A Perfect Stranger by Danielle Steel Read Free Book Online Page A

and joining in their merriment seemed obscene. For Raphaella it was like a funeral that had gone on for half a lifetime, or more precisely for seven years. But she knew only too well how much he suffered and how much guilt he felt for his invalid state over the last year. So when she was with him, there was only tenderness and compassion in her voice, a gentle tone, and a still gentler hand. But what he saw in her eyes cut him to the very core of his being. It was not so much that he was dying, but that he had killed a very young girl and left in her place this sad, lonely young woman with the exquisite face and the huge, haunted eyes. This was the woman he had created. This was what he had done to the girl he had once loved.
    As Raphaella walked swiftly down the thickly carpeted steps onto the next landing, she glanced quickly down the hall and saw the staff already dusting the long antique tables that stretched down the endless halls. The house they lived in was one that John Henry’s grandfather had built when he first came to San Francisco after the Civil War. It had survived the earthquake in 1906 and was now one of the most important architectural landmarks in San Francisco, with its sweeping lines and five stories perched next to the Presidio and looking out at the bay. It was unusual also because it had some of the finest stained-glass skylights in the city, and because it was still in the hands of the family that had originally owned it, which was very rare. But it was not a house in which Raphaella could be happy now. It seemed more like a museum or a mausoleum to her than a home. Itseemed cold and unfriendly, as did the staff, all of whom John Henry had had when she arrived. And she had never had the chance to redecorate any of the rooms. The house stood now, as it had then. For fourteen years it had been her home, and yet each time she left it, she felt like an orphan with her suitcase.
    “More coffee, Mrs. Phillips?” The elderly woman who had been the downstairs maid for thirty-six years gazed into Raphaella’s face as she did each morning. Raphaella had seen that face five days a week for the last fourteen years, and still the woman was a stranger to her, and always would be. Her name was Marie.
    But this time Raphaella shook her head. “Not this morning. I’m in a hurry, thank you.” She glanced at the plain gold watch on her wrist, put down her napkin, and stood up. The flowered Spode dishes had belonged to John Henry’s first wife. There were a lot of things like that in the house. Everything seemed to be someone else’s. “The first Mrs. Phillips,” as the servants put it, or John Henry’s mother’s, or grandmother’s …. Sometimes she felt that if a stranger were to walk through the house inquiring about artifacts and paintings and even small unimportant objects, there was not a single thing about which someone would say, “Oh, that’s Raphaella’s.” Nothing was Raphaella’s, except her clothes and her books, and the huge collection of letters from the children in Spain, which she kept in boxes.
    Raphaella’s heels clicked briefly across the black and white marble floor of the pantry. She picked up a phone there and buzzed softly on an inside line. A moment later it was picked up on the third floor by the morning nurse.
    “Good morning. Is Mr. Phillips awake yet?”
    “Yes, but he’s not quite ready.” Ready. Ready for what? Raphaella felt an odd tug in her soul as she stood there. How could she resent him for what wasn’t his fault? And yet how could this have happened to her? For those first seven years it had been so wonderful, so perfect … so …
    “I’d like to come up for a moment, before I leave.”
    “Oh, dear, you’re leaving this morning?”
    Raphaella glanced at her watch again. “In half an hour.”
    “All right. Then give us fifteen or twenty minutes. You can stop in for a few minutes on your way out.” Poor John Henry. Ten minutes, and then nothing. There