For a long moment Alex stared at where she had been, rooted to the spot where he sat. It had all happened so quickly. Then suddenly he stood and ran quickly down the steps toward where she had sat. He saw a narrow pathway leading to a heavy door. He could only guess at a garden beyond it, and there was no way of knowing to which house it belonged. It could have been any one of several. So the mystery ended there. For an impotent moment Alex found himself wanting to knock on the door she had entered. Perhaps she was sitting in the hidden garden behind the locked door. There was an instant of desperation, knowing that he would never see her again. And then, feeling foolish, he reminded himself that she was only a stranger. He stared at the door for a long pensive moment, and then turned slowly and walked back up the stairs.
Chapter 2
Even as Alex put the key in his front door, he was haunted by the face of the crying woman. Who was she? Why had she been crying? From which house had she come? He sat on the narrow circular staircase in his front hallway staring into the empty living room and watching the moonlight reflected on the bare wood floor. He had never seen a woman so lovely. It was a face that could easily haunt one for a lifetime and he realized as he sat there without moving that, if not for a lifetime, he would certainly remember her for a very long time. He didn't even hear the phone when it rang a few minutes later. He was still lost in thought, pondering the vision he had seen. But when he finally heard the phone, he ran to the first landing with a few quick bounds and into his den in time to dig the phone out from beneath a stack of papers on his desk.
Hello, Alex. Instantly there was a moment of silent tension. It was his sister, Kay.
What's up? Which meant what did she want. She never called anyone unless she wanted or needed something.
Nothing special. Where were you? I've been calling for the last half hour. The girl working late in your office told me you were going straight home. She was always like that. She wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, whether it suited anyone else or not.
I was out for a walk.
At this hour? She sounded suspicious. Why? Something wrong? He sighed softly to himself. For years now his sister had exhausted him. There was so little give, so little softness to her. She was all angles cold and hard and sharp. She reminded him sometimes of a very sharp crystal object one would put on a desk. Pretty to look at, but not something one would ever want to pick up or touch. And it had been obvious for years that her husband felt the same way.
No, nothing's wrong, Kay. But he also had to admit that for a woman as indifferent as she was to other people's feelings, she had an uncanny knack for sensing when he was down or out of sorts. I just needed some air. I had a long day. And then, attempting to soften the conversation and turn her attention slightly away from him, Don't you ever go for a walk, Kay?
In New York? You must be crazy. You could die here just from breathing.
Not to mention mugging and rape. He smiled gently into the phone and he could sense her smile too. Kay Willard wasn't a woman who smiled often. She was too intense, too hurried, too harassed, and too seldom amused. To what do I owe the honor of this phone call? He sat back in his chair and looked at the view as he waited patiently for an answer.
For a long time Kay would call about Rachel. Kay had stayed in touch with her ex-sister-in-law for obvious reasons. The old governor was someone she wanted to keep in her court. And if she could have talked Alex into going back to Rachel, the old man would have loved it. Provided, of course that she could have convinced Rachel of how desperately unhappy Alex was without her and how much it would mean to him if she'd only give it another try. And Kay wasn't above that kind of pushing. She had already tried to maneuver a meeting between them several times when Alex had come to New York. But even if Rachel had been willing, of which Kay was never entirely sure, it had become clear over the years that Alex was not. So, Congresswoman Willard?
Nothing special. I just wondered when you were coming to New York.
Why?
Don't be so blunt, for chris-sake. I just thought I'd have a few people over for dinner.
Like who? Alex saw her coming and he grinned. She was amazing, his sister the steamroller. You had to say one thing for her, she never quit.
All right, Alex, don't get so defensive.
Who's defensive? I just wanted to know whom you want to have with me to dinner. What's wrong with that? Unless of course there happens to be someone on your guest list who might just make us all a little uncomfortable. Should I guess initials, Kay, would that make it easier?
She had to laugh in spite of herself. All right, all right, I get the message. But for chris-sake, Alex, I ran into her the other day on a plane back from D.C. and she looks just great.
She should. On her salary so would you.
Thank you, dear.
Anytime.
Did you know that she's been asked to run for councilwoman?
No. There was a long silence. But I'm not really surprised. Are you?
No. And then his sister sighed loudly. Sometimes I wonder if you realize what you gave up there.
I certainly do, and I'm grateful every day of my life. I don't want to be married to a politician, Kay. That's an honor that should be reserved only for men like George.
What the hell does that mean?
He's so busy with his practice, I'm sure he doesn't even notice when you're in Washington for three weeks. Me, I'd notice. And he didn't tell her that her daughter noticed too. He knew because he talked to Amanda at great length whenever he went to New York. He took her out to lunch, or dinner, or for long walks. He knew his niece better than her own parents. Sometimes he thought Kay didn't give a damn. By the way, how's Amanda?
All right, I guess.
What do you mean, you guess'? The criticism in his tone was easy to read. Haven't you seen her?
