The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  I manage a smile, but there’s something niggling at the back of my brain, a talk we had once about his father, how he could be a hard man at times, with strong ideas about respectability and duty, and I can’t help wondering if those ideas extend to his son’s choice of a wife.

  Anson frowns, trying to read my expression. “Please don’t be sad. I’ll be home before you know it, and then we can start a real life together. But until then, I’ll know you’re safe.”

  “And what about you? You’ll still be here—with them.”

  He cups my face, kissing me tenderly. “Nothing will keep me from getting home if I know you’re waiting for me.”

  “But how are you managing this? It’s all we can do to get men over the border, let alone to America.”

  “The Purcells have been navy men since the days of John Paul Jones—until me, that is. Anyway, I dropped dear Pater’s name and called in a few favors. I doubt he’ll be any too happy about it—he prefers to wield the power in the family—but that’s a fight for another day.”

  “I’m afraid,” I say softly.

  “I know. But you’re brave too.” He kisses me again, and I can taste my tears on his lips, bitterness and salt, and suddenly every moment, every touch, is precious. Because they’re all I will have to take with me when the sun comes up again.

  He pulls away, holding me at arm’s length. “I should go. You need to pack a few things, bare-necessity stuff. One small case. And then you should try to sleep. I’ll be back before dawn.”

  “What about you? You’re exhausted.”

  “I’ll go back to the hospital, try to grab a few hours.”

  I reach for his hand. “Stay with me. Please.”

  “You know I can’t.” His voice is thick, his eyes churning like a hungry sea. “We’re not . . .” He swallows hard and tries to step away. “There are rules, Soline.”

  I shake my head because suddenly it all seems absurd. Men are being shot in the street and butchered on battlefields, women and children packed into trains like cattle and shipped to death camps. But this—two people in love, spending what might be their last night together—is against the rules. I can’t make sense of it. And then I remember something I heard Lilou say to my mother the night she ran away to marry her Brit. I refuse to let someone else’s rules cheat me of my bit of joy.

  I refuse too.

  “I don’t care about the rules,” I murmur, pulling him back to me. “It’s our last night. Please don’t make me spend it alone.”

  He says nothing as I lead him up the stairs. There’s a moment of hesitation when we reach the top. Whether his or mine, I can’t say, but it passes quickly and the decision is made, the point of denial behind us.

  I feel shy suddenly and leave the light off. Until this moment, our rendezvous have consisted of brief, stolen moments, hurried embraces and feverish kisses. But tonight there’s no reason to hurry. I don’t know if I will be his first—I don’t want to know—but he will be mine.

  I unbutton his shirt and push it back from his shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. I reach for his belt next, working with shaky fingers. He stands very still, his eyes on my face, and I wonder if he senses my nervousness. I’ve seen men without their clothes—I’ve bathed hundreds at the hospital—but I hadn’t been in love with any of them.

  Finally, it’s Anson’s turn to undress me. I shiver as my blouse falls away, his fingertips like a whisper against my skin. There’s a kind of reverence in his voice as he murmurs my name, his eyes filled with such tenderness that my throat catches with an unexpected rush of tears.

  Moments later, my clothes are on the floor and I’m standing there naked, chilly and trembling all over. I catch my reflection in the bureau mirror and wish I’d remembered to turn off the hall light too. I’ve lost weight since the war began and my body looks sharp in the glass, sinewy and pale, and I worry that I’m a disappointment. And then Anson is behind me, wrapping an arm about my waist, bending his mouth to the curve of my shoulder. I close my eyes, abandoning myself to the moment. I want only him. His breath. His hands. His skin.

  He leads me to the bed, pulling me down with him onto the sheets. He smells of sweat and the strong carbolic soap they use at the hospital, earthy and astringent. Male. Our breaths mingle warm and wet as we find each other in the darkness, his hands insistent and everywhere, as if trying to map my body with his touch. And yet he’s in no hurry, content to savor the moment—to savor me—and I let him, lost in the bittersweet magic of these few brief hours before we must say goodbye.

