A Perfect Stranger Read online

  Alex Hale paid for his drink at the bar at the Carlyle, forgot about the table he had reserved across the hall to see Bobby Short, and walked out onto Madison Avenue, his arm up for a cab to take him back to his hotel. And when he slid onto the seat, the cabbie glanced in his rearview mirror, chomped hard on his cigar, and looked surprised. Must be cold out there, huh, buddy? It was the only obvious explanation he could find for the tears spilling from Alex's eyes and rolling swiftly down his cheeks.

  Chapter 8

  Alex and his niece stood side by side for a long moment, watching the skaters circle gracefully below them in Rockefeller Center. They had just finished an early dinner at the Caf+! Fran+oais and he had to get her home by eight o'clock if he was going to catch his plane.

  I wish I could spend my life like that, Uncle Alex. The small delicate blond girl with the China-blue eyes and soft halo of curls looked up at her uncle with a smile.

  What? Skating? He smiled, as much at what she had said as at the tiny figure she was beside him. They had shared a pleasant evening, and as always the loneliness of the pretty teen-ager tore at his heart. She was like no one else in her family. Not her mother or father, not even her grandmother, or Alex himself. She was quiet and devoted, gentle and lonely and loyal. She reminded him in fact of Raphaella as they stood in the chill air. Perhaps they were both people who had suffered at the hands of life, and he wondered if they were almost equally lonely as he looked down at the young girl. He had also been wondering all evening what was on her mind. She had seemed quiet and troubled and now she watched the skaters with a look of longing, like a very hungry child. He wished suddenly that he weren't taking the night flight to San Francisco, and that he had more time to spend with her, maybe they could even have rented skates. But he already had his reservation and had given up his room at the hotel. Next time I'm in town, we'll come do this.

  She grinned up at him. I'm real good now, you know.

  Oh, yeah? His look was teasing. How come?

  I go skating all the time.

  Here? He glanced down at the graceful girl with pleasure. And he was sorry again that he didn't have time to let her show him how real good she was.

  But she was shaking her head in answer. Not here. I can't afford this on my allowance. That in itself seemed to him absurd. Her father was one of the leading surgeons in Manhattan, and Kay certainly had a decent sum of her own money by now. I skate in the park, Uncle Alex. It was only now and then that she still called him that.

  By yourself? He looked horrified and she smiled at him with hauteur.

  Sometimes. I'm a big girl now, you know.

  Big enough not to get mugged? He looked angry as they stood there and she shook her head and laughed.

  You sound just like Grandma.

  Does she know you go skating in Central Park alone? Come to think of it, does your mother? In the end Kay had gone back to Washington before he got there and he hadn't seen her this trip at all.

  They both know. And I'm careful. If I skate at night, I leave the park with other people, so I don't have to walk alone.

  And how do you know those other people' won't hurt you?

  Why should they?

  Oh, for chris-sake, Mandy, you know what it's like here. You've lived in New York all your life. Do I have to explain to you what one doesn't do here?

  It's not the same for a kid. Why would someone mug me? What would they get? Two rolls of Life Savers, three bucks, and my keys?

  Maybe. Or he hated even to say it or maybe something much more precious. They could hurt you. He didn't want to say rape. Not to the innocent little face looking up at him with the funny smile. Look, just do me a favor. Don't do it. And then, with a frown between his eyes, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, whence he took out a single brand-new hundred-dollar bill. He handed it to Amanda with a serious expression, and her eyes grew wide in surprise.

  What are you doing?

  That is your skating fund. I want you to come here from now on. And when you run out, I want you to tell me and I'll send you some more. That's just between you and me, young lady, but I don't want you skating in Central Park anymore. Is that clear?

