a Perfect Stranger (1983)

by Steel, Danielle

  It still amazed her to realize that her career had all started with the death of her husband when his plane crashed, and she had taken her first job, doing research for a very boring column she had never really enjoyed. But what she had enjoyed, she discovered quickly, was writing, and when she sat down to write her first novel, she felt as though she had come home at last. The first book had done nicely, and the second had done better, but the third book was a best-seller right off the bat, and from then on it was hard work but smooth sailing, and she loved her work more every year, with each book. For years now all that had really mattered to her were her books and her children and her grandchild, Amanda.

  There had never really been anyone important in her life after her husband died, but eventually she had forced herself to go out with other men. There had been half a lifetime now of close friends, warm relationships, but never anyone she wanted to marry. For twenty years the children had been her excuse, and now it was always her work. I'm too difficult to live with. My hours are impossible. I write all night and sleep all day. It would drive you crazy! You'd hate it! Her excuses were numerous and not very valid. She was a well-organized, well-disciplined woman who was able to schedule her working hours like an army battalion going on a march. The truth was that she didn't want to get married again. She would never love anyone after Arthur Hale. He had been the bright light in her heavens, he had been the model for half a dozen heroes in her books. And Alexander looked so much like him, it always brought a lump to her throat just to see him, so dark, so tall, so long and lean and handsome. It filled her with pride to realize that this extraordinarily beautiful, intelligent, warm human being was also her son. It was a very different feeling from what she had when she saw her daughter. Kay always filled her with some secret guilt over what she had done wrong. Why had Kay turned out so bitter, so cold, and so angry? What could have made her that way? Was it her mother's long work hours? The death of her father? Sibling rivalry? For Charlotte there was always a sense of failure, of sorrow and misgiving, when she looked into those cold eyes so much like her own yet there was nothing happy reflected there.

  She was so different from Alex, who stood to his full height now as he saw his mother, with genuine glee in his eyes and a warm happy smile.

  My God, Mother, you look gorgeous! He stooped slightly to kiss her and she gave him a quick hug. It was the first time in several months that he'd come to New York from San Francisco, but she never really felt that they were very far apart. He called her often, to see how she was, to tell her some story, to inquire about her latest book, or to explain his most recent case. She had an ongoing sense of belonging in his life, yet with neither of them clinging too tight. It was a relationship that in every way she cherished. She sat down across the table from her son, and her joy to be seeing him showed in her eyes. You look better than ever! He smiled at her with obvious pride.

  Flattery, my darling, is wicked but delightful. Thank you. Her eyes danced into his and he grinned at her. At sixty-two she was still a glamorous woman, tall, graceful, elegant, with the smooth skin of a woman almost half her age. Cosmetic surgery had assisted her in maintaining the beautiful face and smooth complexion, but she had been a dazzling woman from the first. And as involved as she was in the promotion and publicity of her works, it wasn't surprising that she was anxious to stay young. Over the years Charlotte Brandon had become a large business. As the woman behind the pen, she knew her face was an important part of her image, as was her warmth and her vitality. She was a woman whom other women respected and who had won the devotion of her readers over three decades. So what have you been up to? You look wonderful too, I might add.

  I've been busy. Nonstop in fact since I last saw you. But as he said it, his eyes strayed suddenly to the door. For an instant he had thought that he'd seen Raphaella. A dark head in a mink coat had come up the stairs, but he saw that it was a different woman, and his eyes returned rapidly to his mother's face.

  Expecting someone, Alex? She was quick to see the look in his eyes and she smiled. Or just tired of California women?

  Who has time to meet any? I've been working night and day.

  You shouldn't do that. For a moment she looked at him sadly. She wanted more for him than just a half life. She wanted more than that for both her children, but so far neither had seemed to find what they wanted. Alex had had the abortive marriage to Rachel, and Kay was devoured by her passion for politics and the ambition that obscured everything else in her life. Sometimes Charlotte thought that she didn't understand them. She had managed to have both after all, a family and a career, but they told her that times were different, that careers could no longer be run as genteely as hers had been. Were they right or just kidding themselves about their own failures? She wondered now as she watched her son, questioning if he was happy with his solitary existence or if he wanted something different after all. She wondered if he had a serious relationship with a woman, someone he truly loved.

