“Janelle Turner’s little sister signed up for summer session, and I promised I’d meet her to drop off a couple of my old textbooks.”
“Today? When you knew we were having brunch?”
“I know. I’m sorry. But she’s got to be in Braintree by three for her parents’ anniversary party, and classes start tomorrow. It was the only time we could make it work.”
“But you barely ate anything. At least let me fix you a plate.”
“Thanks,” Rory said, pushing to her feet. “I’m good. But I hate to leave you with all this.”
“It’s not like I have anything else to do. Will I see you next week?”
Something, the crease between Camilla’s finely penciled brows or the downward turn of her mouth, tugged at Rory’s conscience. “Yes. Next Sunday. I promise.” She was about to leave when she bent down and dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “I really am sorry about before. About the marriage thing. I shouldn’t have said it.”
Camilla shrugged. “No, you shouldn’t have. But you weren’t wrong. Now go. Meet your friend.”
THREE
RORY
Rory glanced at her watch as she stepped out of Sugar Kisses and into the crush of pedestrians moving along the sidewalk on Newbury Street. Her meeting with Lisette had taken longer than expected, and she’d have to hoof it if she was going to get to her car in time to avoid a parking ticket.
At the corner, as she waited for the signal to change, her thoughts turned to this morning’s conversation with her mother. She’d said things she promised herself she would never say—even if they were true—and she had touched a nerve.
But it wasn’t just her mother’s indignation that had piqued her curiosity. There had been a moment while she was talking about Hux, about what it was like to lose someone, when her mother had closed her eyes and gone perfectly still, as if warding off an unwelcome memory. A rare moment of vulnerability from a woman who was never vulnerable.
We bleed like everyone else.
Except in Camilla Grant’s case, it wasn’t really true. At least not that Rory’d ever seen. When she was a child, her mother had seemed to be carved of marble, pure and fine and cool to the touch, Hiram Powers’s The Greek Slave but with the bronze spine of Rodin’s Eve. Impervious—or so she’d thought. But that moment this morning, that look on her face. You have no idea what I’ve lost, Aurora. What had she meant? Not a lover, apparently. Not that she would have blamed her mother for seeking comfort outside her marriage. She couldn’t remember her parents sharing a room, let alone a bed. How lonely she must have been.
Finally, the signal changed, and the crowd at the curb began to shuffle forward. She was preparing to step into the crosswalk when an old row house on the opposite corner caught her eye and she halted.
As row houses went, it was nothing special—three stories of weathered red brick with a rounded corner tower and a witch-hat turret overlooking the road. Newbury Street was lined with dozens just like it. For that matter, so were half the streets in Boston. But there was something about this one that felt different enough to stop her in her tracks.
Curtainless windows filmed with grit. An overgrown strip of grass out front. Bits of trash blown up around the cracked front stoop. It was vacant; she was sure of it. And yet, she had the strangest feeling that she was being watched from one of the upper windows.
She was contemplating a closer look when a passing police car reminded her that six blocks away, the meter was running. She didn’t have time to indulge her curiosity. But as she continued down Newbury Street, she found herself glancing over her shoulder with a pang of regret. It was a peculiar sensation, like leaving a party just as things were getting interesting. Something told her the row house wasn’t finished with her yet.
It was nearly four by the time Rory finally returned home. She had narrowly avoided a parking ticket, which she decided to take as a good omen. These days, she had to take her wins where she found them. She took off her makeup, then stripped out of her brunch clothes, swapping them for sweats and a T-shirt. The bedroom TV was on, as it always was, but with the sound turned way down. Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. Bringing Up Baby. It was another quirk she’d developed, leaving the television on day and night. It gave the illusion of company and helped buffer the silence, which was too easily filled with dark thoughts.
I think you’re having trouble coping with what’s happened.
Her mother’s words echoed annoyingly. Of course she was having trouble coping. Her fiancé had vanished without a trace. And pouring out her troubles to a stranger who mumbled, “Yes, I see,” at regular intervals wasn’t going to change that.
In the kitchen, she worked around discarded takeout containers and a sink full of dirty dishes as she popped a bowl of canned minestrone into the microwave. Was this her life now? Living on canned soup and takeout while the dishes piled up? Stacks of romance novels and weekly skirmishes with her mother?
If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up like one of those women whose entire life revolved around the care and feeding of her eighteen cats. Hyperbole? Maybe. But it certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. She’d need to get some cats, though. And a few floral-print housedresses. Maybe a pair of fuzzy slippers.
She closed her eyes, shutting out the depressing images. She’d grown up privileged, the quintessential trust-fund baby. Cars, clothes, designer everything. Elite summer camps and the very best schools. She’d wanted for nothing—except a life of her own. Growing up, she had dreamed about escaping her mother’s gravitational pull to chart a course of her own. And she’d been on the verge of making it happen. Then Hux disappeared, and it all fell apart.
Where would she be today—this very minute—if she’d followed through on Hux’s advice to chase her dream? A gallery of her own, for up-and-coming artists. Unheard Of, she was going to call it. Hux had been the impetus behind the name. In fact, the whole idea had been his.
