She pressed the photograph into Camilla’s hands, meeting her puzzled gaze squarely. “This started with you asking me what I was doing with this old photo. I told you I’d just come back from San Francisco. And now I need to tell you the rest.”
Camilla stiffened almost imperceptibly. “The rest?”
“I’ve found out something else. Something I didn’t expect. I asked an old friend—a reporter with the Globe—to help me dig up an old photo of Anson. I wanted to surprise Soline with it. A few days later—”
“Who’s Anson?”
“He’s the man Soline was supposed to marry.”
“Ah, the ambulance driver who was killed in the war.”
“Except he wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t what?”
“Killed. He was wounded, badly, and spent time in a prison camp, but he didn’t die. He’s been alive all this time, and two days ago, I met his sister in Newport.”
Camilla was frowning, clearly confused. “Have I missed something? What does Soline’s fiancé have to do with a picture of you when you were eight?”
“I’m getting to that,” Rory promised. She understood her mother’s impatience, but it was a lot to tell, and it needed to be told carefully. “I originally went to Newport to see Anson but wound up talking to his sister, Thia, instead. She showed me a photo of herself as a child. One so much like this one that it was like looking at twins born thirty years apart. She also showed me some things she found among her father’s papers after he died. An old ledger book and a copy of an adoption decree. That’s why I flew to San Francisco—to meet Anson and explain all this. He’s been walking around for forty years hating Soline because he believed she left him when she learned about his injuries. But it was a lie. His father sent her away because she was going to have a baby. I had to see him, to prove to him what I already knew—that the baby girl Soline bore all those years ago was you.”
Camilla went pale, her expression rigid. “It isn’t true.”
“It is,” Rory said gently. “I’ve seen the adoption decree, and George and Gwendolyn Lowell’s names were there in black and white. Soline’s was there too. And yours. The father was listed as unknown, but there’s no doubt the baby was Anson’s. His father paid a woman named Dorothy Sheridan to tell Soline you died shortly after being born. And then they gave you away.”
“No.”
“She named you Assia,” Rory said, ignoring the repeated denial. “It means ‘one who brings comfort.’”
Camilla shook her head, her eyes wide and glazed. “What you’re saying is impossible, Aurora. After all these years . . . the chances of it being her . . . of all people.”
“I know this is a lot to digest. It was for me, too, but it’s true. The woman who gave birth to you is alive and well and living right here in Boston. You had lunch with her last week.”
Camilla stood suddenly, sending the silver frame thumping to the floor. “Why are you saying this? Do you really need her in your life so badly that you’d swallow this preposterous story? Or is this my punishment for misbehaving the other day?”
Rory stared at her, stunned. “You think I’d make up something like this out of spite?”
“I’m saying I think you want to believe it, no matter how outlandish it seems. You barely know this woman, but in your mind, she’s some kind of saint.”
“You sound like Anson. He said the same thing last night.”
Camilla seemed almost relieved at this news. “Anson doesn’t believe it either?”
“It isn’t a matter of believing. I laid the proof out for him. I even left him the ledger. But he made it perfectly clear that he isn’t interested in a family reunion.”
“And Soline?” Camilla asked coolly. “What does she have to say about this miracle?”
“She doesn’t know any of it. She’s not speaking to me at the moment. Won’t take my calls or answer the door since the day at Seasons.”
“And that’s my fault, I suppose.”
“I didn’t say that, but you have to understand Soline. Withdrawing is how she protects herself. What happened the other day felt like an attack—because it was. You didn’t hear yourself, but I did. And so did she. And I hear you now. Through some weird twist of fate, you’ve been given a chance to know your real mother, and instead of embracing it, you accuse me of wanting to punish you. I don’t understand you.”
Camilla nodded stiffly. “This is a lot to process, Aurora. I’m sorry if I’m not doing it quickly enough to suit you. Perhaps Soline will do a better job of it.” She bent to retrieve the fallen frame and walked it to the curio cabinet, where she spent a few minutes making space for it among the others. When she turned to face Rory again her features were arranged in a kind of bland resignation. “When will you tell her?”
