A Perfect Stranger

by Steel, Danielle

  She looked at him for a long time before answering, and suddenly the rage that she should have felt a year earlier washed over her with a force she could neither stop nor resist. Step by step she advanced toward him with a light in her eyes he had never seen there before. Instinctively his hand went out to the back of the chair near him, and something inside him trembled as he faced his child.

  What am I doing here, Papa? I came to visit you. I thought I'd come to see my father in Paris. Is that surprising? Perhaps I should have called, and spared Madame the embarrassment of being recognized, but I thought it might be more amusing to come as a surprise. And the reason I am standing in this room, Father, is because it used to be mine. But I think what is far more to the point is what you are doing in this room, Father. You with the saintly morals and the endless speeches. You who threw me out of this house over a year ago and called me a whore. You who called me a murderess because I killed' my seventy-seven-year-old husband who had been almost dead for nine years. And what if Monsieur le Ministre has a stroke tomorrow, Papa, then will you be a murderer too? What if he has a heart attack? What if he finds out he has cancer and kills himself because he can't bear it, then will you bear the guilt and punish yourself as you've punished me? What if your affair with his wife ends his political career? And what about her, Papa? What about her? What are you keeping her from? What right do you have to this while my mother sits in Madrid? What right do you have that I did not have a year ago with a man I loved? What right' ? How dare you! How dare you! She stood before him, trembling and shouting in his face.

  How dare you have done to me what you did last year. You threw me out of this house and sent me to Spain that night because you said you would not have a whore under your roof. Well, you have a whore under your roof, Papa. She pointed hysterically at the boudoir, and before he could stop her, she strode to the door, where she found the minister's wife sitting on the edge of a Louis XVI chair, crying softly into a handkerchief as Raphaella looked down at her. Good day, madame.

  Then she turned to her father. And good-bye. I will not spend a night under the same roof as a whore either, and you, Papa, are the whore, not Madame here, and not I. You are' you are' . She began to sob hysterically. What you said to me last year almost killed me' for almost a year I've tortured myself over what John Henry did, while everyone else told me that I was innocent, that he did it because he was so old and so sick and so miserable. Only you accused me of killing him and called me a whore. You said that I disgraced you, that I had risked a scandal that would destroy your good name. And what about you, damn you? What about her? She waved vaguely at the woman in the blue peignoir. Don't you think this would be a scandal to top all scandals? What about your servants? What about Monsieur le Ministre? What about the voters? What about your clients at the bank? Don't you care about them? Or is it that I am the only one who can be disgraceful? My God, what I did was so much less than this. And you have a right to this, if it's what you want. Who am I to tell you what you can and can't do, what's wrong and what isn't? But how dare you call me names. How dare you do what you did to me. She hung her head for a moment, sobbing, and then glared at him again. I will never forgive you, Papa' never' .

  He looked like a broken man as he stared at her, his aging body hanging loosely in the bathrobe, his face registering the pain of what she had just said. Raphaella ' I was wrong' I was wrong' . This happened afterward. I swear it. It started this summer' .

  I don't give a damn when it started. She fired the words at him as he stood looking at her and at his mistress, crying in her chair. When I did it, you called me a killer. Now that it's you, it's all right. I would have spent the rest of my life at Santa Eugenia, eating out my soul. And do you know why? Because of what you said. Because I believed you. Because I felt so desperately guilty that I accepted all the misery you heaped on my head. She shook her head then and walked out of the boudoir to the door of the main room. He followed her, looking lamely after her, and she stopped for only an instant at the door to look back at him with an expression of scorn.

  Raphaella' I'm sorry' .

  What are you sorry about, Father? That I found you out? Would you have come to tell me? Would you have told me that you had changed your mind, that I hadn't killed my husband? Would you have let me know that you'd thought things over and perhaps you were wrong? Just when would you have told me? If I hadn't walked in on you, just when would you have come to me and said that? When?

  I don't know' . His voice was a hoarse whisper. In time' I would have' .

