the back of the book and then looked quietly at Raphaella, still holding the book in her hand. You'd like her a lot. She's a remarkable woman.
I'm sure she is. But it was obvious that she still didn't believe Alex's tale, and then with an expression of amusement he reached into his jacket and withdrew the narrow black wallet Kay had given him for his birthday the year before. It bore the same interlocking G's as Raphaella's black lizard bag. Gucci. He pulled out two dog-eared photographs and silently he handed them to her across the empty seat. She gazed at them for an instant, and then her eyes grew wide. One of the photographs was a miniature of the one on the back of the book, and the other was one of his mother laughing as he held an arm around her, and his sister stood at her other side with George.
Family portrait. We took it last year. My sister, my brother-in-law, and my mother. Now what do you think?
Raphaella was smiling and looking at Alex with sudden awe. Oh, you must tell me about her! Is she wonderful?
Very much so. And as a matter of fact, Magic Lady he stood up to his full height, slipped the two files into the pocket of the seat in front of them, and sat down again in the empty seat next to hers I think you're pretty wonderful too. Now, before I tell you all about my mother, can I interest you in a drink before lunch? It was the first time he had used his mother to woo a woman, but he didn't care. He wanted to know Raphaella as well as he could by the time the plane landed in New York.
They talked for the next four and a half hours, over two glasses of white wine and then over a fairly inedible lunch, which neither of them noticed, as they talked about Paris and Rome and Madrid, and life in San Francisco, and writing and people and children and law. She learned that he had a beautiful little Victorian house that he loved. He knew about her life in Spain at Santa Eugenia and listened with rapt fascination to her tales of a world that dated back centuries and was like nothing he had ever known. She told him of the children she loved so much, of the stories she told them, of her cousins, of ridiculous gossip about that kind of life in Spain. She told him about everything but John Henry and the life she led now. But it was no life, it was a dark, empty void, a non-life. It wasn't that she wanted to conceal it from him, it was that she herself didn't want to think about it now.
When at last the stewardess asked them to fasten their seat belts, they both looked like two children who had been told that the party was over and it was time to go home.
What will you do now? He already knew that she was meeting her mother, her aunt, and two female cousins, in true Spanish fashion, and that she would be staying at the hotel with them in New York.
Now? I will meet my mother at the hotel. They should already be there.
Can I give you a ride in a cab?
She shook her head slowly. I'll be picked up. In fact she looked at him regretfully I will be doing my disappearing act as soon as I arrive.
At least I can help you pick up your luggage. He sounded as if he were pleading.
But she shook her head again. No. You see, I'll be escorted right off the plane.
He tried to smile at her then. Are you sure you're not a jailbird, and you're traveling in custody or something?
I might as well be. Her voice was as sad as her eyes. Suddenly the gaiety of the last five hours had faded for both of them. The real world was about to intrude on their little game. I'm sorry.
So am I. And then he looked at her seriously. Raphaella' could I see you while we're in New York? I know you'll be busy, but maybe for a drink, a She was already shaking her head. Why not?
It's impossible. My family would never understand.
Why not, for God's sake, you're a grown woman.
Precisely. And women from that world don't run around having drinks with strange men.
I'm not strange. He looked boyish again and she laughed. All right, so I am. Will you have lunch with me and my mother? Tomorrow? He was improvising but he'd drag his mother to lunch if he had to haul her out of an editorial meeting by the hair. If Charlotte Brandon was required as a duenna in order to convince Raphaella to come to lunch with him, then that was who they would have. Will you? The Four Seasons. One o'clock.
Alex, I don't know. I'm sure I'll be
Try. You don't even have to promise. We'll be there. If you can make it, fine. If you don't show, I'll understand. Just see. The plane had touched the runway and there was a sudden urgency in his voice.
I don't see how She looked distressed as her eyes met his.
Never mind. Just remember how much you want to meet my mother. The Four Seasons. One o'clock. You'll remember.
Yes, but
Shhh' . He put a finger to her lips, and her eyes held his for a long time. Suddenly he leaned closer to her and was desperately aware of how much he wanted to kiss her. Maybe if he did, he would never see her again, and if he didn't, perhaps he would see her again. Instead he talked over the roar of the motors as they taxied toward the terminal. Where are you staying?
Her eyes were enormous as she looked at him, hesitating, unsure. In effect he was asking her to trust him, and she wanted to, but she wasn't sure if she should. But the words were out of her mouth almost as though she couldn't control them as the plane jolted to a sudden stop. The Carlyle. And then, as though by a prearranged signal, two stewardesses stood in the aisle, one held her mink coat, the other pulled her tote bag from beneath her seat, and like an obedient child Raphaella asked Alex to hand her her hat from the overhead compartment, and without saying a word, she put it on, unfastened her seat belt, and stood up. She stood there, as he had first seen her in the airport, swathed in mink, her eyes veiled by the little black hat, her book and her handbag clutched in her hand. She looked at him, and then held out a black kid-gloved hand. Thank you. The words were for the five hours he had given her, for the cherished moment, the flight from reality, for a taste of what her life might have been, could have been, and was not. Her eyes lingered on his for only a moment, and then she turned away.
The two stewardesses who had come for Raphaella had been joined by a steward, who stood firmly behind her now, and one of the spare exits was opened at the rear of the plane, near where she and Alex had sat, as the stewardesses announced on the PA system that passengers would be deplaning up front. The door at the rear opened briefly, and Raphae
lla and the three crew members stepped quickly out. The door was immediately shut again, and only a few of the passengers in the rear wondered what had happened and why the woman in the dark mink had been taken out. But they were busy with their own lives, their own plans, and only Alex stood there for a long moment, watching the door through which she had fled. Once more she had escaped him. Once more the woman of the dark, haunting beauty was gone. But now he knew that her name was Raphaella, and that she would be staying at the Carlyle.
Suddenly, with a sinking feeling, he realized that he didn't know her last name. Raphaella. Raphaella what? How could he ask for her at the hotel? Now his only hope was to see her the next day at lunch. If she showed up, if she could get away from her relatives' if' He felt like a small terrified schoolboy as he picked up his coat and his briefcase and began to make his way toward the front of the plane.
Chapter 6
The waiter at the Four Seasons escorted the tall, attractive woman across the floor to her usual table near the bar. The stark modern decor served as the perfect backdrop for the colorful people who populated the restaurant night and day. As she made her way to the table the woman smiled, nodded, acknowledged a friend who stopped a conversation just long enough to wave. Charlotte Brandon was a regular here. For her it was like having lunch at her club, and her tall, thin frame moved with ease in the familiar surroundings, her snow-colored hair peeking out from beneath a very becoming dark mink hat, which perfectly matched the beautiful mink coat she wore over a navy-blue dress. In her ears were sapphires and diamonds, and around her neck three strands of large beautiful pearls, and on her left hand a single sapphire, which she had bought herself for her fiftieth birthday, after she had sold her fifteenth book. The previous book had sold over three million copies in paperback, and she had decided to splurge and buy the ring.
a Perfect Stranger (1983) Page 6