A Perfect Stranger by Danielle Steel Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Danielle Steel
would be no one to visit him while she was gone. She would only be gone for four or five days, but still she wondered if maybe she shouldn’t leave him. What if something happened? What if the nurses didn’t pay attention to what they were doing? She always felt that way when she left him. Troubled, tormented, guilty, as though she had no right to a few days of her own. And then John Henry would persuade her to go, emerging from his reverie long enough to force her away from this nightmare that they had shared for so long. It wasn’t even a nightmare anymore. It was just an emptiness, a limbo, a comatose state, while their lives continued to drone on.
She took the elevator to the second floor and then walked to her bedroom after telling the nurse that she would be in to see her husband in fifteen minutes. She looked long and hard in the mirror then, smoothed the silky black hair, and ran a hand over the tight, heavy knot of it at the nape of her neck. She took a hat out of her closet. It was a beautiful creation she had bought in Paris the year before when hats returnedto the world of high style. As she put it on carefully, tilting it to just the right angle, she wondered for a moment why she had bothered to buy it at all. Who would notice her beautiful hat? It had a whisper of black veiling that lent further mystery to her large almond-shaped eyes, and with the contrast of the black hat and her hair and the little veil, the creamy white of her skin seemed to stand out even more than before. She carefully applied a thin gloss of bright lipstick and clipped pearls on her ears. She ran a hand over her suit, straightened her stockings, and looked in her handbag to ascertain that the cash she always carried on trips was concealed in a side pocket of the black lizard bag her mother had sent her from Spain. She looked, when she stood in front of the mirror, like a woman of incredible elegance, beauty, and style. This was a woman who dined at Maxim’s and went to the races at Longchamp. This was a woman who partied in Venice and Rome and Vienna and New York. This was a woman who went to the theater in London. This wasn’t the face or the body or the look of a girl who had slipped into womanhood unnoticed and who was now married to a crippled and dying seventy-six-year-old man. As she saw herself, and the truth, all too clearly, Raphaella picked up her bag and her clothes and grinned ruefully to herself, knowing more than ever how appearances can lie.
She shrugged to herself as she left her bedroom, tossing a long, handsome, dark mink coat over one arm as she made her way once more to the stairs. The elevator had been put in for John Henry, and most of the time she still preferred to walk. She did so now, up to the third floor, where a suite had long since been set up for her husband, with three rooms adjoining it,for each of the nurses who cared for him in shifts. They were three matronly women, content with their quarters, their patient, and the job. They were handsomely paid for their services, and like the woman who had served Raphaella breakfast, they had somehow managed to remain unobtrusive and faceless over the years. Frequently she found herself missing the passionate and often impossible servants of Santa Eugenia. They were servile for the most part, yet often rebellious and childlike, having served her mother’s family sometimes for generations, or at least for many years. They were warlike and childlike and loving and giving. They were filled with laughter and outrage and devotion for the people they worked for, not like these cool professionals who worked for John Henry.
Raphaella knocked softly on the door to her husband’s suite of rooms, and a face appeared rapidly at the door. “Good morning, Mrs. Phillips. We’re all ready.” Are
we
? Raphaella nodded and stepped inside, down a short hall into a bedroom, which like her own room downstairs had both a boudoir and a small library. Now John Henry was tucked
She took the elevator to the second floor and then walked to her bedroom after telling the nurse that she would be in to see her husband in fifteen minutes. She looked long and hard in the mirror then, smoothed the silky black hair, and ran a hand over the tight, heavy knot of it at the nape of her neck. She took a hat out of her closet. It was a beautiful creation she had bought in Paris the year before when hats returnedto the world of high style. As she put it on carefully, tilting it to just the right angle, she wondered for a moment why she had bothered to buy it at all. Who would notice her beautiful hat? It had a whisper of black veiling that lent further mystery to her large almond-shaped eyes, and with the contrast of the black hat and her hair and the little veil, the creamy white of her skin seemed to stand out even more than before. She carefully applied a thin gloss of bright lipstick and clipped pearls on her ears. She ran a hand over her suit, straightened her stockings, and looked in her handbag to ascertain that the cash she always carried on trips was concealed in a side pocket of the black lizard bag her mother had sent her from Spain. She looked, when she stood in front of the mirror, like a woman of incredible elegance, beauty, and style. This was a woman who dined at Maxim’s and went to the races at Longchamp. This was a woman who partied in Venice and Rome and Vienna and New York. This was a woman who went to the theater in London. This wasn’t the face or the body or the look of a girl who had slipped into womanhood unnoticed and who was now married to a crippled and dying seventy-six-year-old man. As she saw herself, and the truth, all too clearly, Raphaella picked up her bag and her clothes and grinned ruefully to herself, knowing more than ever how appearances can lie.
She shrugged to herself as she left her bedroom, tossing a long, handsome, dark mink coat over one arm as she made her way once more to the stairs. The elevator had been put in for John Henry, and most of the time she still preferred to walk. She did so now, up to the third floor, where a suite had long since been set up for her husband, with three rooms adjoining it,for each of the nurses who cared for him in shifts. They were three matronly women, content with their quarters, their patient, and the job. They were handsomely paid for their services, and like the woman who had served Raphaella breakfast, they had somehow managed to remain unobtrusive and faceless over the years. Frequently she found herself missing the passionate and often impossible servants of Santa Eugenia. They were servile for the most part, yet often rebellious and childlike, having served her mother’s family sometimes for generations, or at least for many years. They were warlike and childlike and loving and giving. They were filled with laughter and outrage and devotion for the people they worked for, not like these cool professionals who worked for John Henry.
Raphaella knocked softly on the door to her husband’s suite of rooms, and a face appeared rapidly at the door. “Good morning, Mrs. Phillips. We’re all ready.” Are
we
? Raphaella nodded and stepped inside, down a short hall into a bedroom, which like her own room downstairs had both a boudoir and a small library. Now John Henry was tucked