The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  Rory still looks wary as she slides the envelope from beneath her arm and hands it to her mother. She lingers a moment, watching Camilla disappear into the house, then joins me at the table. “I had no idea you were going to be here. Did she trick you too?”

  “She called Daniel, and he called me. She felt bad about lunch and invited me to join you today. She was very determined. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “I’m so sorry. She’s always been a force of nature. How have you been?”

  “Well enough.”

  “You know, I tried to call you. Then I came over and knocked on your door. When you didn’t answer, I left you a note.”

  “And then you sent Daniel snooping around my kitchen window.”

  “I was worried. You were so upset when you left that day. I wanted to apologize, but you wouldn’t answer your phone. I’m so sorry about what she said and how she was.”

  “Why are you apologizing for your mother’s actions? They were hers, not yours. And she had her reasons for behaving as she did.”

  Rory’s eyes widen. She’s surprised, and perhaps a little hurt that I have taken her mother’s side even a little. “You’re defending her now?”

  “She was afraid, chérie. People lash out when they’re afraid.”

  “Afraid of you?”

  “How a person behaves toward us is never about us, Rory. It’s about them. Your mother acted as she did because she felt threatened. You’re hers, and she wanted me to know it. Because she’s afraid of losing you—and of being alone.”

  Rory scowls at the open french doors. “Then she should stop doing things to drive me away. She acts like I don’t deserve a life of my own, like everything I am and do is about her. My art, the gallery, even who I choose to be friends with.”

  I feel her anger in my bones, the tug-of-war between mother and daughter. It’s a clash as old as time itself, for there have always been mothers who knew best. Just as there have always been daughters who knew better. It’s a contradiction that is part of every woman’s journey—the need to shape in one’s own image versus the aversion to being shaped at all.

  I smile sadly. “It’s a hard thing for a mother to relinquish her bébé. You’ve been a part of her life for a very long time, her whole world, and now all of a sudden, you’re grown up with a life of your own. She’s lonely.”

  “How on earth can she be lonely? There isn’t a blank space on her calendar. She’s always flitting off to some luncheon or card game or going to the theater. She has an actual entourage. Especially since my father died, not that he was ever much of a companion.”

  “One doesn’t have to be alone to be lonely, chérie. They’re not the same thing. We all cope with loss in our own way, inventing ways to fill up the emptiness. That’s why her calendar is full. And why she’s been so possessive. She wants to be part of your life, but she doesn’t know how.”

  Rory folds her arms and lets out a sigh. She looks so young and petulant, sitting there with her arms crossed. It chafes to hear me defend her mother. But the rift between these two must be mended before it hardens into something cold and permanent. Perhaps that’s why fate has thrown me into their lives. To broker peace.

  “In France we say, tu me manques. It means ‘you are missing from me.’ Not I miss you—the way Americans say it—but you are missing from me. The part of you that is a part of me . . . is gone. This is how it is for her. There’s a void in her life where you used to be, and she doesn’t know how to fill it.”

  Rory sinks into the chair beside me, silent. She’s determined to cling to her anger.

  “She knows she’s made mistakes, Rory. That’s why she asked me to come today, to make amends. Not just with me but with you. And I think you should let her.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “No. But she thinks the three of us should be friends, and I think so too. We’ve been brought together somehow. I don’t know how or why, but you can’t deny it. Perhaps we’re meant to help each other in some way, to fill each other’s empty places.”

  She looks at me so strangely, as if I’ve said something earth-shattering and she’s about to correct me. For the tiniest moment, I’m afraid of what she’ll say, afraid our newly formed circle is about to be broken, and suddenly I don’t want it to be.

  And then I hear the tinkle of Camilla’s bracelet as she approaches with a tray full of food. “Isn’t this just lovely,” she says, beaming. “The three of us, together at last.”