They’d gone to hear a new band at one of the local pubs and ended up staying till last call. The streets were quiet, and they’d opted to walk rather than hail a cab. Hux had curled an arm about her shoulder, his warmth welcome against the chilly autumn night. She’d slowed as they passed a small gallery, pausing to admire one of the pieces in the window.
“You like art,” Hux had observed, sounding unusually serious. “You study art. Your degree is in art. How is it you don’t make art?”
She grinned up at him mischievously. “Who says I don’t?”
“Wait. You paint?”
“Paint? No. I’ve experimented a little with textiles, but just as a hobby. Just as well. Art can be a messy business, and my mother could never abide a mess in the house. If she has her way, I’ll follow in her footsteps and become a historian or conservator. Respectable and tidy.”
“And if you had your way?”
She blinked at him, dismayed to realize he was waiting for an answer, and even more dismayed to realize she didn’t have one. No one had ever asked what she wanted. She’d been given options, from her mother mostly, like a menu for Chinese takeout. Choose one from column A and one from column B. Column A being marriage to a suitable man, children, and a tasteful home, and Column B having to do with her career. Strictly speaking, none of the Grants had to work, but in families with old names and even older money, not making oneself useful in some conspicuous way was considered vulgar. They weren’t from Palm Beach, after all.
“I really don’t know,” she’d answered at last. “I suppose I’d have a little studio somewhere. A real one overlooking the sea, and I’d make beautiful seascapes out of all kinds of fabrics.”
“That’s an actual thing?”
“It’s called textile art. Think of a combination of sculpture and painting, done with bits of fabric. I started playing around with it when I was a kid. I loved the beach, but my parents never had time to take me. So I made my own beaches—out of fabric scraps. I still play around with it sometimes, but with school, it’s hard to find the time.”
“Why didn’t I know anything about this?”
She shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s just a hobby.”
He’d pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You, Rory Grant, are full of surprises.” They’d begun to walk again, her hand tucked into his jacket pocket. “So why haven’t I ever seen any of your work? I don’t recall seeing anything like what you just described hanging in your apartment.”
“There’s one in the spare room. And a few more in the closet.”
“The spare room you won’t let me go into?”
“Because it’s a mess. I used to use it as a studio when I was selling them.”
He stopped walking and turned to face her. “I thought you said it was just a hobby.”
She shrugged. “It is—or was. Like I said, no time. But a friend took some pictures once and showed them to an interior designer she knows. He took seven pieces on consignment and sold them in two weeks.”
“Aha! Another piece of the story emerges. So when do I get a look? Or don’t I rate?”
His enthusiasm sent little whorls of pleasure dancing in Rory’s chest. She was usually squeamish about mentioning her art, but it felt good to have someone take her seriously. “If you’re really interested I can arrange a private showing—unless you’re in a hurry to get home.”
“What? Now?”
She reached for his hand. “Come with me.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were standing in front of Finn’s, one of Boston’s most exclusive seafood restaurants, gazing at a beautifully lit seascape in the front window.
She stood quietly, trying to see the piece as Hux would—for the first time. A torturous sea and rock-strewn shore, a low, leaden sky. She had chosen the fabrics with painstaking care. Watered silk and bits of crushed taffeta, denim and twill and crepe de chine, tulle and foamy bits of lace, carefully layered to create a sense of movement and depth.
It had taken nearly six months to finish and had fetched a whopping $700. Not that she cared about the money. Unlike most artists, she had that luxury. For her, what mattered was that it was hanging in the window of a prominent restaurant, her initials in the lower right-hand corner, for all of Boston to see.
“You really did this?” he asked, his eyes still riveted to the window. “It’s incredible. It feels like I could walk right into those waves. And the sky . . .” His face was half in shadow when he finally turned to look at her, but the half she could see was smiling. “Rory, this is more than just a hobby. It’s a gift. Were they all like this one?”
“Similar, but this is my favorite. It’s called North of November.”
“I still can’t believe it. You should have pieces in galleries all over town.”
She laughed. “If only.”
“What?”
“You don’t just put your work in a gallery, Hux. Especially if you’re a nobody. A new artist has a better chance of winning the lottery than getting into a decent show. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only reason this one ended up here is because my last name is Grant. The owner thought it would ingratiate him with my mother. He certainly read that one wrong.”
“Your mother isn’t supportive of your art?”
“That’s the problem. She doesn’t see it as art. At least not proper art.”
“What is proper art?”
“The masters. Rembrandt. Raphael. Caravaggio.”
“They’ve all been dead for hundreds of years.”
“Exactly.”
He frowned, shaking his head. “So you have to be dead for your work to be worthy? That hardly seems fair.”
“It’s not. But there we are. Unless you’ve sold well at auction, no one wants to take a chance on your work. If I had my way, I’d see to it that there were galleries dedicated entirely to artists no one’s ever heard of.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Then open one. Right here in Boston.”
