The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  “My mother,” Rory repeated, recalling something Camilla had said once about how she’d been trained to live up to the position she’d been given as a Lowell. Given. It had seemed an odd word at the time, but Camilla had ended the conversation before she could delve further. Was it possible her mother knew the true circumstances of her birth and how she’d become a Lowell? And if so, why would she have kept it a secret all these years? Either way, it all led back to Soline.

  Rory felt as if the floor were shifting beneath her feet, her world suddenly turning inside out. Nothing made sense. Or maybe, finally, everything did. Maybe there was a reason she’d felt such a strange affinity for the row house the first time she saw it, and to Soline the first time they met. Fate had pushed them together somehow. But was such a thing even possible?

  She looked at Thia, sitting quietly beside her with her hands in her lap. “You’re saying that after all these years, Soline and I managed to cross paths . . . by chance?”

  Thia answered with a strange smile. “I never said it was by chance. I mean, it couldn’t be, could it? Chance is one of those things we pull out when we have no other explanation for what’s happened. But there are all kinds of things we don’t understand. Forces we can’t see. That doesn’t mean they’re not at work. And there’s always been something special about Soline. Something . . . otherworldly.”

  “You’re saying all this is the result of some kind of magic?”

  Thia shrugged. “Magic. Kismet. Some fluky psychic connection. I really don’t care what it is. I only care that it’s happening. When Paulette told me you were asking about an old friend of my brother’s, I assumed the friend was Soline. And then I saw you and I thought about those adoption papers and . . . I knew. I thought maybe you did, too, or that Soline had sent you because she suspected. Did she never mention that you look like my brother?”

  “No,” Rory said softly. “Never.”

  It was too much to absorb at one time, an avalanche of questions and emotions tumbling at her so fast there wasn’t space to sort them out. Soline, her grandmother. Anson, her grandfather. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

  She ignored them, trying to wrap her head around the implications of what she’d been told. Her mother, the proudest woman on the planet, had apparently been walking around with a phony pedigree and would soon be forced to confront the truth—that she’d actually been born out of wedlock to a woman who’d recently compared her to the Nazis. It wouldn’t be an easy conversation to have. But the conversation with Soline would be worse. To learn her child had been stolen from her, that all this time she’d been right here in Boston, would be the cruelest cut of all. And after their disastrous lunch . . .

  “My god, Thia. How am I supposed to tell either of them about all this?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, and I don’t think you should. At least not straight off. My brother may still come around when he knows what really happened. In fact, I’ll make sure he does. Soline has gone forty years without knowing the truth. If there’s a chance that some good can come from all of this, some healing for them both, isn’t it worth waiting a few more weeks?”

  Rory considered this. A little time to process might be a good thing for her as well, before she tried to break the news to anyone else. Soline had to be told. But she would need someone to help hold her together when the time came, someone who understood the history and could help pick up the pieces. At the moment, they weren’t even speaking. Waiting might allow her to repair the rift between them and to navigate the prickly relationship between her mother and Soline. Neither of those things was going to happen overnight.

  “All right. I’ll wait. When will you talk to Anson?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of you talking to him.”

  Rory gaped at her. “Me?”

  “He’s made it quite clear that he doesn’t want to hear it from me. Every time I’ve tried, he’s shut me down. He’s good at that, shutting out things he doesn’t want to deal with. And people. He’s been alone so long, he doesn’t remember what it’s like to let someone into his life.”

  “Anson never married?”

  Thia shook her head. “There’s been no place in his life for anyone since Soline. Not even me. We speak at Christmas and on my birthday, but it’s always very stilted. I hoped things would get better when my father died, that he might even come home, but . . .” She broke off with a shrug. “I don’t even know where he is most of the time, usually out of the country. It’s as if he’s trying to stay one step ahead of the memories.”

  “And you think a total stranger is suddenly going to thaw his heart?”