  I wait until Anson’s breathing grows even, then slip from the bed. It will be light soon, and there’s packing to be done. I know about the journey that awaits me. I won’t need much—plain clothes that are easy to move in, sturdy shoes with low heels, a few personal items. But there are other things too, things I can’t leave behind.

  I’m careful not to wake Anson as I move about in the darkness, gathering Maman’s rosary, the locket containing Erich Freede’s photo, the packet of letters I saved after Maman died. They’re her legacy to me, a reminder that once upon a time, there had been happy endings and, just maybe, there would be again.

  Downstairs, in the workroom, I flip on the light and stand staring at the dress I began sewing a seeming lifetime ago. It’s been finished for months, languishing in a darkened workroom, denied its moment of triumph. But the dreams I had when I began it were very different from the dreams I have now. I’m leaving Paris—for good it seems—and there’s something I must do before the sun comes up.

  I gather what I need: a white candle, a pen and paper, a bowl of water, another of salt, a needle, a spool of white thread—and the dress. I light the candle and close my eyes, then slowly begin to breathe, waiting for something to come up. I scribble a few words, cross them out, begin again, wishing I’d paid better attention to Maman’s instruction about charm writing. There’s so little time, and I still have the stitching to do. I try again.

  Finally, I’m ready to begin. But my hands are damp, and I have trouble holding on to the needle. Maman’s voice is in my head, scolding. You haven’t prepared properly before beginning. Your charm is clumsy and overly broad. Your stitchwork is abominable. Every word is true, but at last I lay down my needle and survey my handiwork.

  Over distance, over time,

  Whatever trials might come,

  May the echoes of these two young hearts

  Be forever joined as one.

  The untidy needlework is bad enough, but I’ve managed to prick myself several times in the process, leaving tiny smears of blood on the lining of the bodice. It feels like an omen. I feed the remaining thread to the candle and snuff out the flame. The work isn’t up to Maman’s standards, but I’ve done my best. The rest is in fate’s hands.

  TWENTY-TWO

  SOLINE

  To be effective, one must know one’s treatments and when to use them. A charm is a spell used to create opportunities . . . a series of serendipities meant to help fate along, while a fascination or glamour is an instrument of deception meant to distort natural events.

  —Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

  28 August 1943—Paris

  I’m already dressed, sitting in a chair near the window when Anson stirs. His eyes open heavily, the corners of his mouth lifting in that lazy American smile I’ve come to love. I try to smile back, but I can’t manage it. All I can think about are the minutes ticking away.

  He dresses in the dark, then follows me to the kitchen. I scrounge the last of the coffee Maman hoarded before the war, managing two nearly full cups. It’s stale but better than nothing, and helps wash down the crackers and jam that serve as our breakfast.

  Anson drains his cup in one go and carries it to the sink. “It’s time,” he says grimly. “The sun will be up soon.”

  I nod, not trusting my voice. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll beg him to let me stay, and we’ve covered that territory already.

  He nods in return.
“I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  I take one last walk through the apartment, checking windows and turning out lights. Ridiculous, since I’m leaving everything behind. What does it matter if someone comes in? It isn’t mine anymore. I close the door to my bedroom and go downstairs.

  Anson is standing near the door, peering through the split in the blackout curtains. He turns as I reach the bottom of the stairs, frowning at my empty hands. “Where’s your suitcase?”

  I point to the dress box near his feet.

  He glances at it, then back at me. “A cardboard box?”

  “It’s a dress box,” I correct, as if that explains everything.

  “Soline, you can’t carry that. You need a proper suitcase.”

  “I don’t have a proper suitcase.”

  “Well, that won’t work. You need something sturdy. Something you can carry easily.” He scrapes a hand through his hair. “Don’t you have anything else?”

  “I’m taking this.”