Jesus Christ, I just got off the fucking plane from D.C. What do you want from me, Alex?
Not much. What you do is none of my business. What you do to her is something else.
That's none of your business either.
Isn't it? Then whose business is it, Kay? George's? Does he notice that you never spend ten minutes with your daughter? He certainly doesn't.
She's sixteen years old, for chris-sake, she doesn't need a baby-sitter anymore, Alex.
No, but she needs a mother and a father desperately every young girl does.
I can't help that I'm in politics. You know how demanding that is.
Yeah. He shook his head slowly, and that was what she wanted to wish on him. A life with Rachel Patterson, a life that would relegate him to being the First Man. Anything else? He didn't want to talk to her anymore. He'd had enough of listening to her in just five minutes.
I'm running for the Senate next year.
Congratulations. His voice was flat.
Don't get too excited.
I'm not. I was thinking about Mandy, and what that might mean for her.
If I win, it'll mean she's a senator's daughter, that's what. Kay sounded suddenly vicious and Alex wanted to slap her face.
Do you think she really cares about that, Kay?
Probably not. The kid has her head so high in the clouds, she probably wouldn't give a shit if I ran for President. For a moment Kay sounded sad and Alex shook his head.
That's not what matters, Kay. We're all proud of you, we love you, but there's more than that' . How could he tell her? How could he explain? She cared about nothing except her career, her work.
I don't think any of you understand what this means to me, Alex, how hard I've worked for it, how far I've come. It's been killing, and I've made it, and all you do is bitch about what kind of mother I am. And our dear mother is worse. And George is too busy cutting people open to remember if I'm congresswoman or mayor. It's a little discouraging, kiddo, to say the least.
I'm sure it is. But sometimes people get hurt by careers like yours.
That's to be expected.
Is it? Is that
what it's all about?
Maybe. She sounded tired. I don't have all the answers. I wish I did. And what about you? What's happening in your life these days?
Nothing much. Work.
Are you happy?
Sometimes.
You ought to go back to Rachel.
At least you get to the point quickly. I don't want to, Kay. Besides, what makes you think she'd want me?
She said she'd like to see you.
Oh, Christ. He sighed into the phone. You never give up, do you? Why don't you just marry her father and leave me in peace? That would get you the same results, wouldn't it?
This time Kay laughed. Maybe.
Do you really expect me to run my love life to further your career? The very idea amused him, but underneath the outrageousness of it, he knew there was a grain of truth. I think what I love best about you, big sister, is your unlimited nerve.
It gets me where I want to go, little brother.
I'm sure it does, but not this time, love.
No little dinner with Rachel?
Nope. But if you see her again, give her my best. Something in his guts tugged again at the mention of her name. He didn't love her anymore, but now and then just hearing about her still hurt.
I'll do that. And think about it. I can always throw something together when you're in New York.
With any luck at all you'll be in Washington and too busy to see me.
Could be. When are you coming East?
Probably in a couple of weeks. I've got a client to see in New York. I'm cocounsel for him on a fairly big case out here.
I'm impressed.
Are you? His eyes narrowed as he glanced out at the view. Why? Will it sound good in your campaign material? I think Mother's readers will get you more votes than I will, don't you? There was a touch of irony in his voice. Unless of course I have the good sense to remarry Rachel.
Just don't get into any trouble.
Have I ever? He sounded amused.
No, but if I run for the Senate, it'll be a tight race. I'm running against that morality maniac, and if anyone even remotely related to me does something unsavory, I'll be up shit creek.
Be sure you tell Mother. He said it in jest but she responded immediately with a serious voice.
I already have.
Are you kidding? He laughed at the very thought of his elegant, long-legged, couture-clad, white-haired mother doing anything unsuitable that might jeopardize Kay's bid for a seat in the Senate, or anywhere else.
I am not kidding, I mean it. I can't afford any problems right now. No nonsense, no scandal.
What a shame.
What does that mean?
I don't know ' I was thinking of having an affair with this ex-hooker who just got out of jail.
Very funny. I'm serious.
Unfortunately I think you are. Anyway, you can give me my list of instructions when I come to New York. I'll try to behave myself until then.
Do that, and let me know when you're going to be here.
Why? So you can arrange a blind date with Rachel? I'm afraid, Congresswoman Willard, that even for the sake of your career I wouldn't do that.
You're a fool.
Maybe so. But he didn't think so anymore. He didn't think so at all, and after the phone call with Kay ended, he found himself staring out the window and thinking not of Rachel, but of the woman he had seen on the steps. With his eyes closed, he could still see her, the perfectly carved profile, the huge eyes, and the delicate mouth. He had never seen a woman so beautiful or so haunting. And he sat there at his desk, with his eyes closed, thinking of her, and then with a sigh, he shook his head and opened his eyes again and stood up. It was ridiculous to be dreaming of a total stranger. And then feeling foolish, he laughed softly and brushed her from his mind. There was no point falling in love with a perfect stranger. But he found, as he went downstairs to make something for dinner, that he had to remind himself of that again and again.
