A Perfect Stranger (8 page)

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 Raphaella 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.

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.

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.