  FORTY-TWO

  RORY

  October 18, 1985—Boston

  Rory stared at the expanse of blank wall with a blooming sense of dread. Forty-eight hours ago, Dheera Petri had called to explain why, ten days before the opening, her pieces still hadn’t arrived for installation. She’d had a call from an interior designer who wanted all but two of her paintings for a new office building she’d been hired to decorate. She felt terrible putting Rory on the spot so close to the opening, but would it be possible to get out of their agreement so she could sell her pieces?

  They’d agreed to schedule something in the future, and Rory had wished her well. She couldn’t, in good conscience, stand in the way of an offer like that, but she had no idea how she was going to fill the spot on such short notice. To top it off, Camilla and Soline were due to arrive any minute. It would be the first time either of them had seen the gallery, and she’d been looking forward to giving them the full tour. Instead, she was fretting about the prospect of a glaringly empty space on opening night. Not exactly a good omen.

  She’d been so pleased with how it all turned out. Brian had done an amazing job, coming in both under budget and two weeks ahead of schedule. The color scheme she had settled on, soft layers of charcoal and slate, gave everything a slightly industrial feel, but careful lighting and reclaimed art deco fixtures added just the right amount of glamour. Even the installations had gone off without a hitch. Until Dheera called with her terrible good news.

  “Aurora? Honey? Are you here?”

  Rory started at the sound of Camilla’s voice. She hadn’t heard the entry chime, but apparently it was showtime. “I’ll be right there.”

  The sight of Soline and her mother hovering in the doorway instantly lifted her spirits. They looked nothing alike—Camilla had inherited Anson’s pale eyes and blond hair, while Soline’s coloring was dark—and yet there was an inexplicable similarity as they stood side by side, an invisible cord that seemed to tether them.

  A month ago, she couldn’t have imagined them spending time together, but in the weeks since her mother’s surprise brunch they had grown surprisingly close.

  It was good to see Soline getting out again, and she was both thrilled and surprised by how quickly her mother’s cool beige persona had morphed into something vibrant and almost playful, thanks to a trip to Bella Mia and a series of consultations with Lila at Neiman Marcus. Apparently, Soline had become Camilla’s fairy godmother too. And Camilla had been happy to return the favor, inviting Soline to luncheons, shopping excursions, even a ballet performance last week.

  Soline had filled a hole in Camilla’s life that even she hadn’t known existed, easing her need to cling and manage, which had allowed Rory time to focus on the gallery. And it appeared they were going to become a regular threesome for Sunday brunch.

  It was more than even Rory had hoped for, but what would happen when they finally told Soline the truth? Not all the news would be bad—she would be reunited with her daughter and granddaughter—but even then, there would be bitterness over all the lost years. And of course, the news about Anson would be devastating. Would their newfound closeness be enough to pull her through the aftermath?

  Camilla was starting to grumble about feeling disingenuous, and Rory worried that one day her mother would simply blurt out the truth, a gaffe almost certain to end in disaster.

  She had agreed to give Thia time, but as of their last conversation, there’d been no movement on that front. Anson had gone abroad soon a
fter their meeting in San Francisco and wasn’t returning calls. She wasn’t surprised, but a tiny part of her had hoped Thia might be successful, that the scales would suddenly drop from Anson’s eyes and there would be a happy ending after all. But with every day that passed, that was looking less likely.

  “So,” Camilla said, clapping her hands eagerly. “We’re here for our tour. We said eleven, right?”

  Rory pasted on a smile. “Yes, we did.”

  Her gaze shifted to Soline, who was surveying her surroundings with an open mouth. It was the first time she’d been back since the night of the fire four years ago, and Rory had been worried about her reaction. Her last memories of the place could hardly be good.

  “This is astonishing,” Soline murmured at last. “I worked and lived here for thirty-five years, and I barely recognize the place. It’s all so beautiful. And you left the original stair railing. How wonderful.”

  Rory felt herself relax. “I’m so glad you like it. I wanted to leave some of the details as an homage to the building’s history. We still need to tweak the acoustics a little because of the bare floors—there’s quite an echo when the place is empty—but overall, I’m thrilled with how it all turned out.”

