Letter from a Stranger (18 page)

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 terra-cotta tiles. A round dining table took pride of place in the center, 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.

Several reasons accounted for this: a head of thick, luxuriant hair, the same silvery blond 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, 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 mailbox. 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?”

“Vesir 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 the 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, then her face, and 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 favorable 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 more happy 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.

Mehmet 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 showed 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 honor.

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, 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.

*   *   *

Normality returned. The tension eased. And they all four settled down to enjoy the delicious lamb. As the dinner progressed, it was Justine who genuinely cleared the air by telling them about Daisy, and her antics, and so distracted them. The two grandmothers in particular were fascinated by her stories about the child.

After this, Richard became the subject matter for a short while, and Justine held them spellbound as she told them about her twin’s life in the last ten years, his marriage, and his brilliant career as an architect.

At one moment, a little later, Justine suddenly turned her head and looked at Michael.

He became conscious of her gaze, also turned his face to look back at her.

She smiled at him.

He saw an odd expression in her blue eyes, one he could not quite fathom. Then he found himself smiling in return, unable to resist her. Within seconds he was more at ease with himself, and relaxed in the chair.

It took him a little while, but eventually Michael joined in the conversation once more, and so did Justine. There was a general air of goodwill between the two of them again. Naturally the grandmothers noticed this and were relieved. For these two not to get on, if only as friends, would be a disaster, since the families were so bound together.

After the summer pudding had been served and eaten, they went out onto the terrace and a few seconds later Zeynep brought them mint tea in glasses.

It was Gabriele who asked Justine to tell them more about the other documentaries she had made, and Anita and Michael listened alertly to her.

For her part, Justine was happy to discuss her work, because it took her mind off Michael. From the moment she had arrived here she had been conscious of him, aware of every move he made, everything he said, the tone of his voice, the expression on his face. His presence overwhelmed her. He was larger than life. Clearly he knew it. On the other hand he had not thrown his weight around or done anything amiss. He had simply overreacted to her. As she had to him.
Oh,
she thought. Oh, my God! That’s what it is.
Struck by lightning.
Her heart trembled at the thought of him. He was tall, good-looking, and every inch a man. And she had fallen hard.
Had he?