  He glances at his watch, then nods grudgingly. “All right. Let’s go. Don’t talk. Just keep your head down and keep walking. No matter what happens, keep walking and don’t stop until you get to the hospital. Your ride will be waiting.”

  My stomach plummets to my shoes. “Aren’t you my ride?”

  His eyes slide away. “No.”

  “Why? It’s what you do. You’re the driver.”

  “Not this time.”

  I stare at him in disbelief. “You should have said. If I’d known—”

  He silences me with a look. “You know how this works, Soline. The rules are in place to protect the cell. I’m too close to this one—too close to you. I used my connections to set it all in motion, but I have to step away when we get to the hospital. For everyone’s safety. Do you understand?”

  He’s wearing that expression he gets sometimes, as if he’d flipped a switch and turned off his emotions. I’ve seen it before, but never directed at me. I incline my head stiffly, mimicking his stoniness.

  “The driver will have your papers. You need to memorize all the information. Dates. Places. Everything. From now on—at least until you reach the States—you’re Yvonne Dufort from Chartres. Say it.”

  “Yvonne Dufort,” I repeat numbly. “From Chartres.”

  “Good girl. You’re going to be fine. Now kiss me. There won’t be time later.”

  I let him pull me into his arms but stand stiffly, the dress box between us. I don’t want to kiss him. I want to rail at him, not for sending me away—I understand why I have to go—but for being so cool while doing it. And for the danger I know he’ll put himself in once I’m gone. The Gestapo have already questioned him once. They won’t leave him alone until they get what they want, and when they don’t get it, they’ll arrest him.

  The thought sends a chill through me and reminds me just how much is at stake. I must be brave and do my part for the Resistance, even if my part is to leave. But when he crushes me to his chest, I don’t feel brave. I cling to him, clutching his shirt as tears spill down my face, the ache of missing him already too real.

  Finally, he pulls away. “We have to go, but first, I need to give you something.” He steps away briefly, retrieving the canvas satchel from the nearby chair. He fumbles a moment but finally withdraws a zippered case of smooth brown leather and puts it in my hands.

  “I want you to take this.”

  I stare at it, at the initials A.W.P. stenciled in gold in the lower right-hand corner, and think of the handkerchief he loaned me the day we met.

  “It’s my shaving kit. My mother gave it to me the Christmas before she died. I want you to take it with you.”

  “But you’ll need it.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can scrounge up a razor at the hospital. Take it. Please. And hang on to it until I’m home.”

  We lock eyes, saying nothing. He’s making a promise. One we both know isn’t in his power to keep, but I take the case, then reach into the pocket of my skirt and pull out Maman’s rosary. I take his hand and turn it over, letting the beads trickle into his palm. “They belonged to my mother,” I say quietly.

  He stares at the loop of garnet beads, the silver crucifix with its tarnished savior. “I didn’t realize you were Catholic. I never thought to ask.”

  “We’re not. We’re not anything.”

  “Then why the rosary?”

  I shrug. “Insurance.”

  “I can’t take these, Soline. What if—”

  I press a finger to his lips, unwilling to let him finish the thought. “I want you to take them—and bring them back to me.”

  He forces a smile. “We’ll trade back when I get home.”

  My heart squeezes as I contemplate how long it might be before I see his face again—and the unimaginable possibility that this might be the last time. This man I have known for a handful of months has become the most important thing in my life, as necessary as the air that I breathe or the blood in my veins. And yet there are things I haven’t shared with him, truths I haven’t told. It seems wrong suddenly that we should part with a secret between us.

  “Anson, there’s something I need to tell you before I go, something about myself.”

  He smooths the backs of his knuckles along my jaw, smiling softly. “Are you going to tell me you’re a Nazi? One of Himmler’s spies?”

  The question nearly makes me smile. “Of course not.”

  “A Communist?”