  “A stranger? No. His granddaughter? Maybe.” Thia tapped a finger to her lips, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She glanced at her watch. “I should still be able to catch her.”

  Thia stepped to the desk and picked up the phone, punching in a number with cool efficiency. “Paulette, can you check with Cheryl and see where my brother happens to be this week? Thank you.”

  Rory felt a bubble of panic forming in her throat. Whatever Thia Purcell had in mind, it was happening way too fast. She opened her mouth to protest, but Thia had grabbed a pen and was speaking to Paulette again.

  “Yes, I’m here. No, I don’t need a phone number, just his hotel.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Rory. “I’m sending him something.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  RORY

  September 25, 1985—San Francisco

  Rory dropped her tote and overnighter on the bed and wandered to the window, gazing out over the San Francisco skyline, the sprawling city, the glistening bay, the iconic Golden Gate Bridge just visible through a scrim of fog. It was breathtaking, like a postcard she’d received once, but she hadn’t come to enjoy the sights. She was on a mission to upend a man’s life.

  Eight hours ago, she’d been in Boston, still trying to think of a reason not to go through with what she was about to do. And then the boarding call had come and the decision was made. She’d debated the wisdom of staying at the Fairmont. Knowing Anson was just four floors above her felt vaguely stalkerish. But her time was short. It made sense to stay where travel time was limited to an elevator ride.

  On the plane, she had tried to prepare herself for what she was about to do. She had practiced her opening lines, what she would say first, what she would say next, how she would lay out the facts, like a lawyer during summation. A tidy argument for why he needed to make things right with Soline. What she hadn’t prepared for was coming face-to-face with the grandfather who, until twenty-four hours ago, she hadn’t known existed.

  How did one bridge that kind of gap? Twenty-three years without a grandfather and suddenly there was Anson Purcell. Absorbing the news that Soline was her grandmother had been hard enough, but at least they had formed a bond before she learned the truth. There was no bond with Anson, nothing but Soline’s memories to connect them. She’d heard the stories, people feeling an instant affinity upon meeting a newly discovered relative for the first time, others feeling nothing at all. Which would she be? She honestly couldn’t say, and for now she needed to stay focused on the mission at hand.

  Returning to her tote, she pulled out the ledger Thia had sent with her—the proof she would need to convince Anson of his father’s deception. She had the photographs too: the one of young Thia in her party dress and the one of her, taken the day of her impromptu recital. She had borrowed the latter from her mother’s curio cabinet while Camilla was at her weekly bridge game last night. She’d been careful to rearrange the remaining objects on the shelf, so as not to leave an empty spot. With any luck, the frame would be back where it belonged before her mother noticed. Once she knew where Anson fit into the picture, she’d break the news to both her mother and Soline.

  She glanced at her watch, still set to Boston time, and subtracted three hours. Almost 6:00 p.m. in San Francisco. She’d booked her return ticket for tomorrow afternoon, in order to be back in time for the final walk-through with B
rian. That gave her twenty-four hours to do what she’d come to do. She checked Thia’s note for Anson’s room number, then picked up the phone and asked for room 903. A male voice answered on the third ring.

  “Mr. Purcell?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Rory Grant. Your sister, Thia, told me where I might reach you.”

  “What can I help you with?”

  His voice was intimidating, crisp and all business. Suddenly every word she’d practiced during the flight seemed lodged in her throat. “I’m a friend of Soline Roussel’s,” she blurted finally. She held her breath, waiting for a click. It didn’t come. “Mr. Purcell?”

  “What is it you want?”

  “She doesn’t know I’m here or that I’ve spoken to your sister. I’d like to talk to you about what happened after Paris. There are things you should know. Things I think you’d want to know.”

  “There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear, Miss Grant. Good night.”

  “No! Wait! Please let me talk to you in person. What I have to say won’t take long, but it’s not the kind of thing that should be said over the phone.”

  Another yawning silence. But he hadn’t hung up.