“Not for a while yet. Thia is still hoping to bring Anson around, so I promised to wait. It won’t do any good, but I’ll need time anyway, to smooth things over with Soline.”
“How will she take it, do you think?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. Losing him again—this way—might shatter her. Throw in the fact that the daughter she’s grieved for forty years is also alive but wants nothing to do with her, and I’d say you’ve got the makings of a perfect nervous breakdown.”
“Aurora . . .”
“I’m tired, Mother. I’m going home.”
Camilla looked stricken. “You can’t just leave. We have to talk.”
“I’m done talking tonight. I’m exhausted, and I need some sleep.”
“Will you come to brunch on Sunday? Please don’t say you’re busy.”
Rory had been about to say just that. Instead, she searched Camilla’s face. She looked tired, too, or maybe shaken was a better word. It was a lot to process. An entire family had suddenly been dropped in her lap, along with some pretty messy baggage. And tonight, she’d been given a glimpse into just how much baggage her mother was already carrying. Perhaps like Anson, she was simply unwilling—or unable—to carry more.
“I don’t know,” Rory replied finally. “I think right now we both need time to digest all of this.”
“Please don’t leave angry, Aurora.”
“I’m not angry, Mother. I’m disappointed. Soline isn’t just my friend now. She’s my grandmother. I shouldn’t have to choose between you, but after lunch the other day, I realize you expect me to. Part of me wanted to believe this news might change that—that we’d have a chance at a do-over. Not just for my sake but for yours and Soline’s. You have no idea how much losing you cost her, but I do. All I could think about was she’d finally have her daughter in her life, and you would finally have the kind of mother you deserved—the kind who never stopped loving and wanting you. And I would have you both, like a real family. But I guess Anson was right. There isn’t going to be a happy ending here.”
She turned then and headed for the foyer before glancing back over her shoulder. “If you’re still curious about what your father looks like, I have a fairly recent photograph.”
Camilla folded her arms close to her body, as if suddenly vulnerable. “Maybe you could bring it with you on Sunday.”
“Maybe.”
FORTY-ONE
SOLINE
La Mère has a plan for each of her chosen, a unique path carved out especially for us. We must therefore be wary of the echoes of past generations and guard against making their echoes our own. Ours is not to repeat the past but to learn from it.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
27 September 1985—Boston
The phone begins to jangle at eight o’clock sharp. I sip my coffee and let it ring, cursing myself for forgetting to leave it off the hook after calling the grocer. I snatch it from the cradle. At this time of morning, I already know who it is. “Yes. What?”
“Good morning. This is the Daniel Ballantine answering service calling for Ms. Soline Roussel.”
“Very funny. What do you want?”
“I just had a call from Camil
la Grant—Rory’s mother.”
The name catches me off guard. “I know who she is. What did she want with you?”
“To get to you, apparently. Rory obviously mentioned my name at some point, because she tracked me down. She wanted your number. I offered to pass hers along to you instead. She didn’t say what it was about, but she was pretty determined, kind of agitated.”
“I’m not calling her.”
“Have you spoken to Rory yet?”
“No. Why? Did she say something was wrong?”
“No, but Camilla sounded kind of emotional. She said it was important that she speak to you. Maybe you should give her a call just in case.”
In case . . . what? What could she want with me? I’ve backed away as she wanted me to, retreated to the solitude of my lair, and here I shall stay. I will not lay myself open to another scene.
“I’m not talking to that woman,” I inform him icily.
“What the hell happened at that lunch anyway?”
“Never mind.”
“Fine, just take down her number so I can get back to work. But maybe you want to just check in. Like I said, she sounded a little wound up.”
“Give me the number.”
I grab a pen and pad from the drawer and scribble down the number, though I have absolutely no intention of using it. But after I hang up the phone, I stare at it, wondering what Camilla Grant could possibly want with me.