  “Anson, please don’t be silly. I need to tell you about my family. We’re—”

  He kisses me then, silencing me with his mouth. “Save it until I come home.”

  “But—”

  He shakes his head, cutting me off again. “I know I love you. And you love me. Nothing else matters.” He opens his palm, showing me Maman’s beads. “I’ll give these back when I get home. And then you can tell me your secret. Deal?”

  “All right, then. When you get home.”

  He pushes the beads into his pocket, acknowledging the pact we’ve just made. I place the shaving kit into the dress box and refasten the cord. We’ve said what we need to, promised what we can. And now it’s time to go.

  My contact is waiting as promised, the ambulance idling out behind the hospital mess, a Pole with a thin mustache and sharp, dark eyes, who gives his name as Henryk. He wears a uniform like Anson’s, with the familiar AFS patch on his shoulder, but I’m certain I’ve never seen him before.

  He says nothing as he opens the back door and helps me in. Anson stands off in the shadows, watching. I can feel his eyes in the darkened yard and will him to come to me, to say one last farewell, but I know he won’t. We’ve done that part already. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, refusing to cry.

  Henryk slams the door, and I find myself shut in. I feel a frisson of panic in that abrupt moment of blackness, the realization that I am now at the mercy of strangers. Everything I know, my home, Anson, even my name, has been stripped away.

  And then we’re moving, gears grinding noisily as the ambulance gathers speed. I fix my eyes on the back window in time to see Anson step from the shadows, legs apart, shoulders squared, and with Maman’s words echoing in my head, I will the image to burn itself into my brain as he recedes, then disappears from sight.

  As long as you keep his beautiful face in your heart, he will never truly be lost.

  TWENTY-THREE

  RORY

  July 12, 1985—Boston

  Rory was already regretting her decision to venture across town in lunch-hour traffic. She eyed the orange leftover container on the passenger seat and briefly considered turning around. Her mother owned every piece of Tupperware they made. She wasn’t likely to miss this one anytime soon. So why had she suddenly felt the need to return it now—on a Friday afternoon?

  Nearly three weeks had passed since that prickly afternoon at her apartment, but things between them remained strained. Neither had mentioned the incident, but the few phone conversations they’d had since had been stilted a
nd cool. Because that’s how their relationship worked. They’d simply gloss over the episode as if it never happened. One of them would make the first move, some small gesture of conciliation, and the other would follow. Advance, retreat, advance again.

  And this time, she would make the gesture. Because she’d glimpsed something that day in her kitchen that made her wonder if it might be possible to break the cycle. And because she’d spent the better part of the morning making her usual Friday calls about Hux, working her way down her list of contacts, hoping there’d been word, a sighting or rumor, some new trail being pursued. As usual, she’d come up empty.

  Nothing new to relay. Doing everything we can. So very sorry.

  She wasn’t sure how it had become a Friday thing. She only knew that with each week that passed, the outcome was beginning to feel more and more inevitable. She wouldn’t be the first to lose a fiancé. Women had been doing it for centuries, waiting for news that never came, weeping over news that did. Which would she be? How long could she keep hoping, when there wasn’t a scrap of news to cling to? When did she move on? And what did that look like? Was she already doing it? Was that what the gallery was about? A stand-in for Hux? Camilla had once suggested it was. Now, with all her heart, she needed to hear that it wasn’t true, that she was doing the right thing for the right reason—and that she shouldn’t feel guilty.

  She wouldn’t stay long. Just long enough to return the Tupperware and maybe a cup of coffee.

  The front door was unlocked. She slipped off her shoes in the foyer, then headed for the kitchen. By the time she heard the voices, it was too late. Her mother’s high, tinkling laugh, Vicky Foster’s nasal drone, and one more she couldn’t quite place. She should have called first. She wasn’t in the mood for chitchat with her mother’s friends.

  She was about to turn and leave when Camilla appeared in the doorway. “Aurora. I thought I heard the front door. Is everything all right?”