were strings of onions and garlic, bunches of lavender and thyme, whole sausages and salamis, all of which added a French Provençal feeling.
It had always been the hub of the house, where everyone congregated, because part of it was furnished as a living room. A sofa and wing chairs, a television set and a Welsh dresser were all grouped near the fireplace, while a large wooden table, which seated ten, was used to divide the room; beyond the table were countertops and the usual appliances. With its terracotta tiled floor, pale-peach walls and floral fabrics, the kitchen had a certain charm and a welcoming air about it.
The phone started ringing, and Justine stepped over to the small desk in a corner near the fireplace, and picked up the receiver. ‘Indian Ridge,’ she said, and immediately sat down in the chair when she heard her assistant’s voice. ‘Hello, Ellen.’
‘Hi, Justine. I guess you made it up there in record time.’
‘I did. What’s happening?’
‘All’s well. I just had a call from Miranda’s PA, and she wants to see the film on Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock, instead of Thursday morning. I told her I thought it would be fine, but that I’d better check with you. There’s nothing in your book.’
‘I’ve a pretty empty week, I know that. So yes, we’ll screen the film whenever Miranda wants.’
‘I’ll confirm it with Angie. Everything’s okay there, I suppose.’
‘It is. I’m here with Tita, and Daisy’s busy with her colouring book. I haven’t seen Pearl yet – she went to the market; and apparently Carlos and Ricardo are up on the ridge, working on Richard’s current project.’
‘The guest house.’
‘Which we don’t really need. On the other hand, he needs it, Ellen, because it gives him work to do up here. It takes his mind off things.’
‘There’s still a lot of grief on him,’ Ellen murmured. ‘I wish I knew somebody nice to introduce him to.’
‘He wouldn’t be interested, I’m afraid,’ Justine shot back. ‘Anyway, I’ll now come back on Tuesday morning instead of Wednesday. Have a nice weekend, Ellen.’
‘And you too.’
As she hung up the phone, Justine had no way of knowing that her world, and Richard’s, was about to change forever.
TWO
Later that afternoon, when Daisy was taking a nap, Justine went into the small sitting room and sat down at the desk. It did not take her long to open the mail that had accumulated during the month she and Richard had stayed in New York.
The bulk of it was junk, which she promptly threw away; she then checked the bills, clipped them together, and looked at half a dozen invitations for local events, put these to one side as well.
At the bottom of the pile there was a square white envelope made of paper that looked foreign to her. Definitely European, she thought, as she picked it up.
Justine saw at once that it was addressed to her mother, Deborah Nolan, and that it bore an Istanbul postmark. Who did her mother know in Istanbul, of all places? On the other hand, how would she know? Her mother had friends all over the world. Looking at the back of the envelope, she saw there was no name of sender nor a return address. She stared at it for a moment longer, thinking that it may well be an invitation, such was its shape and size. She frowned, wondered whether to open it or not. Eight years ago, when her mother had moved to California, she had given them the use of this house. Her instructions to them had been very few: keep the house in good shape, pay the monthly bills and forward any letters if they pertained to legal matters.
This arrangement had worked well since its inception. Their mother paid the annual state tax, they took care of the overall upkeep and the salaries of the Chilean family who continued to run Indian Ridge with them – Tita, her sister Pearl, Carlos, Pearl’s husband, and his father Ricardo.
Now, for the first time in eight years, here was a personal letter. Justine shrugged, picked up the paper knife, slit the envelope, and took out the letter.
She noted the name engraved at the top of the writing paper, someone she had never heard of, and began to read.
ANITA LOWE
Dear Deborah:
I have wanted to write to you for some time, unfortunately my courage constantly deserted me. Now this letter cannot be put off any longer. You do not know me. I did come to see you in London when you were a baby but you won’t remember that. I am your mother’s closest and most longstanding friend and I write to you because I am extremely worried about her. For years she has been troubled and unhappy because of the estrangement between the two of you. Lately she has become even more morose and filled with a heartache I cannot bear to witness.
She longs to see you and Justine and Richard. She loves them dearly, just as she loves you. You are her only family.
I must ask you this, Deborah. Why are you keeping her away? I do not understand your behaviour towards your mother. Surely nothing is so bad that it cannot be repaired. Whatever the reason for this estrangement you must end it immediately, before it is too late, before she dies. After all, she is almost eighty, as you well know. And so I beg you to reach out to your mother, get in touch with her, bring her back into your life and the lives of her grandchildren. It is in your power, and yours alone, to end her suffering and heartbreak.
With great sincerity,
Anita Lowe
Justine was speechless. She sat staring at the words she had just read, feeling as if the earth’s tectonic plates had just shifted under her feet. Her shock was enormous. She noticed that her hand shook as she continued to hold the letter, then realized she was shaking all over. She could hardly believe what she had just read. Her grandmother was still alive? How could that be? What was this all about?
Taking a deep breath, she put the letter down on the desk, and endeavoured to control her swimming senses. After a few minutes she managed to calm herself, and leaned forward to reread the letter, wanting to absorb the words… they revealed something so momentous it took her breath away.
Her grandmother was still alive.
Therefore their mother had told them a horrendous and wicked lie ten years ago. She had told them their grandmother, Deborah’s mother Gabriele Hardwicke, had died suddenly in a private plane crash.
Her mind began to race. Was the letter genuine? Or was it a hoax? How could it be? Unless someone wanted to cause trouble. If so, why? For what reason? The letter had been written to their mother and it had the ring of truth to it. It was genuine, all right; there was no doubt in her mind about that.
Then unexpectedly it hit her. A wave of joy. Gran was alive. Blinking back the tears in her eyes, Justine noted the postmark. The letter was mailed at the beginning of April. Now it was almost the end of the month. The letter had been sitting here in this lacquered tray for three weeks. No one had responded to Anita Lowe. But then how could a response be made? There was no return address. And where was her grandmother actually? In London? Or was she in Istanbul? With Anita Lowe? She had frequently moved between both places in the past. And why had this woman not given more details of her grandmother’s whereabouts? Because she believed that Deborah knew exactly where her mother was. Obviously, that was the answer. Which brought her back to the lie her mother had told them.
Ten years ago, the day after they had graduated college, Deborah had explained their grandmother’s absence from the ceremony. Whilst they were in the midst of their final exams, Gabriele had been on a private plane that had crashed in Greece. No one had survived, no bodies had been retrieved.
Closing her eyes, thinking back in time, Justine remembered her mother’s words quite clearly. ‘I didn’t tell you about Gran’s death because I didn’t want to distract either of you when you were both under pressure.’
But none of that was true… this letter now revealed that. And their