I arrive at Camilla’s, already regretting my decision. Coming was probably a mistake, but when I finally broke down and phoned Rory’s mother, I found myself unable to decline her invitation to brunch. She asked for a do-over, which is American for second chance. When I hesitated, she asked me to come for Rory’s sake. I couldn’t say no to that. Now, two days later, part of me wishes I’d said no. The other part of me is wondering what all this is about.
There’s a knot in my stomach as I ring the bell, like I used to get when I was learning the craft at Maman’s knee, an echo I can’t interpret. I want to turn and go back down the walk. But before I can step away from the door, it opens, and she’s there, creamy perfection in gauzy linen and long strands of coral beads that reach nearly to her waist. She tries to smile, but it quickly falters.
“Ms. Roussel, thank you so much for coming. Please come in.”
She steps back from the door, allowing me to enter, and for a moment my eyes are drawn to her wrist, to a bracelet studded with gold charms. The sound it makes reminds me of the day at Seasons, the way it jangled when she shook out her napkin.
“Shall we go out to the terrace?”
She closes the door with another metallic jangle and sweeps me through a series of pale, meticulous rooms. It’s just as Rory described, immaculate and unlived in—sterile. For a moment, I’m that other Soline, the one just off the train with the scuffed shoes and mussy clothes, painfully out of place.
The kitchen looks like something from a magazine, stainless and stone with a collection of pretty pitchers above the stove that I sense are just for show. She offers me coffee. I nod my thanks, awkward and not at all sure what I’m doing here.
She fills two cups and puts them on a tray, along with cream and sugar.
“This way,” she says with another attempt at a smile. She feels awkward, too, I realize, surprised that this cool, elegant woman should feel awkward in my presence.
She nods toward an open set of french doors. I follow her out onto a slate-paved terrace. There is no sign of Rory, but a pretty little table has been set for three. The view from the terrace is breathtaking, with a lovely glimpse of the river and a wide swath of greenway.
I feel Camilla’s eyes on my back and turn to find her standing behind me, studying me. She shifts her gaze when she realizes I’m looking at her and points to a chair.
“Please, won’t you sit down?”
She attempts another smile as she settles into her own chair. I choose the one farthest away and take my cup from the tray, conscious of my gloves and still not sure what all this is about.
“Thank you for coming.” It’s the second time she’s said it, and I find myself feeling sorry for her. She looks almost frightened, vulnerable and anxious. “I asked you to come early because I wanted to talk to you before Aurora arrived. She told me the two of you haven’t spoken since that day at lunch, and I’m afraid that’s my fault. We got off to a bad start.” She pauses, shaking her head. “No, that’s not right. I got off to a bad start. I was so awful to you that day, and I wanted to explain, to . . . apologize.”
I can tell by the way she struggles with the last part that she isn’t used to apologizing. This is difficult for her, and because it is, I feel myself softening. I sip my coffee, waiting.
“I don’t know what came over me. I could hear the words coming out, but I couldn’t seem to stop them. It was like my mother was talking instead of me.”
Her eyes dart from mine, as if she’s said more than she intended. “I’m sorry I blurted out that bit about my mother. It’s just that I sometimes find myself channeling her when it comes to Aurora. We don’t always . . . We see things differently. Almost everything, really. And then when Matthew . . . Hux,” she corrects. “When Hux entered the picture, I handled it badly. I didn’t know anything about him, and I worried that he wasn’t . . .” She sighs and goes quiet again. “I swore I’d never be like her. That when I had a daughter of my own, I would be different, and it turns out I’m just like her.”
“You’re speaking of your mother again.”
She nods, the corners of her mouth turned down like a child’s. “I was never the daughter she wanted, and she made sure I knew it.” She pressed a hand to her lips. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t come here to listen to this, but there’s not really anyone I can talk to about it, and you’re . . . you and Rory have grown so close.”
