half-walls topped with huge plate-glass windows. The studios were actually part of the gallery and the whole structure was finished with a sloping, green-tiled roof. This was new, and had been designed by her twin, considered to be one of the best architects in the business today. She thought it was an inspired touch. The green-tiled roof appeared to float above the gallery and the glass ‘boxes’, and there was a lovely unity and fluidity to the entire building which was somewhat European in its design inspiration.
Justine went into the gallery and turned on the lights, then took off her loden cape, put it on a small wooden bench just inside the door. Because of the many paintings hanging in the gallery, some of which were rather valuable, the air was permanently controlled and remained the same temperature year round. It was cool and peaceful, and she appreciated the airiness, the spaciousness, the vaulted ceiling, the stillness and calm that existed here.
Slowly, she walked through the gallery, not focusing on any of the paintings as she sometimes did, simply moving determinedly through the flowing vast white space. Richard had designed a large, freestanding partition on rollers, which he called ‘a floating wall’, because it could be easily rolled around at will, and repositioned anywhere. He had used several of them in the centre of the gallery, on which were hung some of his own paintings, as well as many by other artists. Justine moved between them with ease, pushing them gently aside as required.
Within seconds she was approaching the far end of the gallery, heading toward the corner where paintings by her grandmother were displayed. Coming to a standstill, she zeroed in on one of them in particular which she had admired for years. It was a painting of two girls, most likely in their teenage years, and they were standing in a flower-filled meadow with dark green hills in the distance under an azure sky. The girls were enchanting in their gauzy summer dresses, their skirts billowing around them, their hair blowing in the wind. She had known for as long as she could remember that the taller of the two girls, the blue-eyed blonde, was her grandmother, Gabriele. The other had always been anonymous. Her identity a mystery.
Could she be Anita Lowe?
Leaning forward, Justine read the little wood strip on the wall next to the painting. It was called Friends in the Meadows. Underneath the title was the name Gabriele Hardwicke, and the year it was painted, 1969.
Unexpectedly, she remembered something – her grandmother’s penchant for detail, how she had kept careful records of almost everything.
Reaching for the small painting, Justine lifted it off the wall, carried it into Richard’s design studio adjoining this end of the gallery. Carefully, she placed the painting face down on an empty table and stared at the back of the canvas. And there it was, a small label, close to the frame and yellowed with age. On it was written A & G: 1938. And the label was secured under a piece of Sellotape.
Gabriele had painted this from memory, hadn’t she? And did the A stand for Anita? Perhaps. Certainly she couldn’t help wondering about that, because in the letter Anita Lowe had said she was Gabriele’s most longstanding and closest friend. So it must be her, surely? But in a way it didn’t really matter whether this girl portrayed was Anita Lowe or not. Because the real Anita had spoken out most eloquently and effectively, three weeks or so ago, when she had finally put pen to paper after obviously hesitating about doing so for a number of years. She had helped her friend at last. Thank God she had. Vaguely, at the back of her mind, she now remembered her grandmother speaking about her best friend… Anita.
Carrying the painting back to the gallery, Justine hung it in its place, then stepped back and studied it for a few seconds. The other girl had brown hair and sparkling dark eyes, and there was something exotic-looking about her. She wondered why she had never noticed this before… perhaps because she had been looking only at the dazzling blonde girl who was her grandmother, the bewitching Gabriele. She knew, all of a sudden, that this was Anita.
Returning to the centre of the gallery, where the high-flung cathedral ceiling came to its peak, she sat down in the only chair, a white canvas director’s chair. The cool white space, the silence and the overwhelming sense of tranquillity usually had a soothing effect on her, and today especially so: a perfect peacefulness was enveloping her. She closed her eyes, thinking of her gran and the last time she had seen her.
She was drifting with her thoughts when the shrilling telephone brought her up with a start. She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her cell phone, and pulled it out. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m almost there,’ Richard said.
‘I’m glad. Where are you?’
‘What is it? You sound odd.’
‘I’m fine. Where are you?’
‘Just leaving New Preston. Why?’
‘I want you to do me a favour.’
‘Of course, what is it?’
‘I want you to drive right up here to the gallery, where I’m waiting for you.’
‘I’ll come up after I’ve said hello to Daisy.’
‘Please don’t do that, Rich! You must come here immediately! Something’s happened, and—’
‘What? Tell me what’s wrong!’
‘I can’t on the phone. Please, Rich, just come here first. Please.’
‘All right. See you shortly.’
Impatient, anxious for her brother to arrive, Justine stood up and headed in the direction of his glass-windowed studio. She would wait for him there. As she approached the glass cube, another painting caught her eye, and she went over to look at it, stared for a long moment. It was of her and her brother and had been painted by a famous portraitist in New York when they were about four.
The woman had captured them very well. How alike they looked with their fair hair and dimples and the same light blue eyes. Yes, definitely twins, she muttered under her breath. And emotionally co-dependent.
Their father had commissioned the painting, and he had always loved it. But not their mother. In fact, she was very much against it right from the beginning, before it had even been painted.
Now it struck her quite forcibly that her mother’s reaction had been odd, and she couldn’t help wondering why. What on earth had she had against it? No answer to that conundrum, she thought. But Deborah Nolan had been an odd bird then, just as she was an odd bird now… scatter-brained, a flake – and sometimes downright irresponsible. And a liar, she added to herself.
Sighing under her breath, turning away from the portrait, she went into Richard’s studio and glanced around. As usual it was sparkling clean, thanks to Tita and Pearl and their dedication to Indian Ridge.
Suddenly she heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel. Not wanting to wait for him, she hurried out of the studio, almost running through the gallery to the front door.
A second later Richard was alighting from the car, striding towards her, a worried expression in his eyes, his face tight with anxiety.
‘I know something’s wrong,’ he said, mounting the steps. ‘So come on, tell me. And how bad is it?’
She ran into his arms, hugged him tight, and then, as they moved away from the door and went inside, she answered, ‘Really, really bad. But part of the problem is good. Wonderful.’
She closed the door behind
