Letter from a Stranger. Barbara Taylor Bradford

returned to her bedroom.

      Thirty-Nine

      As she returned to her bedroom, Justine made the decision…

      Forty

      After filling the kettle and putting it on the stove,…

      Forty-One

      ‘It’s me, Rich,’ Justine said. ‘Is this a bad time?

      Forty-Two

      Light drifting in through the gauzy curtains awakened Justine early.

      Forty-Three

      After her shower, Justine dressed and went for a walk…

      Forty-Four

      Although Justine was longing to continue reading about her grandmother’s…

      Forty-Five

      Later that same day Justine settled herself in the chair…

      Forty-Six

      Knocking on the door brought Justine’s head up. She called,…

      Forty-Seven

      Although she didn’t want to stop reading, Justine knew she…

      Forty-Eight

      She was almost at the end of her grandmother’s memories…

      Forty-Nine

      ‘Why did you come back early, Gran?’ Justine asked, looking…

      Fifty

      Anita was waiting for them in the gold room. As…

      Fifty-One

      Michael stood staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, thinking…

      Fifty-Two

      The little girl walking towards her wore a yellow muslin…

      Fifty-Three

      Justine and Richard sat together in the small lounge area…

      Epilogue

       The Litchfield Hills, Connecticut: July 2004

      Epilogue

      It was July the Fourth and glorious. The perfect day…

      Bibliography

      Acknowledgements

      About the Author

      Other Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford

      About the Publisher

      PROLOGUE

      Istanbul April 2004

      PROLOGUE

      The letter, contemplated and worried about for such a long time, was finally written. But it was not mailed. Instead it was put in a drawer of the desk so that it could be thought about, the words carefully reconsidered before that last irretrievable step was taken.

      The following morning the letter was read once more, corrected and locked away for the second time. On the third day it was perused again and the words deftly edited. Satisfied that everything had been said clearly and concisely, the writer copied the final draft onto a fresh piece of writing paper. This was folded, sealed in an envelope, addressed and affixed with the correct stamps. The words AIR MAIL were written in the top left-hand corner of the envelope, which was then propped against the antique French clock on the desk.

      A short while later, the young son of the cook was summoned to the upstairs sitting room. The envelope was handed to him, instructions given, and he was told to take it to the post office at once.

      The boy left the villa immediately, waving to the gardener as he trotted through the iron gates of the old-style Turkish yali. This was situated on the Asiatic side of Istanbul, on the shores of the Bosphorus, in Üsküdar, the largest and most historical district of the city.

      As he walked in the direction of the post office, the boy held the letter tightly in his hand, proud that he had been given such an important task by his father’s employer. He was only ten, but everyone said he was capable, and this pleased him.

      A light, balmy breeze wafted inland from the sea, carrying with it the hint of salt and the sounds of continuous hooting from one of the big cruise ships now ploughing its way down the Bosphorus, heading towards the Black Sea and new ports of call.

      The boy hurried on, intent in his purpose, remembering his instructions… the letter must be put in the box marked ‘International’. It was going to America. He must not make the mistake of using the one that was for domestic mail. He was soon leaving the shoreline behind, walking up the long road called Halk Caddesi. The post office was at the top, and within minutes he found the letter box marked ‘International’ and dropped the letter in the slot. He then retraced his steps.

      When the Bosphorus was in his line of vision once more, the boy began to run; he was soon pushing open the gates of the yali, heading for the kitchens. He found his father preparing lunch, and dutifully reported that he had posted the letter. His father picked up the phone, spoke to his employer, then ruffled his son’s hair, smiling down at him. He rewarded him with pieces of Turkish delight on a saucer.

      The boy went outside, sat on the step in the sunshine, munching the delicious sweetmeat. He sat there daydreaming, had no way of knowing that the letter he had just mailed would change many lives forever. And so drastically they would never be the same again.

      The writer of the letter knew this. But the consequences were of no consideration. Long ago, a terrible wrong had been done. The truth was long overdue. Finally it had been revealed, and if there was retribution then so be it. What mattered most was that a wrong had been righted.

      PART ONE

      The Letter

      Read it a hundred times; it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of meaning that once unfolded by surprise it went.

      Robert Frost: The Figure a Poem Makes

      ONE

      The view from the second-floor terrace was panoramic, and breathtaking. Justine Nolan, who knew it well, was nevertheless always startled when she saw it, even after a short absence, and today was no exception.

      She leaned against the white-painted wooden railings, gazing out at the sweeping line of the Litchfield Hills flowing towards the distant horizon. Their thickly wooded slopes rolled down to verdant meadows; beyond them Lake Waramaug, set deeply in the valley, shimmered in the sunlight like a great swathe of fabric cut from cloth of silver. As usual, Justine caught her breath, filled with intense pleasure that she was back at Indian Ridge, the house where she had grown up and spent much of her life.

      It was a clear bright day, with a blue sky and bountiful clouds, but there was a snap in the wind, a hint of winter still, and it was cold for April.

      Shivering, Justine wrapped her heavy-knit red jacket around her body as she continued to devour the view… the white clapboard houses, so typical of Connecticut, dotted here and there on some of the meadows, and to her right, set against a stand of dark-green trees, three silos and two red barns grouped together in a distant field. They had been there for as long as she could remember, and were a much-loved and familiar sight.

      Unexpectedly, a flock of birds swept past her, unusually close to the railings, and she blinked, startled by them. They soared upward in a V, a perfect formation and quite beautiful. She stared after them as they flew higher and higher into the haze of blue, and then turned around and went back into the house.

      Picking up her overnight bag, which she had dropped on the landing a few minutes earlier, Justine carried it into her bedroom and immediately unpacked, putting away sweaters, trousers, shoes, and her toiletries bag. Ever since childhood she had been neat, very tidy in her habits, and it was her nature to be well organized. She hated clutter, which had to be avoided at all cost.