The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  “I won’t leave you here by yourself.”

  “You little fool!” Her eyes flash as she catches me by the wrist. “Do you think it will matter if you’re here when my time comes? That you can somehow stop what’s happening to me? You can’t. There is no magick for this. Or for what’s coming. There’s nothing left for you here.”

  I turn away from her, stung by her harshness. Ours has always been an awkward relationship, filled with chilly truces and prickly silence, her disapproval always there, like a current running between us, because I’m a reminder of past mistakes.

  Once upon a time, I had a father, a man who managed at least once to woo Esmée Roussel to his bed. I don’t know his name. I only know that he was a musician attending school in Paris and that he left without marrying her. Maman has never spoken of him, and Lilou was strangely silent on the subject, despite my curiosity. And so he has remained a shadow, a nameless lapse in judgment for which a baby girl was the penance.

  I remember Lilou telling me once that Maman had been one of the most beautiful girls in Paris and that it had to do with the Roma blood running through our veins. She said it was what gave the Roussels the look of gypsies—and what gave us our magick—and that Maman had gotten more than her share of both. Perhaps it’s true. Perhaps Maman was beautiful once, but bitterness has hardened her, something I vowed would never happen to me. And yet I see her sometimes, when I stand at the mirror, the me I might become if I’m not careful, cold and brittle and so very solitary. But Lilou is there sometimes too, looking back, asking me what I will make of my life.

  Lilou, who lopped off her hair and rouged her lips and called me ma pêche. Who followed her heart and married her Brit and left Paris far behind her. She was different from Maman in every way it was possible to be different, and I adored her. She wasn’t fond of rules and didn’t believe in regrets—or sin, which she claimed was a ruse to make women apologize for what they wanted. How I longed to be like her when I was a girl, to look the world straight in the eye and dare its opinion, to follow my own dreams and chase my own wishes. And perhaps I will one day—but not while Maman needs me.

  EIGHT

  RORY

  June 16, 1985—Boston

  Rory held her breath as she stepped into the row house’s murky interior. The power wasn’t due to be turned on until tomorrow, but as of 6:00 p.m. last night, the place was hers—lock, stock, and lease payment.

  She couldn’t stay long. She was due at her mother’s for brunch at eleven. But the freshly cut set of keys Daniel Ballantine had handed her yesterday had been burning a hole in her pocket. Now that it was light, she was here to soak up the atmosphere and savor the moment.

  A wash of dull light filtered in through the gritty front window, creating a murky underwater atmosphere. Rory squinted, willing her eyes to adjust as she wandered about the front room. In its current condition, the place could hardly be considered glamorous, though it had once been home to one of the most exclusive bridal salons in Boston, owned by a Parisian dressmaker known for her exquisite taste and avant-garde designs.

  If she’d ever had a second thought, which she hadn’t, the building’s history would have been enough to make her take the leap, the idea that once upon a time the row house had been a place where taffeta, organza, and creamy satins had been used to create something lasting and beautiful. It felt like a sign, as if fate had in fact sent a wave with her name on it. Perhaps that’s why Soline Roussel hadn’t sold the building after the fire, because it was meant for her—for the gallery.

  Things had moved relatively quickly once the decision was made. After several rounds of phone tag and one very brief showing, she’d made an offer, requiring yet another round of phone tag before finally being accepted. She’d been a nervous wreck waiting for the papers to be drawn up, afraid her mysterious new landlady would change her mind and back out of their deal. Thankfully, everything had gone as planned—or almost everything. She’d been hoping to finally meet the elusive Ms. Roussel at the signing, but as usual, her attorney had acted on her behalf.

  She’d asked Daniel for Ms. Roussel’s phone number when the business was done or an address where she might send a thank-you note, but he had quickly nixed the idea, explaining that his client was an extremely private person and preferred to leave matters of business to him. All future inquiries would be handled through his office.

  Rory doubted there would be need for future inquiries. She was ready to get the renovations started. The fire damage was largely confined to the second-floor apartment, where the blaze had actually started, but smoke and water had left their marks down here too. The roof and dormers, along with the windows on the upper floors, had been replaced soon after the fire, but after the initial gutting, work on the interior had been abandoned, leaving the place little more than a shell, stripped to the lath and littered with drop cloths, abandoned tools, and discarded paint pails overflowing with trash.

  The contractor she’d hired to do the renovations—a friend of Brett’s—estimated the first-floor work could be completed in ninety days, give or take. After that, she’d need several weeks to furnish the place and complete the art installations. If all went well, an October opening might be doable. November at the latest.

  A bloom of anticipation warmed her as she imagined the finished product. Glossy black floors and discreet lighting, soft gray walls lined with beautifully framed art. Black lacquer plinths. Acrylic vitrines. Well-placed benches for lingering and conversation. And later, upstairs, rooms for readings, lectures, perhaps even a workshop now and then.

  She eyed the staircase with its black marble newels and art deco ironwork. Like everything else, it would require some TLC, but thank goodness they hadn’t torn it out. She ran a palm over the cool black marble, the almost sensuous curve of the iron railing, envisioning it all dramatically lit from above, mirrored in shadow on the wall behind—very film noir.