  Don't look so worried, Mother. He patted her hand with a smile and waved to the waiter. Drink? She nodded, and he ordered Bloody Marys for both of them, and then he sat back with a grin. He had to tell her. Now, in case Raphaella arrived on time. He told her one o'clock, and he had met his mother at twelve thirty. Then again there was the chance that Raphaella wouldn't come at all. His brow clouded for an instant, and then he looked into his mother's deep blue eyes. I invited a friend to join us. I'm not sure she can make it. And then, looking boyish and embarrassed, he looked down for a moment and then back into the blue eyes. I hope you don't mind. But Charlotte Brandon was already laughing, a youthful, happy sound that filled the air, and it always made him smile. Stop laughing at me, Mother. But her laughter was always contagious, and he found himself grinning as amusement danced in her eyes.

  You look about fourteen years old, Alex. I'm sorry. Who in God's name did you invite to lunch?

  Just a friend. Oh, dammit. A woman. He almost added, I picked her up on a plane.

  Is she a friend of yours here in New York? The questions weren't prying, they were friendly, as Charlotte continued to smile at her son.

  No. She lives in San Francisco. She's just here for a few days. We flew in on the same plane.

  That's nice. What does she do? She took the first sip of her drink, wondering if she shouldn't ask, but she was always curious about his friends. Sometimes it was hard not to sound like a mother, but when she pushed too hard, he always told her gently to stop. She looked at him inquiringly now, but he didn't seem to mind. He looked happier than she'd seen him look in a long time, and there was something wonderfully warm and gentle about his eyes. He had never looked that way with Rachel, he had always looked so uncomfortable then and so worried. She suddenly found herself wondering if Alex had some kind of surprise in store.

  But he was only grinning at her in amusement, in answer to her question. You may find this difficult to believe, Famous Author Charlotte Brandon, but she doesn't seem to do a damn thing.

  My, my. How decadent. But Charlotte did not look disturbed, only curious at what she read in the eyes of her son. Is she very young? That would explain it. Very young people had a right to take some time to figure out what to do. But when they were a little older, Charlotte expected them to have found their way, at least to some kind of job.

  No. I mean, not that young. She's about thirty. But she's European.

  Ah. His mother said, understanding. Now I see.

  It's strange though. He looked pensive for a moment. I've never known anyone who's led that kind of life. Her father is French, and her mother is Spanish, and she has spent most of her life locked up, surrounded, escorted, besieged by relatives and duennas. It seems like an incredible life.

  How did you ever get her away from them all long enough to get to know her? Charlotte was intrigued and took her attention away only long enough to wave vaguely at a friend halfway across the room.

  I haven't yet. But I plan to. That was one of the reasons why I invited her to
lunch today. She adores your books.

  Oh, God, Alex, not one of those. For God's sake, how can I eat with people asking me questions about how long I've written and how many months it took to write each one of my books? But her tone of reproach was playful, and she still wore a halfhearted smile. Why can't you play with girls who prefer other authors? Some nice girl who likes to read Proust or Balzac or Camus, or adores reading the memoirs of Winston Churchill. Someone sensible.

