Letter from a Stranger Read Online Free
Author: Barbara Taylor Bradford
had been designed by her twin, considered to be one of the best architects in the business today. She thought it was an inspired touch. The green-tiled roof appeared to float above the gallery and the glass “boxes,” and there was a lovely unity and fluidity to the entire building which was somewhat European in its design inspiration.
Justine went into the gallery and turned on the lights, then took off her loden cape, put it on a small wooden bench just inside the door. Because of the many paintings hanging in the gallery, some of which were rather valuable, the air was permanently controlled and remained the same temperature year round. It was cool and peaceful, and she appreciated the airiness, the spaciousness, the vaulted ceiling, the stillness and calm which existed here.
Slowly, she walked through the gallery, not focusing on any of the paintings as she sometimes did, simply moving determinedly through the flowing vast white space. Richard had designed a large, free-standing partition on rollers, which he called a “floating wall,” because it could be easily rolled around at will, and repositioned anywhere. He had used several of them in the center of the gallery, on which hung some of his own paintings, as well as many by other artists. Justine moved between them with ease, pushing them gently aside as required.
Within seconds she was approaching the far end of the gallery, heading toward the corner where paintings by her grandmother were displayed. Coming to a standstill, she zeroed in on one of them in particular which she had admired for years. It was a painting of two girls, most likely in their teenage years, and they were standing in a flower-filled meadow with dark green hills in the distance under an azure sky. The girls were enchanting in their gauzy summer dresses, their skirts billowing around them, their hair blowing in the wind. She had known for as long as she could remember that the taller of the two girls, the blue-eyed blonde, was her grandmother, Gabriele. The other had always been anonymous. Her identity a mystery.
Could she be Anita Lowe?
Leaning forward, Justine read the little wood strip on the wall next to the painting. It was called Friends in the Meadows. Underneath the title was the name Gabriele Hardwicke, and the year it was painted, 1969.
Unexpectedly, she remembered something … her grandmother’s penchant for detail, how she had kept careful records of almost everything. Reaching for the small painting, Justine lifted it off the wall, carried it into Richard’s design studio adjoining this end of the gallery. Carefully, she placed the painting facedown on an empty table and stared at the back of the canvas. And there it was, a small label, close to the frame and yellowed with age. On it was written A & G: 1938. And the label was secured under a piece of cellotape.
Gabriele had painted this from memory, hadn’t she? And did the A stand for Anita? Perhaps. Certainly she couldn’t help wondering about that, because in the letter Anita Lowe had said she was Gabriele’s longest and closest friend. So it must be her, surely. But in a way it didn’t really matter whether this girl portrayed was Anita Lowe or not. Because the real Anita had spoken out most eloquently and effectively, three weeks or so ago, when she had finally put pen to paper after obviously hesitating about doing so for a number of years. She had helped her friend at last. Thank God she had. Vaguely, at the back of her mind, she now remembered her grandmother speaking about her best friend … Anita.
Carrying the painting back to the gallery, Justine hung it in its place, then stepped back and studied it for a few seconds. The other girl had brown hair and sparkling dark eyes, and there was something exotic-looking about her. She wondered why she had never noticed this before.… Perhaps because she had been looking only at the dazzling blond girl who was her grandmother, the bewitching Gabriele. She
Justine went into the gallery and turned on the lights, then took off her loden cape, put it on a small wooden bench just inside the door. Because of the many paintings hanging in the gallery, some of which were rather valuable, the air was permanently controlled and remained the same temperature year round. It was cool and peaceful, and she appreciated the airiness, the spaciousness, the vaulted ceiling, the stillness and calm which existed here.
Slowly, she walked through the gallery, not focusing on any of the paintings as she sometimes did, simply moving determinedly through the flowing vast white space. Richard had designed a large, free-standing partition on rollers, which he called a “floating wall,” because it could be easily rolled around at will, and repositioned anywhere. He had used several of them in the center of the gallery, on which hung some of his own paintings, as well as many by other artists. Justine moved between them with ease, pushing them gently aside as required.
Within seconds she was approaching the far end of the gallery, heading toward the corner where paintings by her grandmother were displayed. Coming to a standstill, she zeroed in on one of them in particular which she had admired for years. It was a painting of two girls, most likely in their teenage years, and they were standing in a flower-filled meadow with dark green hills in the distance under an azure sky. The girls were enchanting in their gauzy summer dresses, their skirts billowing around them, their hair blowing in the wind. She had known for as long as she could remember that the taller of the two girls, the blue-eyed blonde, was her grandmother, Gabriele. The other had always been anonymous. Her identity a mystery.
Could she be Anita Lowe?
Leaning forward, Justine read the little wood strip on the wall next to the painting. It was called Friends in the Meadows. Underneath the title was the name Gabriele Hardwicke, and the year it was painted, 1969.
Unexpectedly, she remembered something … her grandmother’s penchant for detail, how she had kept careful records of almost everything. Reaching for the small painting, Justine lifted it off the wall, carried it into Richard’s design studio adjoining this end of the gallery. Carefully, she placed the painting facedown on an empty table and stared at the back of the canvas. And there it was, a small label, close to the frame and yellowed with age. On it was written A & G: 1938. And the label was secured under a piece of cellotape.
Gabriele had painted this from memory, hadn’t she? And did the A stand for Anita? Perhaps. Certainly she couldn’t help wondering about that, because in the letter Anita Lowe had said she was Gabriele’s longest and closest friend. So it must be her, surely. But in a way it didn’t really matter whether this girl portrayed was Anita Lowe or not. Because the real Anita had spoken out most eloquently and effectively, three weeks or so ago, when she had finally put pen to paper after obviously hesitating about doing so for a number of years. She had helped her friend at last. Thank God she had. Vaguely, at the back of her mind, she now remembered her grandmother speaking about her best friend … Anita.
Carrying the painting back to the gallery, Justine hung it in its place, then stepped back and studied it for a few seconds. The other girl had brown hair and sparkling dark eyes, and there was something exotic-looking about her. She wondered why she had never noticed this before.… Perhaps because she had been looking only at the dazzling blond girl who was her grandmother, the bewitching Gabriele. She
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