  Would you? She shook her head firmly. I don't believe you. You'd never have done it. And all the while you'd have been carrying on here with your mistress and I would have buried myself in Spain. Can you live with yourself knowing that? Can you? The only one who has destroyed anyone's life, Father, is you. You almost destroyed mine.

  And with that, she slammed the door. She was down the stairs in a moment and saw her bags still standing in the hall. With a trembling hand she picked up a bag in each hand, slipped her handbag over her shoulder, opened the door, and marched out of the house to find the nearest taxi stand. She knew there was one around the corner, and she didn't give a damn if she had to walk to the airport, she was going back to Spain. She was still trembling and shaken when she finally found a taxi, and when she told the driver to take her to Orly, she put her head back on the seat and closed her eyes as she stealthily wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  She was suddenly filled with hatred and anger for her father. What a bastard he was, what a hypocrite. What about her mother? What about all the accusations he'd made? All the things he'd said' ? But as she raged silently to herself all the way to the airport, she found herself thinking that in truth he was only human, as human as her mother probably was, as human as she herself had been, maybe as human as John Henry himself had been once upon a time. Maybe she really hadn't killed John Henry. Maybe in fact he simply hadn't wanted to go on.

  As she flew home to Madrid she stared into the night sky and mulled it all over, and for the first time in close to a year she felt free of the agonizing weight of her own burdens of guilt and pain. She found herself feeling sorry for her father and suddenly laughing softly to herself at the vision of him in his red robe, and the heavyset middle-aged mistress in the peignoir with the feathers around her fat neck. As the plane landed in Madrid she was laughing softly, and she was still grinning when she got off the plane.

  Chapter 34

  The next morning Raphaella came down to breakfast, and although her face was as pale and gaunt as it had been for a year, there was a different light in her eyes, and as she drank her coffee she answered her mother lightheartedly that she had discussed all her business with her father and had decided to come home.

  But in that case why didn't you just call him?

  Because I thought it would take longer than it did.

  But that's silly. Why didn't you stay and visit with your father?

  Raphaella put down her coffee cup quietly. Because I wanted to get back here as soon as I could, Mother.

  Oh? Alejandra sensed something brewing and carefully watched her daughter's eyes. Why?

  I'm going home.

  To Santa Eugenia? Alejandra looked annoyed. Oh, not that again, for heaven's sake. At least stay in Madrid until Christmas, and then we'll all be there together. But I don't want you there now. It's much too dreary at this time of year.

  I know it is, and that's not where I'm going. I meant San Francisco.

  What? Her mother looked stunned. Is that what you discussed with your father? What did he say?

  Nothing. Raphaella almost smiled at the memory of the red bathrobe. It's my decision. What she had learned about her father had finally freed her. I want to go home.

  Don't be ridiculous. This is your home, Raphaella. She waved around her at the elaborate house that had been in the family for a hundred fifty years.

  Yes, partly. But I have a home there too. I want to go back there.

&n
bsp; And do what? Her mother looked unhappy. First she had hidden at Santa Eugenia like a wounded animal, and now she wanted to flee. But she had to admit that there was something alive there. It was only a glimpse' a glimmer' but it was a reminder of the woman Raphaella had once been. She was still strangely quiet, oddly private, even now she would not say what she was going to do. Alejandra found herself wondering if she had heard from that man again, if that was why she was going, and if that was the case, she was not very pleased. It wasn't quite a year since the death of her husband after all. Why don't you wait until the spring?

  Raphaella shook her head. No. I'm going now.

  When?

  Tomorrow. She decided as she said it and put down her coffee cup and looked her mother in the eye. And I don't know how long I'll stay, or when I'll be back. I may sell the house there, I may not. I just don't know. The only thing I do know is that when I walked out on everything I had there I was in shock. I have to go back. Her mother knew that it was true. But she was afraid to lose her. She didn't want Raphaella to stay in the States. She belonged in Spain.

