Gabriele was, by nature, an early riser, and on this…
Twenty-Seven
Anita and Gabriele saw them off at the jetty, waving…
Twenty-Eight
Anita was sitting on Gabriele’s terrace, studying a floor plan,…
Twenty-Nine
The three women walked across the terrace and into Gabriele’s…
Thirty
After Anita had retreated to her own yali to rest,…
Thirty-One
Later that afternoon, Justine went out to the gardens to…
Thirty-Two
Once they had finished tea, which had been a bit…
Thirty-Three
The following afternoon, once Gabriele was ready to leave for…
Thirty-Four
Justine remained on the bed, trying to rest. Exhausted from…
Thirty-Five
Justine was about to pick up her grandmother’s book when…
Thirty-Six
The moment Justine walked into the bedroom she picked up…
Thirty-Seven
‘So tell me,’ Michael said, when Justine remained silent at…
Thirty-Eight
After supper on the terrace, Justine 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