  He chuckled at the earnest look she wore and then suddenly over her shoulder he saw a vision enter the Four Seasons, and Charlotte Brandon thought she actually heard him catch his breath. Seeing the direction in which he was staring, she turned to see a remarkably beautiful, tall, dark-haired young woman standing at the top of the stairs, looking tremendously fragile and yet at the same time entirely self-possessed. She was a most beautiful woman and all eyes were turned toward her in frank admiration as they stared. Her posture was perfect, her head held high, her hair gleaming in a carefully woven knot of what looked like black silk. She wore a narrow dress of dark chocolate-brown cashmere, which was almost the same color as the rich fur. She had a creamy silk Herm+?s scarf knotted loosely around her neck, there were pearls and diamonds in her ears. Her legs looked endless and graceful in chocolate-colored stockings and brown suede shoes. The bag she wore was in the same rich brown leather, and this time it was not Gucci but Herm+?s. She was the most beautiful creature that Charlotte had seen in years, and she suddenly understood the rapt expression of her son. What also struck her, as Alex excused himself from the table and approached her, was that there was something very familiar about the girl. It was a face that Charlotte had seen somewhere, or maybe it was only that she was so typical of the aristocracy of Spain. She had a grace and a presence as she moved toward the table that suggested the bearing of a young queen, yet at the same time from the look in her eyes one could sense a gentleness, a shyness, which were remarkable given her striking good looks. This time it was Charlotte who almost uttered an exclamation as she watched her. The girl was so beautiful that one could only observe her with awe. And it was easy to understand Alex's fascination. This was a very, very rare gem.

  Mother, I'd like to introduce you to Raphaella. Raphaella, my mother, Charlotte Brandon. For an instant Charlotte wondered at the absence of a surname, but the question was forgotten as she looked into the dark, haunted eyes of the girl. At close range one could see that she was almost frightened, and she was a little out of breath, as though she had run. She shook hands very properly with Charlotte, and let Alex take her coat as she sat down.

  I am so terribly sorry to be late, Mrs. Brandon. She looked Charlotte squarely in the eye, a faint blush on her creamy cheeks. I was engaged. It was difficult to' get free. Her eyelashes veiled her eyes as she settled back in her seat, and Alex felt for an instant as though he would melt watching her. She was the most incredible woman he had ever seen. And as she looked at them side by side, Charlotte couldn't help thinking that they made a remarkable pair. Their dark heads close together, the big eyes, the splendid young limbs, the graceful hands. They looked like two young gods of mythology destined to make a pair. Charlotte had to force herself back into the conversation with a pleasant smile.

  Not at all, dear. Don't worry. Alex and I were just catching up. He tells me that you flew in from San Francisco last night also. To visit friends?

  To meet my mother. Raphaella began to relax slowly, although she had declined a drink when she sat down.

  Does she live here?

  No, in Madrid. She is passing through on her way to Buenos Aires. And she thought that' well, it gives me a chance to come to New York for a few days.

  She's lucky to see you. I always feel that way when Alex comes to town. All three of them smiled then, and Alex induced them to order lunch before they went on. It was after that that Raphaella confessed to Charlotte how much her books had meant to her over the years.

  I will admit that I used to read them in Spanish, and now and then in French, but when I first came to this country, my She blushed and lowered her eyes for a moment. She had been about to tell them that her husband had bought some of Charlotte's books for her in English, but suddenly she had stopped. It seemed dishonest, but she didn't want to talk about John Henry now. I bought them in English, and now I read them all in English all the time. And then her eyes grew slowly sad again as she looked at Charlotte. You don't know how much your work has meant to me. Sometimes I think it's what has her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible sometimes it's what has kept me alive. The agony in her voice was plainly apparent as Charlotte watched her, and Alex was reminded of the first time he had seen her crying on the stairs. Now in the splendor of the New York restaurant he found himself wondering what was the secret that weighed so heavily on her soul. But she only looked up at his mother, with a small smile of thanks, and without thinking, Charlotte reached out and touched her hand.

  They mean a lot to me when I write them. But the important thing is that they mean something to people like you. Thank you, Raphaella. It's a beautiful compliment, and in a sense it makes my life worthwhile. And then, as though she sensed something hidden, some distant wish, some dream, she looked hard at Raphaella. Do you write too?

  But Raphaella only smiled and shook her head, looking very young and childlike and not as sophisticated as she had seemed at first. Oh, no! And then she laughed. But I am a storyteller.