  Why don't you just let your father take care of everything for you? It was what Alejandra would have done herself.

  No. Raphaella looked at her firmly. I'm not a child anymore.

  Do you want to take one of your cousins?

  Raphaella smiled gently. No, Mother. I'll be fine.

  She attempted to discuss it several more times with Raphaella, but to no avail, and it was too late when Antoine received her message. The next day, with trembling hands, he picked up the phone and called Spain. He thought that perhaps Raphaella had told her, that his own marriage was going to explode now in a burst of flame. But what he learned was only that Raphaella had flown back to California that morning. It was too late to stop her, but Alejandra wanted him to call her and tell her to come home.

  I don't think she'll listen, Alejandra.

  She'll listen to you, Antoine. He heard the words with a sudden vision of the scene Raphaella had walked in on two days before and he found himself suddenly very grateful that she hadn't told her mother. Now he only shook his head.

  No, she won't listen to me, Alejandra. Not anymore.

  Chapter 35

  The plane landed at San Francisco International Airport at three o'clock in the afternoon on a brilliantly clear December day. The sun was shining brightly, the air was warm, the wind brisk, and Raphaella took a deep breath, wondering how she had survived without that crisp air. It felt good in her soul just to be there, and when she checked her bags out of customs herself, she felt strong and free and independent as she walked outside with the porter and hailed a cab. There was no limousine waiting for her this time, there had been no special exit from the plane. She hadn't asked to be escorted through customs. She had come through just like everyone else, and it felt good. She was tired of being hidden and protected. She knew that it was time she took care of herself. She had called ahead to tell John Henry's staff that she was coming, there were only a few people at the house now anyway. The others had all been let go by her father, some with pensions, some with small sums left to them by John Henry, but all with regret at the era they saw close. They all believed that Raphaella would never come back again, and it was with amazement that the remaining few had heard that she was on her way.

  When the cab pulled up in front of the mansion and she rang the doorbell, she was greeted with warmth and friendly smiles. They were all happy to see her, happy to have someone in the house again besides each other, although they all suspected that her return was an omen of further change. That evening they fixed her a handsome dinner, with turkey and stuffing, and sweet potatoes and asparagus, and a wonderful apple pie. In the pantry they all commented on how painfully thin she had gotten and how unhappy she looked, how tired, and how they had never seen such sad eyes. But she looked better than she had looked at Santa Eugenia for the past year, not that any of them could have known that.

  To please them she had eaten in the dining room, and afterward she wandered slowly around the house. It looked sad somehow, empty, unloved, a relic of another era, and as she looked around her she knew that it was time to bring it to a close. If she stayed in San Francisco, which she was not at all sure of, she would have no need of a house like this. She knew as she wandered slowly upstairs that it would always depress her. She would always remember John Henry here, diminished as he had been in his last years.

  In a way she was tempted to stay in San Francisco, but if she did, she would need a much smaller house' like Alex's house on Vallejo' Despite all her efforts not to let it do that, her mind drifted once again back to him. It was impossible to walk into her bedroom and not think of all the nights when she'd waited impatiently to go to him. She thought of it now as she stood looking around her, wondering how he was, what had happened, what he'd done with his life in the last year. She had never heard again from Amanda or Charlotte, and she somehow suspected that she would not again. Nor did she plan to contact them ' or Alex' . She had no intention of calling him to tell him she was back. She had come to face the memories of John Henry, to close the house, to pack up his belongings, to face herself. She no longer thought of herself entirely as a killer, but if she was going to live with what had happened, she knew that she had to deal with it, where it had happened, and face it all squarely before she went on, to stay in San Francisco or to go back to Spain. Where she stayed was no longer important. But how she felt about what had happened would determine the whole course of her life. She knew that all too well, and she roved restlessly from room to room now, trying not to think of Alex, not to let her mind wander, not even to allow herself to feel guilty again for the way that John Henry had died.

