Letter from a Stranger Read Online Free Page A

knew, all of a sudden, that this was Anita.
    Returning to the center of the gallery, where the high-flung cathedral ceiling came to its peak, she sat down in the only chair, a white canvas director’s chair. The cool white space, the silence, and the overwhelming sense of tranquility usually had a soothing effect on her, and today especially so.… A perfect peacefulness was enveloping her. She closed her eyes, thinking of her Gran and the last time she had seen her.
    She was drifting with her thoughts when the shrilling telephone brought her up with a start. She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her cell, and pulled it out. “Hello?”
    “I’m almost there,” Richard said.
    “I’m glad. Where are you?”
    “What is it? You sound odd.”
    “I’m fine. Where are you?”
    “Just leaving New Preston. Why?”
    “I want you to do me a favor.”
    “Of course, what is it?”
    “I want you to drive right up here to the gallery, where I’m waiting for you.”
    “I’ll come up after I’ve said hello to Daisy.”
    “Please don’t do that, Rich! You must come here immediately! Something’s happened, and—”
    “What? Tell me what’s wrong.”
    “I can’t on the phone. Please, Rich, just come here first. Please. ”
    “All right. See you shortly.”
    Impatient, anxious for her brother to arrive, Justine stood up and headed in the direction of his glass-windowed studio. She would wait for him there. As she approached the glass cube, another painting caught her eye, and she went over to look at it, stared for a long moment. It was of her and her brother and had been painted by a famous portraitist in New York when they were about four.
    The woman had captured them very well. How alike they looked with their fair hair and dimples and the same light blue eyes. Yes, definitely twins, she muttered under her breath. And so very codependent on an emotional level.
    Their father had commissioned the painting, and he had always loved it. But not their mother. In fact, she was very much against it right from the beginning, before it had even been painted.
    Now it struck Justine quite forcibly that her mother’s reaction had been odd, and she couldn’t help wondering why. What on earth had she had against it? No answer to that conundrum, she thought. But Deborah Nolan had been an odd bird then, just as she was an odd bird now … scatterbrained, a flake, and sometimes downright irresponsible. And a liar, she added to herself.
    Sighing under her breath, turning away from the portrait, she went into Richard’s studio and glanced around. As usual it was sparkling clean, thanks to Tita and Pearl and their dedication to Indian Ridge.
    Suddenly she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel, and not wanting to wait for him she hurried out of the studio, almost running through the gallery to the front door.
    A second later Richard was alighting from the car, striding toward her, a worried expression in his eyes, his face tight with anxiety.
    “I know something’s wrong,” he said, mounting the steps. “So come on, tell me. And how bad is it?”
    She ran into his arms, hugged him tight, and then, as they moved away from the door and went inside, she answered, “Really, really bad. But part of the problem is good. Wonderful. ”
    She closed the door behind them, took hold of his arm, and led him down the gallery. “Let’s go to your studio; I want you to read a letter I found today. But I must warn you, Rich. It’s going to shock you.”

 
    Three
    The moment they entered Richard’s glass-enclosed studio, Justine sat down in one of the small modern chairs and indicated that her twin should take the other one.
    He shook his head, went over to the empty drawing table, and leaned against it, his tall, lean frame looking lankier than ever. It struck her that he had lost weight.
    “I don’t want to sit,” he explained, his eyes not leaving her face. “I think best standing up.”
    “I knew you were going to say