  For a moment, she toyed with the idea of going upstairs for a quick poke around, but there wasn’t time. Not that she was in a hurry to tell her mother she wouldn’t be heading back to school in the fall. She’d been skirting the issue for several weeks, determined to keep her decision quiet until the lease was signed. But now it was time to face the music.

  Maybe she’d come back after brunch, clean the windows, and round up the trash before the workmen showed up tomorrow. It would give her something to look forward to. She was turning away, her hand still on the stair railing, when she felt it—or thought she felt it. A subtle vibration coursing through her fingers and up her arm, like the hum of a tuning fork running through her bones. Stranger still were the quicksilver flashes she’d experienced as she squeezed her eyes shut, like heat lightning, imprinting the backs of her lids with a strange jumble of images.

  She jerked her hand back, rubbing her bare arm. A shock? But how? The power had been off for years. Against her better judgment, she touched the railing again with the flats of her fingers, fast, as if testing an iron or a burner on a stove. Nothing.

  Had she imagined it? She was sure the contractor had checked the wiring as part of his walk-through, and she didn’t recall him finding any problems. Just the same, she’d ask him to take a second look. The last thing she needed was an electrical fire or, worse, someone getting electrocuted on opening night.

  Opening night.

  Just thinking the words set little wings fluttering in her belly as she picked up her purse and moved to the door. Because it made her think of Hux and his belief in her vision. His voice had been in her head all morning, while she brushed her teeth, while she stirred cream into her coffee, while driving over. And she heard it again as she locked the door behind her.

  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.

  Her mother was already on the terrace when she arrived. She glanced up from her issue of Town & Country as Rory approached, her penciled brows lif
ting a notch.

  “Aurora. You’re nearly on time.”

  Rory offered the barest of nods. “Good morning to you too.”

  “I just meant I haven’t brought the food out because I didn’t expect you yet. I have a spinach and tomato strata warming in the oven. And those little zucchini muffins you like.” She laid down her magazine and stood. “Go ahead and open the Veuve, and I’ll bring out the food.”

  Rory went to work on the champagne cork, hoping her news might sit better after a little lubrication. She’d spent the drive over rehearsing what she was going to say, only to conclude that it didn’t matter. There was simply no good way to break this news.

  Moments later, Camilla returned carrying a pitcher of orange juice. “I think we’re ready to sit.”

  Rory started guiltily, nearly overturning one of the champagne flutes. Camilla eyed her curiously. “Are you all right? You seem distracted.”

  “I’m fine. Let’s eat.”

  A silence fell as they filled their plates. Finally, Camilla lifted her glass. “To sunny Sunday mornings!”

  Rory raised her glass obediently, going through the motions. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her, assessing, inquisitive. Finally, Camilla lowered her knife. “Are you certain you’re all right, Aurora? You don’t seem to be yourself.”

  “I’m fine.” She reached for her glass, took another sip. “Any progress on the holiday event?”

  Camilla blinked at her, clearly surprised. “Well, yes, actually. I’ve been toying with a Gatsby theme. You know, Roaring Twenties costumes, a nice jazz band. Lots of feathers and sequins for decorations. Black and gold and cream. Very elegant, of course.”

  “Of course. Will you go as a flapper?”

  Camilla’s laugh echoed across the terrace, light and almost girlish. “Certainly not. No one wants to see that. I was thinking of a pinstripe suit and spats, maybe a wide fedora. What do you think? I could go as a mobster, and you could be my moll. Lots of fringe and a boa. And those bright-red cupid lips.”

  “Sounds fun. But you could still pull off the flapper. You’ve certainly got the legs for it.”

  Camilla rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m long past the age for flashing one’s knees.” She paused, scooping up several bright-red berries. “And what about you? Did you manage to get your classes lined up for the fall?”

  And here it was. The moment of truth. Rory reached for her glass, finishing it off in one go. “Not exactly, no.”

  “But, honey, you promised—”

  “I’m not going back in the fall,” she blurted. So much for a tactful opening line. “I’ve decided to go ahead with my plans for the gallery instead.”

  Camilla lowered her spoon, sending several berries skittering across the tablecloth. “The gallery? I thought—”

  “I know. I did too. Then I saw this building, an old row house on the corner of Newbury and Fairfield, and I knew it was what I was supposed to do.”

  Camilla let out a sigh. “Aurora, we’ve talked about this. You have no business experience. And no real experience in the art world yet. You need to finish school before you jump into something like this. Bulk up your credentials so you’ll have something to fall back on.”

  “In case I fail, you mean.”

  “Well, yes. And don’t look at me like that. Have you any idea how many galleries fail in their first year?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

  “I don’t want you to become a statistic, Aurora. And you will if you pursue this.” She shook her head, as if bewildered. “You didn’t say a word about this the last time you were here. Now, just like that, you’re thinking of quitting school?”

  Rory lifted her chin. “I don’t need your permission.”