  It was almost midnight when she finally had the courage to walk into his bedroom. She stood there for a long moment, looking around, remembering the hours she had spent with him, reading to him, talking, listening, eating dinners on trays. And then for some reason she remembered the poems he had been so fond of, and as though she had always meant to do that, she walked slowly to the bookcase and began to look over the books. She found the slim volume on the bottom shelf where someone had put it. Much of the time he had kept it on the night table next to his bed. She remembered now that she had seen it there the next morning' the night after' . She found herself wondering now if he had been reading it when he died. It was an odd, romantic notion that was not very likely to have had much to do with the truth, but she felt close to him again as she sat down near the bed, holding the slim volume and remembering the first time they had read it together, on their honeymoon in the South of France. This was the same volume he had bought when he was a very young man. Now, smiling softly, she began to leaf through it and stopped suddenly at a familiar passage where the book had been marked with a single blue page. As the book opened to where the paper had been inserted, her heart suddenly leaped strangely as she realized that the single sheet was covered in the shaky scrawl John Henry had developed in his final years. It was as though he had left her something, some message, some last words' . And then, as she began to read, she realized that that was precisely what he had done, and glancing at the foot of the letter, her eyes filled with tears.

  She read the words again as the blur of tears began slowly to spill down her cheeks.

  My darling Raphaella,

  It is an endless evening, at the conclusion of an endless lifetime. A rich lifetime. A richer one because of you. What a priceless gift you have been, my darling. One perfect, flawless diamond. You have never ceased to fill me with awe, to bring me pleasure, to give me joy. Now I can only beg you to forgive me. I have thought of this for so long. I have wanted for such a long time to be free. I go now, without your permission , but I hope with your blessing. Forgive me, my darling. I leave you with all the love I have ever had to give. And think of me not as gone, but as free. With all my heart,

  John Henry.

  She read the words again and again. Think of me not as gone, but as free. He
had left her a letter after all. The relief was so overwhelming that she could barely move. He had asked her to forgive him. How absurd it all was. And how wrong she had been. Not gone' but free. She thought of him that way now, and she blessed him, as he had begged her to a year before. And the blessing was returned. Because suddenly, for the first time in a year, Raphaella felt free as well. She walked slowly through the house, knowing they were both free. She and John Henry. He had moved on, as he had wanted to so badly. He had chosen the path that was right for him. And now she was free to do the same. She was free to leave' to move on' . She was whole again. And suddenly she wanted to call Alex to tell him about the letter, but she knew that she could not. It would have been a cruelty beyond words to step back into his life after all that time. But she wanted so much to tell him. They hadn't killed John Henry after all. He had simply moved on.

  As she walked slowly back to her bedroom at three o'clock that morning, she thought of both men, tenderly, lovingly, and she loved them both more than she had in a long time. They were all free now' all three of them. At last.

  She called the real-estate agent the next morning, listed the house, called several museums, the libraries at both the University of California and Stanford, and a moving company, asking for several men and some boxes and tape. It was time to go now. She had made up her mind. She wasn't sure where she was going, or what she would do, but it was time to get out of the house that had been John Henry's and never hers. Maybe it was even time to go back to Europe, but of that she was not yet sure. With John Henry's letter she was absolved of her sin. She folded it neatly and put it in her handbag. She wanted to put it in the bank with some of her important papers. It was the most important piece of paper she had ever owned.

  By the end of the week she had made her endowments to the museums, and the two universities she had called had divided up the books. She kept only a handful of the ones she had shared with John Henry, and of course the book of poems in which he had left the last letter to her the night he died. She had already gotten a phone call from her father and she told him about the letter. There had been a long silence at his end of the phone then, and when he spoke to her again, his voice was husky as he apologized for all that he had said. She assured him that she bore him no malice, but as they hung up they each wondered how one got back a year, how one took back words that could never be unsaid, how one put balm on wounds that might never heal. But it was John Henry who had bandaged up Raphaella's anguish, he who had given her the finest gift of all with the letter the truth.