Sarah's Key (30 page)

“We’re going to find out right away.”

I came to stand behind her as her fingers ran deftly over the keyboard.

“What are you doing now?” I asked, mystified.

“Keep your hair on,” she snapped, typing away. Over her shoulder, I saw she was already on the Internet.

The screen read: “Welcome to Roxbury, Connecticut. Events, social gatherings, people, real estate.”

“Perfect. Just what we need,” said Charla, studying the screen. Then she smoothly picked the scrap of paper from my fingers, took the phone again, and dialed the number on the paper.

This was going too fast. It was knocking the wind out of me.

“Charla! Wait! What the hell are you going to say, for God’s sake!”

She cupped her palm over the receiver. The blue eyes went indignant over the rim of her glasses.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

She used the lawyer’s voice. Powerful, in control. I could only nod. I felt helpless, panicky. I got up, paced around the kitchen, fingering appliances, smooth surfaces.

When I looked back at her, she grinned.

“Maybe you should have some of that wine after all. And don’t worry about caller ID, 212 won’t show up.” She suddenly held up a forefinger, pointed to the phone. “Yes, hi, good evening, is that, uh, Mrs. Rainsferd?”

I could not help smiling at the nasal whine. She had always been good at changing her voice.

“Oh, I’m sorry. . . . She’s out?”

Mrs. Rainsferd was out. So there really was a Mrs. Rainsferd. I listened on, incredulous.

“Yes, uh, this is Sharon Burstall from the Minor Memorial Library on South Street. I’m wondering if you’d be interested in coming to our first summer get-together, scheduled on August 2. . . . Oh, I see. Gee, I’m sorry, ma’am. Hmm. Yes. I’m real sorry for the disturbance, ma’am. Thank you, good-bye.”

She put the phone down and flashed a self-satisfied smile at me.

“Well?” I gasped.

“The woman I spoke to is Richard Rainsferd’s nurse. He’s a sick, old man. Bedridden. Needs heavy treatment. She comes in every afternoon.”

“And Mrs. Rainsferd?” I asked impatiently.

“Due back any minute.”

I looked at Charla blankly.

“So what do I do?” I said. “I just go there?”

My sister laughed.

“You got any other idea?”

T

HERE IT WAS. NUMBER 2299 Shepaug Drive. I turned the motor off and stayed in the car, clammy palms resting on my knees.

I could see the house from where I sat, beyond the twin pillars of gray stone at the gate. It was a squat, colonial-style place, probably built in the late thirties, I guessed. Less impressive than the sprawling million-dollar estates I had glimpsed on my way there, but tasteful and harmonious.

As I had driven up Route 67, I had been struck by the unspoiled, rural beauty of Litchfield County: rolling hills, sparkling rivers, lush vegetation, even during the full blast of summer. I had forgotten how hot New England could get. Despite the powerful air conditioner, I sweltered. I wished I had taken a bottle of mineral water with me. My throat felt parched.

Charla had mentioned Roxbury inhabitants were wealthy. Roxbury was one of those special, trendy, old time artistic places that no one tired of, she explained. Artists, writers, movie stars: there were a lot of them around there, apparently. I wondered what Richard Rainsferd did for a living. Had he always had a house here? Or had he and Sarah retired from Manhattan? And what about children? How many children had they had? I peered through the windshield at the wood exterior of the house and counted the number of windows. There were probably two or three bedrooms in there, I supposed, unless the back was bigger than I thought. Children who were perhaps my age. And grandchildren. I craned my neck to see if there were any cars parked in front of the house. I could only make out a closed detached garage.

I glanced at my watch. Just after two. It had only taken me a couple of hours to drive from the city. Charla had lent me her Volvo. It was as impeccable as her kitchen. I suddenly wished she could have been with me today. But she hadn’t been able to cancel her appointments. “You’ll do fine, Sis,” she had said, tossing me the car keys. “Keep me posted, OK?”

I sat in the Volvo, anxiety rising with the stifling heat. What the hell was I going to say to Sarah Starzynski? I couldn’t even call her that. Nor Dufaure. She was Mrs. Rainsferd now, she had been Mrs. Rainsferd for the past fifty years. Getting out of the car, ringing the brass bell I could see just on the right of the front door, seemed impossible. “Yes, hello, Mrs. Rainsferd, you don’t know me, my name is Julia Jarmond, but I just wanted to talk to you about the rue de Saintonge, and what happened, and the Tézac family, and—”

It sounded lame, artificial. What was I doing here? Why had I come all this way? I should have written her a letter, waited for her to answer me. Coming here was ridiculous. A ridiculous idea. What had I hoped for anyway? For her to welcome me with open arms, pour me a cup of tea, and murmur: “Of course I forgive the Tézac family.” Crazy. Surreal. I had come here for nothing. I should be leaving, right now.

I was about to back up and go, when a voice startled me.

“You looking for someone?”

I swiveled in my damp seat to discover a tanned woman in her mid-thirties. She had short, black hair and a stocky build.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Rainsferd, but I’m not sure I’ve got the right house.”

The woman smiled.

“You got the right house. But my mom’s out. Gone shopping. She’ll be back in twenty minutes, though. I’m Ornella Harris. I live right next door.”

I was looking at Sarah’s daughter. Sarah Starzynski’s daughter.

I tried to keep perfectly calm, managed a polite smile.

“I’m Julia Jarmond.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Can I help in any way?”

I racked my brains for something to say.

“Well, I was just hoping to meet your mother. I should have phoned and all that, but I was passing through Roxbury, and I thought I’d drop by and say hi.”

“You’re a friend of Mom’s?” she said.

“Not exactly. I met one of her cousins recently, and he told me she lived here.”

