A Perfect Stranger (30 page)

Oh, my God. He stared at her in amazement. What she hadn't even told him was that the surveillance was due to a letter from his sister, Kay. Why would he do a thing like that?

Tell John Henry? I'm not sure he would. But I couldn't take the chance. He said he would, so I had to do what I did.

But why would he have you followed? She shrugged and looked him in the eye.

It doesn't really matter. He just did.

And now you sit there and wait.

The small tree they had put on the card table across the room twinkled merrily as Raphaella and John Henry ate their turkey on the all-too-familiar trays. He seemed quieter than usual, and Raphaella wondered if the holiday depressed him, if it reminded him of ski vacations in his youth, or the trips he had taken with Raphaella, or the years when his son had been a boy and there had been a giant tree in the foyer downstairs.

John Henry ' darling' are you all right? She leaned over and spoke to him gently, and he nodded, but he didn't answer. He was thinking of Alex and their talk. Something was wrong, but he'd been so depressed over the last months that Raphaella's condition had remained unnoticed. She usually fooled him with her extraordinary determination to keep his spirits up, camouflaging her own pain. He lay back against the pillows with a sigh.

I'm so tired of all this, Raphaella.

What, Christmas? She looked surprised. The only sign of it was the tiny tree in his bedroom, but maybe the light hurt his eyes.

No, all of it. Living' eating dinner' watching the news when nothing is ever new. Breathing' talking' sleeping' . He looked at her bleakly, and there was no sign of anything even remotely happy in his eyes.

You're not tired of me, are you? She smiled gently at him and made a move to kiss his cheek, but he turned away.

Don't ' do that. His voice was soft and sad, muffled by his pillows.

John Henry ' what's wrong? She looked surprised and hurt as she watched him, and slowly he turned to face her again.

How can you ask that? How can you' live like this' anymore? How can you bear it? Sometimes I think' about the old men' who died in India' where they burned' their young wives on the funeral pyre. I'm no better than that, Raphaella.

Don't say that. Don't be silly' .I love you' .

Then you're crazy. He didn't sound amused, but angry. And if you are, then I'm not. Why don't you go somewhere? Take a vacation' do something for God's sake' but don't just sit here wasting your life. Mine is over, Raphaella' . His voice dropped to a whisper. Mine is gone. It has been for years.

That's not true. Tears sprang to her eyes as she tried to convince him. The look on his face broke her heart.

It is true' and you have' to face it. I've been dead' for years. But the worst part of it is' I'm killing you too. Why don't you go home to Paris for a while? He had again wondered what was happening between her and Alex but he didn't want to ask. He didn't want her to know that he knew.

Why? She looked astonished. Why Paris? To her father? After what had happened during the summer? The very idea made her ill. But John Henry looked adamantly at her from his bed.

I want you' to go away' for a while.

She shook her head firmly. I won't go.

Yes, you will. They were like children arguing, but neither of them was amused, and neither of them smiled.

No, I will not.

Dammit, I want you to go somewhere.

Fine, then I'll go for a walk. But this is my home too and you can't send me away. She took the tray from him and set it down on the floor. I think you're just bored with me, John Henry. She tried to tease him, but his eye would not catch the sparkle of mischief beginning to glow in hers. Maybe what you need is a new sexy nurse. But he wasn't amused. He just lay there glowering, it was part of his querulousness that she noticed more and more.

Stop talking rubbish.

I'm not talking rubbish. She spoke to him gently, leaning forward earnestly in her chair. I love you and I don't want to go away.

Well, I want you to go away.

She sat back in silence for a while as he watched her, and then suddenly he spoke softly in the quiet room. I want to die, Raphaella. He closed his eyes as he continued to speak. That's all I want to do. And why don't I' God, why don't I? He opened his eyes and looked at her again. Tell me that. Where the hell is justice? He looked at her accusingly. Why am I still alive?

Because I need you. She said it softly and he shook his head and turned his face away again. He said nothing for a very long time then, and when she approached the bed carefully, she saw that he had fallen asleep. It made her sad to realize how unhappy he was. It was as though she weren't doing enough.

The nurse came in on tiptoe and Raphaella motioned to her that John Henry had fallen asleep. They stepped out for a whispered conference. The consensus was that he was probably asleep for the night. He had had a long, difficult day, and Christmas had made no difference. Nothing really did anymore. He was sick of it all.

I'll be in my room if you need me. She whispered it to the nurse and then walked pensively down the hall. Poor John Henry, what a rotten existence. And in Raphaella's mind the injustice was not that he was still living but that he had had the strokes at all. Without them, at his age, he could still have been vital. Slower perhaps than he had been at fifty or sixty, a little more tired, but happy and busy and alive. But the way things were, he had nothing, and he was right in a way. He was barely alive.

She walked slowly into her little study, thinking of him and then letting her mind drift to other things. Her family celebrating Christmas at Santa Eugenia, her father, and then inevitably the Christmas she had shared with Alexander and Amanda the year before. And then for the hundredth time since that morning she remembered what he had said to her three weeks before on the beach. I'll be waiting ' I'll be there' . She could still hear him say it. And as she sat there, alone in her study, she wondered again if he really was. It was only seven thirty, a respectable hour, and she could easily have gone for a walk, but where would it lead her? What would happen if she went there? Was it smart, was it wise? Did it make sense at all? She knew that it didn't, that her place was there in John Henry's huge empty house. As the hours ticked slowly onward, she suddenly felt she had to go there, just for a moment, for half an hour, just to see him. It was madness and she knew it, but at nine thirty she flew out of her chair, unable to stay in the house a moment longer. She had to go.

She quickly slipped a red wool coat over the simple black dress she had been wearing, put on long narrow black leather boots, slipped a black leather handbag on her shoulder, and ran a comb through her hair. She felt her heart flutter at the prospect of seeing him, reproaching herself for going but suddenly smiling as she thought ahead to the moment when he would open the door. She left a note in her room that she had gone for a walk and to drop in on a friend, in case someone came to find her, and her feet fairly flew as she hurried the few blocks to the little house she hadn't seen in five and a half months.

When she saw the house, she simply stood there looking at it, and she sighed softly. She felt as though she had been lost for almost half a year and she had finally found her way home. Unable to suppress the smile on her face, she crossed the street and rang the doorbell, and then suddenly there was the rapid thumping of his footstep on the stairs. There was a pause, and then the door opened and he stood there, unable to believe what he saw, until suddenly the smile in her eyes was matched by his.

Merry Christmas. They said it in unison and then laughed together as he stood aside with a bow and then rose to face her with a warm smile. Welcome home, Raphaella. Saying not a word, she walked inside.

There was furniture in the living room now. He and Mandy had put it together, gone to auctions and garage sales and department stores and art galleries and thrift shops, and what they had put together was a comfortable combination of French provincial and Early American. The room was decorated with a handsome fur throw, soft French Impressionist paintings, lots of silver and some pewter, and some handsome old books. There were huge jugs filled with flowers on the tables, and there were plants in every corner and crawling all over the little marble mantelpiece in the double parlor. The couch was off-white, the little throw cushions were made of fur and tapestry, and there were several needle-points that Amanda had made for Alex while they were doing the house. With Raphaella gone she was even closer to her uncle and felt an obligation to take care of him now that there was no one else who would. She nagged him about eating the right foods, taking his vitamins, getting his sleep, driving too fast, working too hard, and not weeding the garden. He teased her about her boyfriends, her cooking, her makeup, her wardrobe, and yet somehow managed to make her feel that she was the prettiest girl alive. Together they ran a nice little household, and as she stepped across the threshold, Raphaella could feel the love that they shared, it exuded from every corner of the room.