She stared at him as the idea began to take shape. A showcase for artists no one had ever heard of. She had no idea how to go about it, and her mother would absolutely hate the idea. Still, it was hard to ignore the sudden flutter of excitement she felt at the thought.
“Do you really think I could?”
“Why not? You have the resources, the connections, the dream.”
“What if that’s all it is? A dream?”
He’d wound an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close enough to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Dreams are like waves, babe. You have to wait for the right one to come along, the one that has your name on it. And then when it does, you have to get up and ride it. This dream has your name all over it.”
She’d believed it then. But did she still?
Her dream of being a textile artist had actually begun as a fetish for vintage clothing. Not because she loved clothes. She’d never cared about fashion. It was fabric that captivated her, the way it moved and felt and behaved. Watered silks and pebbly knits, crisp organdy, diaphanous lace, nubby tweeds and lamb-soft worsteds, each with a texture and personality all its own.
Her first attempt had been crude and unsophisticated, but a passion for creation had already found its way into her blood, driving her to perfect her craft with practice and new techniques. What had started as a fetish had become a quiet obsession, resulting in a series of pieces dubbed the Storm Watch Collection.
Her mother had referred to them as her arts and crafts projects, but the owner of the interior design shop had been enthusiastic enough to put several pieces in his window. By summer’s end, he’d sold the entire collection, including the one hanging in the window of Finn’s.
When the call came that North of November had sold and would hang in a public place, she was so excited that she’d burst into her mother’s study without knocking. Camilla had smiled indulgently at the news, declaring herself not a bit surprised. It was a pretty piece, and tourists loved that sort of thing. She hadn’t meant to be condescending, but the remark stung more than Rory ever let on. After that, she’d worked less and less on her art. Until Hux had rekindled her creative flame with talk of a gallery. But when he disappeared, the flame had gone out.
By the time the microwave dinged, Rory had lost interest in her soup. Instead, she headed for the spare room she had set up as a makeshift studio. She hadn’t set foot inside since Hux vanished, too frantic to work at first and then later, unable to look at anything that reminded her of him.
The room felt smaller than she remembered, cluttered and a little overwhelming, with the faint tang of fabric glue still hanging in the air. A desk strewn with art supply catalogs occupied one corner; an easel used for sketching filled another. Shelves piled with fabric swatches lined one wall, and under the window sat the secondhand Bernina she’d bought early on but rarely used after discovering she preferred hand stitching. All collecting dust now.
Her eyes slid to the unframed piece behind the desk—an enormous wave purling around the eastern wall of a stoic granite lighthouse. It was her personal favorite, inspired by a photo she’d seen once and never forgotten. She had titled it Fearless, because that’s how it felt. Stoic and indomitable.
There were four more in the closet, part of the new collection she’d been working on when Hux disappeared. Not long ago—had it really only been five months?—she’d imagined them hanging on a gallery wall—on her gallery wall. Now she couldn’t imagine anything.
Moving deeper into the room, she stood before two large needlework frames, where a pair of unfinished pieces had languished for months. She ran her fingers over one, recalling the hours of felting required to create each whirl and eddy. She wouldn’t finish them now. School would start in the fall, and there wouldn’t be time. And there really wasn’t much point.
Out of nowhere, the row house on Newbury Street sprang to mind. It had been such a peculiar moment—as if she’d felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find an old friend standing there. It was nothing like the cold, angular places she’d look
ed at last year, but suddenly she knew it would be perfect for the gallery, brimming with history and old Boston charm and, once filled with the kind of pieces she envisioned, the perfect marriage of old and new.
Unheard Of.
The name, like a whisper, seemed to stir to life, like a thing coming awake after a heavy sleep. Was she actually considering this? Moving forward with plans she’d laid to rest months ago? And what about Hux? Was it selfish to contemplate such a thing while his life—their lives together—still hung in the balance? But she could feel it, the plans she believed long dead, slowly coming to life.
This dream has your name all over it.
Before she could check the impulse, she opened the desk drawer, shuffling through the contents until she found a business card for Brett Gleason, the real estate agent she’d hired last year to scout properties. She stared at it, wrestling with the urge to pick up the phone. What harm could there be in checking it out? It wasn’t like it would amount to anything; there wasn’t even a sign up. It was simply a matter of satisfying her curiosity, she told herself as she picked up the phone and punched in the number.
Two days later, Brett called back with information. Rory was carrying a plate of scrambled eggs to the living room when the phone rang. She froze, as she did any time the phone rang now. Was this it? Was there news? She set down the plate, ran her eyes around the room, looking for the cordless. Her heart was pounding by the time she found it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Brett.”
The breath went out of her at the sound of his voice. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this soon. Were you able to find out anything?”
“I did, as a matter of fact. According to city records, the property is owned by one Soline Roussel. Apparently, she operated a bridal shop there until it burned a few years back. They gutted it after the fire, right down to the lath, started renovations but never finished. It’s been empty ever since. No recent MLS listings, though, which means she probably isn’t looking to unload it. It’s odd that she’d let it sit empty rather than leasing it. With a little work, the place could be a real cash cow.”
The Keeper of Happy Endings Page 3