I watch as she bends her head to sip her coffee, knowing my next words will hurt her, knowing, too, that the things we need to hear often do. “Rory said the same thing once,” I say quietly. “That she wasn’t the daughter you wanted.”
Her head comes up slowly, and I see that the remark has shaken her. “Aurora thinks . . .” Her eyes pool with tears. “But it isn’t true. I’m so proud of her. So proud. She’s brave and beautiful and knows exactly what she wants to do and be.” Her words thicken, and she blinks away her tears. “She’s the me I wish I’d had the courage to be when I was her age.”
“Why doesn’t she know that?”
The question stings, but it needed to be asked. She puts her cup down and wipes beneath both eyes, careful of her makeup. “I’ve made so many mistakes. I’ve held on to her too tightly. To protect her, I told myself, but that wasn’t it. That was never it. I tried to clip her wings and keep her close. So I would . . . have someone. When Hux disappeared, she withdrew from me, from everything, really. I tried to pull her back, to reach her, but she just kept getting further and further away. And then she met you, and it was like she was alive again. And the gallery . . . all of a sudden that was back on, and she was talking about her art. I know how petty this must sound, but it felt like you were trying to take her away, and she’s all I have. That’s why I acted the way I did, because I was jealous. And afraid.”
Her eyes drift from mine, sliding toward the horizon. I study her, her profile so familiar I feel as if I’ve always known her. She is so much like Rory, and yet she’s different too. On the outside she’s cool and polished, but beneath all that perfection there are layers of pain. I feel my heart take a step toward her.
“No one can take her away from you, Camilla. She’s your daughter. You’re bound for life, and by something that runs much deeper than blood and shared memories. You’re bound by your echoes.”
She turns back, a little crease between her brows. “Echoes?”
I smile, because she looks like she needs a smile. “It’s something my mother used to say. She believed we each possess an echo, a kind of spiritual fingerprint, and that those echoes connect us to the ones we
love, binding us forever.”
Her eyes hold mine, wide and still shiny with tears. I can’t read what’s in them, but I feel a kind of yearning in her, a need to speak, and yet there’s a reluctance. “Do you . . . believe it?” she asks finally. “The part about the echoes binding us forever, I mean?”
Her voice is thick, choked with emotion, and I realize with a start that she has laid herself bare to me, like a child. There’s a sudden ache in my throat, a tightness that makes it hard to breathe. I’m confused, almost dizzy, but she’s still looking at me, still waiting for a reply.
Before I can think of how to answer, Camilla sets her cup down abruptly and pops up out of her chair. She looks nervous, almost guilty. “That’s the door. Aurora’s here.”
She’s preparing to step away when Rory suddenly appears in the doorway. She looks vaguely stricken as our eyes meet, both glad and afraid, and I realize her mother hasn’t told her I’d be here. She’s holding a large manila envelope. She tucks it beneath her arm and shoots Camilla a look. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Camilla says, managing to sound both flustered and pleased. “Soline and I were just having a little chat.”
Rory glances in my direction, then narrows her eyes at her mother. “We talked about this.”
“No, no. We were just getting to know one another. You know, girl talk.”
“Your message said to get here as soon as I could. I thought something had happened.”
“Only because I knew you’d want to see Soline. I thought it would be nice for the three of us to get together for brunch.”
“Except we talked about this. What are you up to?”
Rory has lowered her voice, but her words carry on the breeze. She’s angry. Camilla turns, peering at me anxiously over her shoulder. She tries to smile and once again misses. I can’t help feeling there’s a conversation involving me taking place, one to which I am not to be made privy.
“Please.” Camilla catches Rory’s hand, holding it in both of hers. “I’m trying to make things right, Rory. I remember what you said. I remember every word. I just want us to be . . .” Her voice trails as she lets go of her daughter’s hand. “I want us all to be . . . friends. Good, good friends. Now, go talk to Soline while I serve up the food.”
The Keeper of Happy Endings Page 32