  Yes, sir. But, Alex, you're crazy! A hundred dollars! And then she grinned broadly and looked again about ten years old. Wow! And without further ado she stood on tiptoe, threw her arms around her uncle, kissed him soundly on the cheek, and stuffed the hundred-dollar bill into her little denim bag. The fact that she had taken it made him feel better, but what he didn't know and would have worried him severely was that as often as she skated, the money would only last for a few weeks. And she would have been embarrassed to ask him to send her more money. She just wasn't that kind of girl. She wasn't demanding. And she was always grateful for whatever she got without asking for more.

  Reluctantly he looked at his watch and then down at Amanda. His regret was instantly mirrored in her face. I'm afraid, young lady, that we're going to have to leave. She nodded and said nothing, wondering how soon she would see him again. His visits were always like a burst of sunshine for her. That and the time that she spent with her grandmother made her life a little more bearable and a lot more worthwhile. They walked slowly up the sloping promenade toward Fifth Avenue, and when they reached the street, he hailed a cab.

  Do you know how soon you'll be back, Alex?

  I don't know. It won't be too long. He always had the same feeling of pain and remorse when he left her. As though he should have done more for her, and reproached himself that he had not. But how much could one do? How could one replace one blind parent and another who was unfeeling? How could one give a child what she had not had for almost seventeen years? And despite her diminutive size, she was no longer a child, even Alex could no longer ignore that. She was a singularly beautiful young girl. It was only amazing that she had not yet discovered that herself.

  Will you be back for Thanksgiving?

  Maybe. He saw the imploring look in her eyes. All right. I'll try. But I won't promise. They had by then reached her building, and Alex left her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and a long hard squeeze. He could see that there were tears sparkling in her eyes as she left him, but her wave as he drove away in the taxi was a gallant one, and her smile was filled with all the promise of her sixteen and a half years. It always made him sad to leave her. Somehow she always reminded him of the opportunities he had missed, the children that he himself didn't have. He would have loved it if Amanda had been his daughter. And that thought in itself always made him angry. His sister didn't deserve a child as lovely as that.

  He gave the driver the address of his hotel, where he picked up his luggage from the doorman, and then settled back in the seat with another glance at his watch and a long tired sigh. Kennedy Airport, please. United. He realized then that it would be good to get home. He had only been in New York for two days but they had drained him. The exchange with Raphaella the night before had left him feeling bleak and lonely. His business had gone well, but it seemed eclipsed by the emotional turmoil he felt as they drove slowly uptown. He found himself thinking less and less of Amanda and more and more of Raphaella as he sat there. He was sorry for her, and yet at the same time angry. Why did she insist on being faithful to a husband who was old enough to be her grandfather and already half dead? It didn't make any sense. It was crazy' . He remembered the look on her face as she had walked away from him the night before. Yesterday. He had seen her only yesterday. And then suddenly, with an inexplicable surge of rage, he asked himself why he had to be understanding, why he had to accept what she said. Go away was in effect what she had told him. But he had decided not to. All of a sudden. Just like that. Driver. Alex looked around him as though he had suddenly woken up. They were on 99th Street on the East River Drive. Take me to the Carlyle.

  Now?

  Alex nodded emphatically. Now.

  Not the airport? No. To hell with it. He could always stay at his mother's apartment if he missed the plane back to San Fr
ancisco. She had gone to Boston for the weekend to do some promotional appearances for her new book. It was worth one more try, just to see her. If she was there. If she would come downstairs to see him. If' .

  In her room at the Carlyle, Raphaella was stretched out on the large double bed in a pink satin bathrobe, wearing cream-colored lace underwear underneath. For the first time in what seemed like centuries, she was alone. She had just said good-bye to her mother and her aunt and her cousins, who were by now at the airport, boarding the plane for Buenos Aires. She was going back to San Francisco in the morning, but for tonight she could relax at the Carlyle and do absolutely nothing. She didn't have to be charming, pleasant, patient. She didn't have to translate for her family in a dozen elegant stores. She didn't have to order meals for them or run around the city shopping. She could just lie there with a book and relax, and in a few moments room service would bring her dinner to her room. She would eat it in solitary splendor in the living room of the suite she always stayed in, and she looked around as she lay there, feeling a mixture of exhaustion and delight. It was so good not to hear them chattering, not to have to feign amusement or pretend to be happy every moment anymore. She hadn't had a minute to herself since she'd got there. Not that she ever did. That was the whole point. She wasn't supposed to be alone. Never. That was not the role of a woman. A woman had to be surrounded, protected, guarded. Except of course if it was just a matter of being alone overnight at the hotel as she was now, before going back to San Francisco in the morning. She would keep to her room, order room service, and in the morning leave for the airport in a limousine.