  That's the first step. In silence Alex watched them. He loved seeing them together, the richness of the contrast, two beautiful women, yet one so young and so fragile, the other so mature and so strong, one with white hair and one with black, one he knew so well and the other not at all. Yet he wanted to know her. He wanted to know her better than he had ever known anyone before. As he watched them he listened to his mother go on. What kind of a storyteller are you, Raphaella?

  I tell stories to children. In the summer. All my little cousins. We spend the summer together in our family house in Spain. But Charlotte's knowledge of such family houses told her that it was something more than that. There are dozens of them, we are a very large family, and I always love to take the children in hand. And I tell them stories and she smiled happily and they listen, and giggle, and laugh. It's wonderful, it does something good to the soul.

  Charlotte smiled at the younger woman's expression as she nodded, and then as she gazed at her, it was as though everything came into focus in her head. Raphaella' Raphaella' Spain' a family estate there' and Paris' a bank' . She had to fight an impulse to say something aloud. Instead she let Alex carry on the conversation as she looked again and again at the face of the girl. And as she looked she wondered if Alex knew the whole story. Something told her that he did not.

  Only an hour after she had joined them, Raphaella looked regretfully but nervously at her watch. I am so sorry ' I'm afraid I must go back to my mother and my aunt and my cousins. They will probably think that I've run away. She didn't tell Alex's mother that she had feigned a headache to escape lunch with her own entourage.

  She had desperately wanted to meet Charlotte Brandon, and to see Alex again, if only once. He offered now to escort her to a taxi, and leaving his mother with a fresh pot of caf+! filtre, he promised to return immediately and left with his ravishing friend on his arm. Before she left, Raphaella had said everything proper to Charlotte, and for a single moment their eyes had met and held. It was as though Raphaella were telling her the whole story, and as though Charlotte were telling her that she already knew. It was one of those silent communications that happen between women, and for as long as their eyes held, Charlotte felt her heart go out to this lovely young girl. She had remembered the whole story as she sat there, only now it was no longer a tragic item in the news, she had seen the living, breathing, lonely young woman to whom the tragedy had occurred. For an instant she had wanted to put her arms around her, but instead she had only shaken the cool slender hand and watched them go, her son so handsome and the girl so startlingly lov
ely as they disappeared down the stairs.

  Alex was gazing at her with obvious pleasure as they emerged onto the street and stood there for a moment, inhaling the cool autumn air and feeling happy and young. His eyes danced and he couldn't help smiling as she looked up at him with something sad and wise and yet also something happy lurking in her eyes. My mother adored you, you know.

  I don't know why she would. But I also adored her. What a lovely woman she is, Alex. She has all the qualities a woman should have.

  Yeah, she's a pretty nice old girl. He said it in teasing fashion, but he wasn't thinking of his mother as he looked into Raphaella's eyes. When am I going to see you again?

  But she looked away nervously before she answered, glancing into the street to see if there was a passing cab. And then she looked back at Alex, her eyes dark and troubled, her face suddenly inexplicably sad. I can't Alex. I'm sorry. I must be with my mother' and

  You can't be with them day and night. He sounded stubborn, and she smiled. There was no way that he could understand it. He had never lived a life like hers.

  But I am. Every moment. And then I must go home.

  So must I. Then I'll see you there. Which reminds me, young lady, there was something you forgot to tell me when you told me you were staying at the Carlyle.

  What? She looked suddenly troubled.

  Your last name.

  Did I do that? It was difficult to tell if her innocence was real or feigned.

  You did. If you hadn't shown up today, I would have been forced to sit in the lobby of the Carlyle for the rest of the week, waiting until you walked by, and then I'd have thrown myself at your feet in front of your mother and embarrassed you royally, begging for your name! They were both laughing as he said it, and he gently took her hand in his own. Raphaella, I want to see you again. She looked up at him, her eyes melting into his, wanting everything he wanted, but knowing that she had no right. He bent slowly toward her, wanting to kiss her, but she turned away, burying her face in his shoulder and holding tightly to the lapel of his coat with one hand.