  “Please, Mr. Purcell. It’s important. I’m here at the hotel, but I’ll meet you wherever you say. Whenever you say.” She bit her lip, breath held as she waited.

  “The bar downstairs. Thirty minutes.”

  Rory arrived early and took a table in the corner. It was a small bar connected to the hotel restaurant, subdued yet elegant, with creamy lighting, creamy carpeting, and creamy marble pillars framing the doorways. Piano music tinkled over the low hum of conversation, Cole Porter’s “Night and Day.” It was soothing and pleasant, but she couldn’t relax. Her eyes were trained on the door.

  She was glad to see that most of the tables were full. Less chance of a scene. She ordered a glass of chardonnay. Not because she wanted it but because she needed something to occupy her hands. She was about to take her first sip when Anson appeared. She knew him instantly. Tall and square-shouldered, with a head full of silver-blond waves, a handsome man despite his sixty-some years.

  Her grandfather.

  The realization brought an unexpected lump to her throat. Not now, Aurora. Don’t start blubbering, or you’ll never get through this. But the sight of him, just a few yards away, made it hard to breathe. She gulped a mouthful of wine, her hands suddenly clammy. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this gut-tightening reaction.

  He was still hovering in the doorway, running his eyes around the tables. She held her breath, waiting for his eyes to connect with hers, then lifted a hand. He made no attempt to smile as he approached, his face set in what Rory suspected was a perpetual grimace. He had a noticeable limp, but walked like a man who’d lived with it a good many years and had learned to compensate.

  He avoided her gaze as he pulled out the chair across from her and sat. Before a word was spoken, a waitress appeared with a highball glass that looked to be a gin and tonic with two lime wedges. He nodded his thanks. She eyed Rory with a measure of curiosity, then turned back to Anson. “Will you be needing menus, Mr. Purcell?”

  “No, thank you, Ellie. We won’t be here that long.”

  A regular at the hotel, then, with a regular drink order. And he’d just made it crystal clear that her window of opportunity was a narrow one.

  When Ellie was gone, he picked up his glass and leaned back in his chair, eyeing her coldly. If there was even a flicker of recognition, he gave no sign. “All right. Why am I here?”

  “I’m a friend of Soline’s.”

  “You said that on the phone.”

  His icy tone was intimidating, and he knew it. “She speaks of you often.”

  “Does she?”

  “About how you met at the hospital and the work you did there—the work you both did—for the Resistance. And how you made her leave to keep her safe. Because you loved her.”

  He stared at her, unblinking. “Did I? It’s all so fuzzy now.”

  There it was. The bitterness Thia had talked about. Pain hardened into hostility and sarcasm. And yet there was an edge to his nonchalance, a sullenness that told her Anson Purcell wasn’t nearly as detached from his memories as he pretended.

  “She told me about your last night together,” Rory said, watching him closely. “How you asked her to marry you, and how she watched you through the back window of the ambulance until it turned the corner and you disappeared.”

  “You’re quite the storyteller.”

  “It didn’t happen that way?”

  Anson stared down into his drink. “I don’t remember.”

  “I think you do. So does your sister.”

  “What is it you want from me, Miss Grant?”

  “I want you to remember how much you loved her and how much she loved you. Before you came home and your father poisoned you against her. There are things you don’t know.”

  He took a sip from his glass, swallowing hard. “Here’s what I do know. I know I pulled every string there was to pull to get her to the States. I greased every palm, called in every IOU, and when none of that worked, I threw my father’s name around to keep her safe. I also know that when she found out I was laid up in Switzerland with a hole in my gut and a pair of legs that might be hacked off any day, she bolted for greener pastures. I’ve got to hand it to her, though, most women would have hung around for the money. I guess she let me off easy.”

  “Don’t do that,” Rory said, more sharply than she’d intended. “Don’t remember it that way. It isn’t true.”

  Anson set down his glass with a heavy thunk. “But it is, Ms. Grant. It gives me no pleasure to admit it, but I let myself be taken for the oldest ride in the book. My father, on the other hand, got a great deal of satisfaction out of being proved right.”