  After all, one had to be careful, she reminded herself cynically in her room, if she wasn't, look what happened. As they had a thousand times in the last forty-eight hours, her thoughts flew to Alex, to the shape of his face, the look in his eyes, the broad shoulders, the softness of his hair that was what happened. One got accosted by strangers on airplanes. One went to lunch with them. One went out for drinks. One forgot one's obligations. And one fell in love.

  She reminded herself once more of her decision, consoled herself that it was the right thing to do, and forced her mind back to other things. There was no reason to think about Alex Hale anymore, she told herself. No reason at all. She would never see him again. She would never know him any better. And his declaration to her the night before was only the infatuation of a very foolish man. Foolish and foolhardy. How could he expect her to see him again? What made him think that she was willing to have an affair? Her thoughts lingered over his face one more time as she lay there, and she found herself wondering if her mother had ever done anything like that. Had she ever met anyone like Alex? Had any of the women whom she knew in Spain? They seemed perfectly satisfied to lead sequestered lives, lives in which they constantly spent money, bought jewelry and furs and dresses, and went to parties, but lived surrounded by other women, behind carefully guarded walls. What was wrong with her? Why was she suddenly chafing at those traditions? The other women she knew in Paris and Madrid and Barcelona, they had the parties, and the amusements, and the gala events that made the years drift by.

  And they had children' children' her heart always ached when she thought of babies. For years she had been unable to see a pregnant woman walk by her without wanting to burst into tears. She had never told John Henry how bereft she felt for the lack of children. But she always suspected that he knew. It was why he was always so lavish, why he spoiled her so much, and always seemed to love her so much more.

  Raphaella forced her eyes shut and sat up in bed in her bathrobe, angry at herself for letting her thoughts take the turn they just had. She was free of that life for one more night, one day. She didn't have to think of John Henry, of his pain, of his strokes, of what would happen to her until he died. She didn't have to think of what she was missing, and what she had already missed. There was no point thinking of parties she would never go to, of people she wouldn't meet, and children she would never have. Her life was cut out for her. It was her destiny, her path, her obligation.

  With the back of her hand, she wiped a tear from her cheek and forced herself to pick up the book that lay beside her on the bed. It was the Charlotte Brandon she had bought at the airport, and it was these thoughts that her books always kept her from. For as long as the books lasted, they kept everything but their intricate stories from her mind. They were her only haven, and they had been for years. With a comfortable sigh she opened the book again, grateful that Charlotte Brandon was still able to write two a year. Sometimes Raphaella read them over. She had read most of her books at least two or three times each. Sometimes she read them in different languages. But she had read only two or three pages when the phone rang and broke into the world into which she had fled.

  Hello? It seemed odd that someone should call her. Her mother was supposed to be already on the plane. And they never called her from San Francisco, unless something had gone terribly wrong. And she had called John Henry that morning and the nurse had said that he was fine.

  Raphaella? At first the voice was not familiar, and then suddenly her heart began to pound.

  Yes? He could barely hear her.

  I I'm sorry ' I I was wondering if I could see you. I know you explained it all to me last night, but I just thought that maybe we could talk about it more calmly, and' well, maybe we could just be friends. His heart was pounding as hard as hers. What if she said she didn't want to see him? He couldn't bear the thought suddenly that he might never see her again. I' Raphaella' . She hadn't answered, and he was instantly terrified that she might have hung up the phone. Are you there?