  Camilla was clearly taken aback but kept her voice even. “No. You’re over eighteen, and you have your own money. Your father made sure of that. But I’m asking you to slow down and do your homework and to finish your schooling while you’re doing it. A master’s degree is a real accomplishment, something you can be proud of no matter what you decide to do down the road. And Paris. You’ve always wanted to go, and it’s the kind of thing that looks good on a résumé. Who knows what the future holds for you? Maybe it is this gallery of yours. Or maybe it isn’t. Just wait a little, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Rory wet her lips, once, twice. “I signed the lease last night.”

  Camilla’s face went blank. “Oh, Aurora. Tell me you didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to go back to school. Or go to Paris. I want to do this, to follow my dream.”

  “Your dream.” Camilla shook her head dismissively. “Until a year ago, I never heard you utter the word gallery. And then it was only because Matthew put the idea in your head. He thinks because you have a trust fund, it doesn’t matter if you fail. He doesn’t know a thing about the art world, but he’s filled your head with this silly notion—a gallery for artists no one has ever heard of. You gave it up once. Now you’re running back to it because you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

  “That isn’t true. But even if it were, why does it matter? Why can’t I just want what I want? Why does everything I do have to pass some kind of test with you?”

  “This isn’t about me, Aurora. It isn’t even about you. It’s about Matthew. You’re trying to prove something to someone who isn’t even here, because you’re miserable and afraid. You don’t know the first thing about running a gallery—or what happens when you step out on a limb and fall. But I do. You’re nowhere near ready to take on something like this, and if you’d slow down for a minute, you’d see that.”

  The words rankled more than Rory cared to admit. It had all happened so fast, and with no due diligence to speak of. What if her mother was right? What if she had jumped into the deep end of the pool because of something Hux said once, because she couldn’t bear the thought that she might never see him again?

  “You haven’t thought this through, Aurora. Let me contact Steven Mercer and have him make a call or two. It might cost you a little something—rash decisions generally do—but the man knows his way around a contract. I don’t care what you signed. He’ll get you out of it.”

  Rory stiffened, infuriated by her mother’s cool assurance. “I don’t want to get out of it.”

  Camilla leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. “What if you can’t make a go of it? Have you thought about that? Or do you intend to keep throwing money at it until you’ve burned through your trust fund?”

  Rory sagged back into her chair. “Your faith in me is overwhelming.”

  Camilla’s face softened. “It has nothing to do with my faith in you. I just don’t want to see you disappointed, and I’m afraid you will be. It’s a big thing to open a gallery. And an even bigger thing if you’re not ready. Statistically—”

  “Yes, yes. You already said that. I promise if I go belly-up, I’ll move away and change my name. I won’t embarrass you. And who knows, maybe I’ll finally make you proud.”

  For a moment, Camilla looked genuinely startled. “You’ve always made me proud, Aurora. Always.”

  Rory held her gaze. “Have I?”

  “Of course you have.”

  “Then be happy for me. After all these hideous months, something good is finally happening. Celebrate with me. Please.”

  Camilla nodded coolly, a reluctant gesture of defeat. She reached for the bottle of Veuve and refilled both their glasses, then after a splash of orange juice, held up her mimosa. “To my daughter—the gallery owner.”

  “Thank you,” Rory said over the rim of her glass. It was hardly a ringing endorsement, but then she hadn’t expected one. They’d reached a kind of armistice, though, and for now that would do. It’s what their relationship had always been, an endless cycle of arrows and olive branches. “I know it isn’t what you wanted for me. But it’s what I want for me.”

  Camilla’s smile faded. “You’ve always b
een so much braver than me.”

  It was a strange admission. Not a confession—her mother didn’t believe in confessions—but an unexpected compliment.

  “I promise you, it’s nothing to do with being brave. In fact, I’m terrified that everything you just said is true. That I’m not ready. That I’m doing it for the wrong reason. But this gallery is the first thing I’ve cared about in months. Yes, it happened fast. And yes, it’s a huge risk, but it’s a reason to get out of bed in the morning. And getting out of bed was starting to feel much harder than it should.” She paused, realizing for the first time just how true those words were. “It isn’t just a matter of wanting this. I need it.”

  “Then I suppose you’d better tell me about this row house of yours. I’m afraid the strata’s ice-cold. Should I pop it in to reheat?”

  “No, it’s fine. Let’s just eat.”

  Camilla scooped out a portion for herself, then held out her hand for Rory’s plate. “I think it’s still a little warm. The cheese is still stretchy. Now, tell me about this place you found. Where is it? What’s it like?”

  “It’s right off Newbury, next to DeLuca’s. Red brick with a lovely turret and a big bay window in front. It needs some work, though. There was a fire a few years ago, and the repairs were never finished.”

  “So it’s been empty all this time?”

  “It has. The owner decided not to reopen after the fire but held on to the building. The contractor says an autumn opening is doable. We’ll tackle the ground floor first, then start on the upper floors once we’re open. Oh, and there’s this amazing staircase, black marble and wrought iron. Very dramatic. I’m thinking pale gray and mother-of-pearl, low lighting, glossy black floors.”

  Camilla looked up from her plate. “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”