Ornella’s face lit up.

“Oh, you probably met Lorenzo! Was that in Europe?”

I tried not to look lost. Who on earth was Lorenzo?

“Actually, yes, it was in Paris.”

Ornella chuckled.

“Yup, he’s quite something, Uncle Lorenzo. Mom adores him. He doesn’t come to see us much, but he calls a lot.”

She cocked her chin toward me.

“Hey, you want to come in for some iced tea or something, it’s damn hot out here. That way you can wait for Mom? We’ll hear her car when she comes in.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble . . .”

“My kids are out boating on Lake Lillinonah with their dad, so please, feel free!”

I got out of the car, feeling more and more nervous, and followed Ornella to the patio of a neighboring house in the same style as the Rainsferd residence. The lawn was strewn with plastic toys, Frisbees, headless Barbie dolls, and Legos. As I sat down in the cool shade, I wondered how often Sarah Starzynski came here to watch her grandchildren play. As she lived next door, she probably came every day.

Ornella handed me a large glass of iced tea, which I accepted gratefully. We sipped in silence.

“You live around here?” she asked, finally.

“No, I live in France. In Paris. I married a Frenchman.”

“Paris, wow,” she cooed. “Beautiful place, eh?”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty glad to be back home. My sister lives in Manhattan, and my parents in Boston. I’ve come to spend the summer with them.”

The phone rang. Ornella went to answer it. She murmured a few quiet words and came back to the patio.

“That was Mildred,” she said.

“Mildred?” I asked blankly.

“My dad’s nurse.”

The woman Charla had spoken to yesterday. Who had mentioned an old, bedridden man.

“Is your dad . . . any better?” I asked tentatively.

She shook her head.

“No, he’s not. The cancer is too advanced. He’s not going to make it. He can’t even talk anymore, he’s unconscious.”

“I’m very sorry,” I mumbled.

“Thank God Mom is such a tower of strength. She’s the one who’s pulling me through this, not the other way around. She’s wonderful. So is my husband, Eric. I don’t know what I’d do without those two.”

I nodded. Then we heard the crunch of car wheels on the gravel.

“That’s Mom!” said Ornella.

I heard a car door slam and the scrunch of footsteps on the pebbles. Then a voice came over the hedge, high-pitched and sweet, “Nella! Nella!”

There was a foreign, lilting tone to it.

“Coming, Mom.”

My heart walloped around in my rib cage. I had to put my hand on my sternum to quiet it. As I followed the swing of Ornella’s square hips back across the lawn, I felt faint with excitement and agitation.

I was going to meet Sarah Starzynski. I was going to see her with my very eyes. Heaven knows what I was going to say to her.

Although she was standing right next to me, I heard Ornella’s voice from a long way off.

“Mom, this is Julia Jarmond, a friend of Uncle Lorenzo’s, she’s from Paris, just passing through Roxbury.”

The smiling woman coming toward me was wearing a red dress that came down to her ankles. She was in her late fifties. She had the same stocky build as her daughter: round shoulders, plump thighs, and thick, generous arms. Black, graying hair caught up in a bun, tanned, leathery skin, and jet-black eyes.

Black eyes.

This was not Sarah Starzynski. That much I knew.

S

O YOU FRIEND OF Lorenzo,
sì
? Nice to meet you!”

The accent was pure Italian. No doubt about that. Everything about this woman was Italian.

I backed away, stuttering profusely.

“I am sorry, so very sorry.”

Ornella and her mother stared at me. Their smiles hovered and vanished.

“I think I’ve got the wrong Mrs. Rainsferd.”

“The wrong Mrs. Rainsferd?” repeated Ornella.

“I’m looking for a Sarah Rainsferd,” I said. “I’ve made a mistake.”

Ornella’s mother sighed and patted my arm.

“Please don’t worry. These things happen.”

“I’ll be leaving now,” I muttered, my face hot. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

I turned and headed back to the car, trembling with embarrassment and disappointment.

“Wait!” came Mrs. Rainsferd’s clear voice. “Miss, wait!”

I halted. She came up to me, put her plump hand on my shoulder.

“Look, you make no mistake, Miss.”

I frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“The French girl, Sarah, she my husband’s first wife.”

I stared at her.

“Do you know where she is?” I breathed.

The plump hand patted me again. The black eyes seemed sad.

“Honey, she dead. She died 1972. So sorry to tell you this.”

Her words took ages to sink in. My head was swimming. Maybe it was the heat, the sun pounding down on me.

“Nella! Get some water!”

Mrs. Rainsferd took my arm and guided me back to the porch, sat me on a cushioned, wooden bench. She gave me some water. I drank, teeth clattering against the rim, handing her the glass when I was through.

“So sorry to tell you this news, believe me.”

“How did she die?” I croaked.

“A car accident. Richard and her were already living in Roxbury since the early sixties. Sarah’s car skidded on black ice. Crashed into a tree. The roads very dangerous here in winter, you know. She killed instantly.”

I could not speak. I felt utterly devastated.

“You upset, poor honey, now,” she murmured, stroking my cheek with a strong motherly gesture.

I shook my head, mumbled something. I felt drained, washed out. An empty shell. The idea of the long drive back to New York made me want to scream. And after that . . . What was I going to tell Edouard, tell Gaspard? How? That she was dead? Just like that? That there was nothing to be done?

She was dead. She died at forty years old. She was gone. Dead. Gone.

Sarah was dead. I could never speak to her. I would never be able to tell her sorry, sorry from Edouard, tell her how much the Tézac family had cared. I could never tell her that Gaspard and Nicolas Dufaure missed her, that they sent their love. It was too late. Thirty years too late.