  Rory reached for her wineglass, sipping slowly. It was painful to hear him say such horrible things about Soline, but equally painful to realize he actually believed them. “Your father lied to you.”

  Anson stiffened, bristling now. “Miss Grant—”

  “He lied,” she said again. “About why Soline left and where she went. It was all a lie. She didn’t leave you. Your father kicked her out. Thia knows. She didn’t then, but she does now. That’s why I’m here—to talk about what really happened.”

  Anson sat very still, his face devoid of emotion. “This is what you needed to discuss with me? This ridiculous, cooked-up story?”

  “Do I look familiar to you?” Rory asked, realizing there was only one way to make him understand. “Look at my face. My eyes. My nose. Do I remind you of anyone?”

  Anson’s eyes narrowed warily. “What is this?” His whole body was coiled for an attack, his jaw rigid. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I can tell you it isn’t going to work.”

  “I’m not playing at anything. And I think you should start calling me Rory. Or Aurora, if you prefer.”

  “I have no intention of calling you anything.” He shoved his chair back and pushed to his feet. “This conversation is over.”

  Tiny needles of panic prickled through Rory’s limbs. If he walked out now, she’d never get another chance. “Soline had a baby,” she blurted. “Your baby.”

  Anson froze.

  “Assia,” she added quietly. “Your daughter’s name was Assia.”

  He pivoted stiffly, dropping back into his chair, as if the weight of what he’d just heard was too much for his legs. Rory pulled her tote into her lap, withdrawing the photos and setting them side by side on the table. “Do you know what these are?”

  Anson studied the photos a moment, then returned his gaze to Rory. “They’re pictures of my sister. A birthday party, I think.”

  Rory nodded. “One of them is.” She pointed to the photograph on his right. “This one. But this . . .” She paused, pointing to the photo on the left. “Is a photo of your granddaughter—your daughter’s little girl—when she was ei
ght. She’ll be twenty-four in January.”

  Anson sat stonily, arms folded. “Until fifteen minutes ago, I’d never laid eyes on you, but you expect me to believe this on your say-so?”

  “Not just mine.” She reached into her tote for the ledger and placed it in front of her on the table. “Your father’s.”

  He eyed the book warily. “What is that?”

  “Thia found it among your father’s things after he died. Lucky for us, he was meticulous about keeping records. And they line up perfectly with what Soline told me. He arranged for her to go to a home for unwed mothers. And by arranged, I mean paid. Only, when the baby came, they told Soline she died. Then they gave her to a wealthy couple from Boston. Their name was Lowell. They renamed the baby Camilla. Eventually, Camilla married a man named Geoffrey Grant and had a daughter of her own—a daughter named Aurora, Rory for short.”

  It took several seconds, but eventually her words seemed to penetrate. “It isn’t . . .”

  “But it is. It’s why you thought both these photos were of Thia. I look like her because I’m her grandniece. I also look like you . . . because I’m your granddaughter.”

  His face grew dark. “If you think you’re going to get a cent—”

  Rory slid the ledger to his side of the table, effectively cutting him off. “It’s all there. Every penny your father spent, including what look to be blackmail payments. There’s also a decree of adoption naming Soline as the birth mother. The father’s name is listed as unknown, but the date of birth lines up perfectly with your last night together in Paris.”

  Anson closed his eyes, as if the mention of that night brought him physical pain. After a moment he opened them again and cleared his throat. “My father lived by his own set of priorities, Ms. Grant, and nothing got in his way. He had plans for me, and those plans didn’t include a wife unless she had the Owen Purcell stamp of approval. I don’t doubt he did what you’re accusing him of. In fact, it sounds just like him. But in this case, he had good reason to doubt the sincerity of my . . . fiancée.”

  The way he pronounced the word fiancée made Rory’s blood simmer. “How can you say that? She was pregnant with your child when he sent her away.”