  Camilla had just returned from a quick circuit around the front room. She peered at Rory’s face, frowning. “What’s wrong? Something is, isn’t it?”

  “No. I’m just a little tense about the opening. And tired. The last few weeks have been such a blur, getting the invitations out, organizing the food and the music, working with all the artists to get the installations just right. It’s been a lot.”

  “But you’re finished now. And just look at it. I can’t believe what you’ve done here. The colors and clean lines. The way you’ve used light to create a mood. It feels so . . . dramatic and yet calm too. You’ve managed the perfect blend of elegant and artsy.”

  Rory waited for the inevitable but, followed by a list of things she would have done differently. But it’s a little . . . Perhaps you could have . . . Did you ever consider . . . They didn’t come. Her mother just stood there, smiling.

  “Thank you. Are you ready to see the rest?”

  “Lead the way. We want to see everything.”

  Rory walked them through each of the seven collections, referring them to Plexiglas wall placards featuring each artist’s bio and photograph. Along the way, she pointed out her favorite pieces, explaining the specific types of media and techniques used to create them. It was good practice, and she was happy to find the talking points she’d memorized came easily.

  She ended with her favorite collection, Kendra Paterson’s sea glass pieces, which turned out to be her mother’s favorite, too, particularly the large wave sculpture titled Crest. It was an absolute showstopper—an ocean wave created from thousands of sea-weathered shards ranging in color from frosty white and pale foam green to inky kelp and every shade in between.

  “It’s just breathtaking,” Camilla sighed. “And such clever work. I can’t imagine the patience something like this requires, not to mention the pure skill involved. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

  Rory was beyond pleased with her mother’s reaction to what she considered the pièce de résistance of all seven collections. “That’s what I thought too. I found her by accident, through another of my artists, and I’m thrilled to have her on board for the opening.”

  Soline was moving slowly around the plinth, her gloved hands clasped before her, as if to stop herself from reaching out and touching. “The longer you look at it, the more it seems to be moving, like an actual wave. Does the artist know how many pieces of glass she uses for each sculpture?”

  “She used to, but she’s stopped counting as her pieces got larger and more involved. But every shard of glass is collected by hand by her and her husband. They travel to beaches all over the world. You wouldn’t believe her studio. It’s filled—”

  “Aurora? Honey?” Camilla’s voice drifted from the other side of gallery. “What’s supposed to be here?”

  Her mother had wandered off while she and Soline were talking, but Rory knew without turning that she was referring to the blank wall where Dheera Petri’s acrylic pieces should have been. “I had an artist pull out the day before yesterday.”

  “Oh no. That’s terrible. And not very fair so close to the opening.”

  Rory shrugged, trying to play down her disappointment. “She got an offer from a decorator for all but two of her paintings, and I couldn’t stand in the way of the sale. So now I have a wall to fill with just eight days to go. I could probably fill it with one-offs. I’d have to take out one of the pod walls and shift the installations, then change all the lighting, but I can get it done in time. It’s just not what I wanted for the opening. I’ve got a few more days, though, so I haven’t completely given up.”

  “You know,” Soline said, eyeing the empty wall thoughtfully, “I know an artist whose work would be perfect. Very . . . original. It’s short notice and she’s terribly busy right now, but I think I might be able to twist her arm. She owes me a favor.”

  Rory nearly shouted for joy. She had no idea Soline had connections in the art world. Her fairy godmother was about to come through again. “Is she local? Please say yes.”

  “Quite local.”

  “Could you call her? I’ll meet her anywhere she wants.”

  Soline offered one of her quizzical smiles. “I’m talking about you, Rory, about your art. It’s exactly the thing for that wall, a perfect segue from the sea glass pieces. And you wouldn’t have to move anything.”

  Rory let out a sigh, like the air going out of a tire. “I thought you were serious.”

