A Woman Named Coral. Jane Huxley

      She knew at once it was her stepson, gorgeous Stefan, whose name alone suggested he was intriguing and adventurous – a sailor dangling from the mast of a storm-tossed ship.

      “Coming,” she sang, as she slipped into the bathroom, brushed her hair and inspected her face, lips and almost transparent black négligé.

      “Hello, darling,” she said, as she offered him her cheek.

      Stefan brushed it with his lips and his green eyes twinkled with amusement as they paused on the seductive hand placed across the breasts of his father’s wife.

      Irresistible, Missy thought, gazing at the eyes, the perfect patrician nose, and those sensual lips that suggested a perpetual craving for a kiss.

      “Straight from Kabul,” Tom announced, “where he had been sent by The Daily Telegraph.”

      As a freelance journalist, Stefan spent most of his time in remote parts of the world, which he laughingly explained as a way to escape the drab English winter.

      “Coffee and croissants,” Tom announced, as Missy set three places at the kitchen table. A moment later he addressed his son in a voice that was a trifle uncertain, “You want to tell her, or shall I?”

      “Tell me what?” Missy asked.

      “There has been another sighting,” Tom said.

      Missy looked at him, then at Stefan, as if she thought the comment was absurd.

      The so-called “sighting” referred to the lost daughter of Tom’s friends, the Harringtons, who had died almost twenty years earlier in a mudslide in the northern province of Ancash, in Perú.

      Their bodies had been recovered days after the avalanche, but that of their six-year old daughter had never been found. There was something hopeful and pathetic about the rumours and “sightings” that sprouted from various different sources from time to time.

      “Another sighting?” Missy asked in a bored voice.

      “This one is different.” Tom said.

      “In what way?”

      “The source,” Tom told her. “Professor Greene, a friend of the Harringtons, has met the young woman in Lima.”

      “What is she like?”

      “Blond and beautiful, which is most unusual if her parents are brown skinned Indians from the Sierra.”

      “Strange story,” Missy said.

      “But life goes on,” Tom explained. “The girl is now in her late twenties and married to a prominent member of Peruvian society.”

      “So,” Missy concluded. “All’s well that ends well.”

      “Hasn’t ended yet,” Tom said. “In fact, it has barely begun.”

      Missy turned to her stepson, who was drinking his coffee and eating his second croissant. “What do you think of all this?” she asked.

      “Don’t know,” he said. “May be worth trying to find out.”

      “Which is exactly what’s going to happen,” Tom said. “Because Stefan is going to Perú, on assignment from The New York Times.”

      “What a strange coincidence,” Missy blurted.

      “Not really,” Stefan said. “I’m doing a piece on San Marcos University. While I’m there, I don’t mind looking up Professor Greene, who has given Father this information.”

      “Oh, dear,” Missy sighed. “With men the only way to win the battle is to agree with their most preposterous whims.” A brief pause before she continued, “But, anyway, will you stay and have lunch with us?”

      “I’m afraid I can’t,” Stefan said. “I’m expected in Hampstead. Mother wants to see me before I go to Perú.”

      “Dear Frances,” Missy said, with a reptilian smile. “Give her my best, will you?”

      TWO

      Questions without Answers

      Frances had always been an excellent cook and her favourite guest, her son Stefan, was sitting at the luncheon table, a bowl of bouillabaisse in front of him.

      “Mother,” he exclaimed. “This is better than Maxim’s.”

      “Do they make bouillabaisse at Maxim’s?” she asked, surprised.

      “I don’t know; but if they do, yours is better.”

      “Eat as much as you want. You need to put on some weight.”

      “Kabul is not the ideal place for it. I must say, I was happy to arrive, but a lot happier to leave.”

      They went on eating and after a while, Stefan’s eyes paused on his mother’s face. Still beautiful, despite the shadows under the eyes, the pinched mouth that used to be always smiling, and the grey strands of hair whose existence he had only recently noticed.

      “Mother,” he said, “you remember your friends, the Harringtons, don’t you?”

      “Of course, darling. How could I forget them? Keith and Margo, and their beautiful little daughter, Coral.”

      “Can you tell me what you remember about them?”

      “Keith was an explorer, intent on finding an Inca tombstone in the northwest province of Ancash. Margo was a loving wife who found ancient ruins as interesting as a pile of mud. Their little daughter was delighted to be a part of the adventure.”

      Frances lowered her head, as if she were unwilling to rake among the ashes of her memory. Through the dining room window she could see two swans gliding on the pond beyond her garden.

      “I’m sorry if your memories cause you sorrow,” Stefan said, “but, as you know, there has been a sighting. What you tell me may make a difference between finding this young woman and not finding her.”

      “I understand,” Frances said, and went on, “When the Harringtons announced their travel plans, both your father and I offered to keep the little girl with us in London until their return.”

      “But they declined?”

      “They were unwilling to part from her, which we certainly understood.”

      “So they took off and...”

      “...and were killed in the avalanche.”

      “Father told me. Awful story.”

      Frances removed the empty bowls of bouillabaise and brought a tray of cheese and biscuits.

      “The bottom line is Coral,” she said. “Twenty years later.”

      “Father said that she was raised by an Indian couple from the Sierra.”

      “That’s correct. They spoke only Quechua, but they sent her to a bilingual school and encouraged her to learn Spanish and English.

      “What, exactly, do you know about her?”

      “Not much. That she’s young, intelligent and very beautiful.”

      “What about him?”

      “His name is Aurelio Fernandez-Concha. He’s in his sixties, attractive, charismatic, and one of the wealthiest cotton growers in South America.”

      “A perfect match,” Stefan said, with a touch of irony.

      “You may not know this,” Frances said. “But most everything in life is an exchange.”

      “Not very reassuring, is it? But, anyway, going back to Mr. Fernandez-Concha, I believe I can get an introduction from Professor Greene.”

      “That would certainly open doors and may provide some