Chapter 3
Sunlight flooded into the room and shimmered on the beige silk bedspread and identically upholstered chairs. It was a large handsome room with long French windows that looked out over the bay. From the boudoir, which adjoined the bedroom, one could see the Golden Gate Bridge. There was a white marble fireplace in each room, and there were carefully selected French paintings, and a priceless Chinese vase stood in a corner in a Louis XV inlaid vitrine. In front of the windows was a handsome Louis XV desk, which would have dwarfed any room except this one. It was beautiful and enormous and sterile and cold. Next to the boudoir, there was also a small wood-paneled room filled with books in English and Spanish and French. The books were the soul of her existence, and it was here that Raphaella stood quietly for a moment looking out at the bay. It was nine o'clock in the morning and she was wearing a perfectly sculptured black suit molded to her form, showing off her graceful perfection subtly yet with immense style. The suit had been made for her in Paris, like most of her clothes, except those she bought in Spain. She rarely bought clothes in San Francisco. She almost never went out. In San Francisco she was an invisible person, a name people rarely mentioned and never saw. For most of them it would have been difficult to associate a face with the name of Mrs. John Henry Phillips, and certainly not this face. It would have been difficult to imagine this perfect snow-white beauty with the huge black eyes. When she had married John Henry, one reporter had written that she looked like a fairy-tale princess, and had then gone on to explain that in many ways she was. But the eyes that gazed out at the bay on an October morning were not those of a fairy-tale princess, they were those of a very lonely young woman, locked in a very lonely world.
Your breakfast is ready, Mrs. Phillips. A maid in a crisp white uniform stood in the doorway, her announcement more like a command, Raphaella thought, but she always felt that way about John Henry's servants. She had felt that way, too, in her father's house in Paris and her grandfather's house in Spain. It always seemed to her that it was the servants who gave the orders, when to get up, when to get ready, when to eat lunch, when to eat dinner. Madam is served announced dinner in her father's house in Paris. But what if Madam didn't want to be served? What if Madam only wanted a sandwich, sitting on the floor in front of the fire? Or a dish of ice cream for breakfast instead of toast and poached eggs? The very idea made her smile as she walked back to her bedroom and looked around. Everything was ready. Her bags were stacked neatly in the corner they were all glove soft in a chocolate-colored suede and there was a large tote bag in which Raphaella could carry some gifts for her mother and aunt and cousins, her jewelry, and something to read on the plane.
As she looked at her luggage she felt no thrill of pleasure to be going on a trip. She almost never felt a thrill of pleasure anymore. There was none left in her life. There was an endless strip of highway, heading toward a destination both unseen and unknown, and about which Raphaella no longer cared. She knew that each day would be just like the day before. Each day she would do exactly what she had for almost seven years, except for the four weeks in the summer when she went to Spain, and the few days before that when she went to Paris to see her father. And there were occasional trips to join her Spanish relatives for a few days in New York. It seemed years now since she had last been there, since she had left Europe, since she had become John Henry's wife. It was all so different now than it had been at first.
It had all happened like a fairy tale. Or a merger. There was a little bit of both in the tale. The marriage of the Banque Malle in Paris, Milan, Madrid, and Barcelona to the Phillips Bank of California and New York. Both empires consisted of investment banks of major international proportions. And her father's first gargantuan business deal with John Henry had won them, jointly, the cover of Time. It was also what had brought her father and John Henry together so often that spring, and as their plans began to prosper, so had John Henry's suit with Antoine's only child.
Raphaella had never met anyone like John Henry. He was tall, handsom
e, impressive, powerful, yet gentle, kind, and soft spoken, with a constant glimmer of laughter in his eyes. There was mischief there too sometimes, and in time, Raphaella had learned how much he liked to tease and play. He was a man of extraordinary imagination and creativity, a man of great wit, a man of great eloquence, great style. He had everything that she or any other girl could ever want.
The only thing that John Henry Phillips had lacked was youth. And in the beginning even that was difficult to believe as one looked into the lean, handsome face or watched the powerful arms when he played tennis or swam. He had a long, beautiful body that men half his age would have envied.
His age had, at first, discouraged him from pursuing Raphaella, yet as time went on, and the frequency of his trips to Paris increased, he found her more charming, more open, more delightful on each occasion. And despite the rigidity of his ideas about his daughter, Antoine de Mornay-Malle did not resist the prospect of seeing his old friend marry his only child. He himself was aware of his daughter's beauty, her gentleness and openness, and her innocent charm. And he was also aware of what a rare catch John Henry Phillips would be for any woman, despite the difference of years. He was also not blind to what it would mean to the future of his bank, a consideration that had weighed with him at least once before. His own marriage had been based on affection, and good business sense as well.
A Perfect Stranger Page 2