  “I am serious. I was serious the last time I said it too. You remember, don’t you?”

  Rory did remember, but she’d chalked it up to kindness. “But they’re not . . . They don’t belong here, next to all of this.”

  “Oh, ma pêche. Don’t you see? This is exactly where they belong. This woman backing out wasn’t an accident. It was precisely what was supposed to happen.”

  “But it’s only five pieces for an entire wall.”

  “Perfect,” Camilla said firmly. “They’ll have room to breathe.”

  Rory turned to look at her in astonishment. “You think I should do it?”

  “I do. Soline is right, sweetheart. This is what’s supposed to happen.”

  “But you always said—”

  “Forget what I said. I should have encouraged you a long time ago, and I’m sorry I didn’t. But I’m encouraging you now. Not because you’re in a pinch. Because your work is beautiful and original and belongs on these walls. Please say you’ll do it. Or that you’ll at least think about it.”

  Rory managed a smile, touched by this unexpected declaration, but she didn’t need to think about it. She had enough on her plate without the pressure of wondering how her work would be received when seen side by side with real artists.

  “Well, you’ve had the tour, unless you want to see upstairs.”

  Camilla shot Soline a wink as she hooked an arm through Rory’s. “Actually, Soline and I have a surprise for you.”

  Rory wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. She’d had enough surprises for one week. “What kind of surprise?”

  “Really, Aurora, stop being so suspicious. It’s a good surprise. We promise.”

  Up front, Soline retrieved a Neiman Marcus shopping bag from beside the door and handed it to Rory. “For you,” she said with a catlike smile. “From both of us.”

  Rory carried the bag to the front counter and removed a large, flat box. Her breath caught as she lifted the lid, revealing a suit of claret-colored silk. It was cut like a tuxedo, with black velvet lapels and a single-button closure. She stared at the label. Valentino.

  “This must have cost a fortune.” She ran a hand along one velvet lapel. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “It’s for the opening,” Soline told her. “Unless you’ve already purchased something.” />
  Rory shook her head as she folded the suit back into the box. “I hadn’t given it another thought, actually.”

  Camilla threw her head back with one of her tinkling laughs. “You see? I told you. She’s never given any thought to clothes. When she was little, dressing up for Halloween meant shoulder pads and a helmet or a conductor’s hat and overalls. Never a princess or a fairy like the other little girls. And now look at her . . .” She broke off, blinking rapidly, as if caught off guard by her emotions. “All grown up and an artist with her very own gallery.” Her fingers crept to the strand of pearls at her throat, twisting awkwardly. “You had a dream, and you chased it. Not many can say that, but you can, and I’m happy for you. You deserve this, Rory.”

  It was Rory’s turn to be caught off guard. Not Aurora . . . Rory. That was new.

  “Thank you,” she said thickly. “Thank you to both of you. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me that you’ll both be at the opening.”

  “Just try and keep us away.” Camilla leaned in to drop a kiss on her cheek. “We’re off to lunch now and then a little shopping. Soline’s going to help me pick out a pair of boots. I’m thinking suede.”

  Rory walked them out, lingering in the doorway until they had melted into the crowd of pedestrians along Newbury Street. Lunch and boot shopping. That was new too.

  Rory was exhausted by the time she got home. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone trying to find an artist to fill Dheera Petri’s wall. Of the five artists she’d managed to reach, four said they’d be able to ship a piece or two in time for opening night, but none would be available to attend the opening on such short notice. It was looking like she’d have to settle for a selection of one-offs rather than a single collection. Unless she went with Soline’s suggestion.

  She padded down the hall and flipped on the light in the spare room. Her eyes went immediately to the piece hanging behind the desk, the towering granite lighthouse standing defiant in a storm. It was the largest of all her pieces and one of her best. The four in the closet would make a total of five. She pulled them out, lining them up side by side. It might work until she found another collection to replace it. She just needed one more piece for balance.