  Yes. It was as though she could barely speak now. Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to call her now? She was resigned to her obligations, to her duty, why did he have to taunt her in this terribly cruel way? I am here.

  Could I' could we' could I see you? I I'm leaving for the airport in a few minutes. I just thought I'd stop and see if I could see you. It was all he had wanted to do. Talk to her, once more, before catching the last plane.

  Where are you? A frown crossed her face as she wondered.

  I'm downstairs. He said it with such an abashed tone of apology that she laughed.

  Here? In the hotel? She was smiling. He was ridiculous, really. Like a very small boy.

  What do you say?

  Alex, I'm not dressed. But it was a minor detail. And suddenly they both knew he had won. Even if only for a few minutes. But he had won.

  So what? I don't care if you wear a towel' . Raphaella' ? There was a long silence between them. And then he heard the doorbell of the suite in the distance. Is that your mother?

  Not very likely. She just left for Buenos Aires. I think it's my dinner.

  A second later the door to the suite opened slowly and the waiter rolled the cumbersome table into the room. She signaled that she would sign it, and did so as she returned her attention to the phone.

  So what are we going to do? Will you come downstairs, or do I have to come up and bang on the door of your room. Or I could masquerade as a waiter from room service. How about that?

  Alex, stop it. And then she sounded serious again. I said everything there is to say last night.

  No, you didn't. You didn't explain to me why you feel the way you do.

  Because I love my husband. She squeezed her eyes shut, denying what she was already beginning to feel for him. And I have no choice.

  That's not true. You have a lot of choices. We all do. Sometimes we don't want them, but they're there. And I understand how you feel, and I respect it. But can't we at least talk to each other? Look, I'll stand in the doorway. I won't touch you. I promise. I just want to see you. Raphaella' please' .

  There were tears in her eyes and she took a deep breath to tell him that he had to go away, that he couldn't do this to her, that it wasn't fair, and then suddenly, not knowing why she did it, she nodded. All right. Come up. But just for a few minutes. And when she hung up the phone, her hand was trembling
and she felt so dizzy that she had to close her eyes.

  She didn't even have time to slip into some clothes before he rang the doorbell. She just tightened her robe around her and smoothed down her hair. It was hanging long and heavy down her back, and she looked much younger than she did when she wore it in the elegant knot. She hesitated for an endless moment in front of the door before she opened it, reminding herself that she could still refuse to let him in. But instead she unlocked it and turned the doorknob, and then she stood there, staring up at the remarkably handsome man who stood waiting on the other side. He stood as silent as she did for a moment, and then she took a step backward and gestured inside. But there was no smile on her face now, only a very serious expression as her eyes followed him into the room.

  Hello. He sounded nervous and looked boyish and stood staring at her for a long moment from across the room. Thank you for letting me come up here like this. I know it's a little crazy, but I had to see you. And as he looked at her, he wondered why he had come. What was he going to tell her? What could he possibly tell her except that everytime he saw her, he was more in love with her than he had been the time before. And when he didn't see her, she haunted him like a ghost he couldn't live without. Instead he just looked at her and nodded. Thank you.

  It's all right. Her voice was very quiet. Would you like something to eat? She waved vaguely at the enormous wheeled table and he shook his head.

  Thank you. I already had dinner with my niece. I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner. Why don't you sit down and start. But she only shook her head and smiled at him.

  It can wait. After a moment's pause she sighed and walked slowly across the room. She looked out into the street with a distracted expression and then slowly back at him. Alex, I'm sorry. I am deeply touched by what you feel, but there is nothing I can do. The voice that spoke to him was that of a lonely princess, aware always of her royal obligations and regretful that there was nothing more she could do. Everything about her was aristocratic, her posture, her expression, the way she stood there; even in the pink satin bathrobe Raphaella Phillips was regal to the very soles of her feet. The only thing that told him that she was human was the look of intense pain that could not be hidden in her eyes.