The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  She wandered over to one of the frames near the window, running a hand along the unfinished piece clamped between the stretcher bars. A winter harbor scene with a scrim of white fog sliding across the water. All it needed was the sky: the glimmer of a watery sun struggling to break through low shredding clouds. Pewter silk, periwinkle moiré, slivers of soft gray flannel. The light would be tricky. Maybe pleated silver tissue. She was pretty sure she had some scraps in one of the bins, and she still had a week to work. If she started tonight, she might be able to finish one more in time to have it mounted.

  The thought set off a flutter of wings in her belly. Was she actually considering this? Her mother’s words had touched an unexpected chord in her this morning. Not just her declaration of pride but her reference to both of them—Soline and Camilla united in support of her, like a family. They were three women who’d been thrown together by a series of events none of them could explain, across seas and years and so many losses. Three separate strands woven to make one whole. Fragile alone but stronger now, because they were together.

  And they would need to be strong when the time came—to help Soline through what was coming. The opening was eight days away. Once that was behind her, she was going to need to talk to Thia about an end date. She’d waited as long as she could in good conscience. Dragging it out only added to Owen’s lies, and there’d already been too many lies. It was time the truth came out, let the chips fall where they may. She only hoped that when they did, Soline would take comfort in her new family and continue to rebuild her life.

  FORTY-THREE

  RORY

  October 26, 1985—Boston

  Rory checked her watch, then took three more deep breaths. The doors were scheduled to open in an hour, and they were as ready as they were going to get. A bar had been set up near the front, offering a selection of wines and imported beers; platters of cold hors d’oeuvres had been arranged on a small buffet toward the back; the classical guitarist she had hired was setting up in a discreet corner; and all seven artists had arrived on time and were clustered up front, chatting and waiting for the doors to open.

  Her mother and Soline were upstairs, pretending to powder their noses while they gave her some space. She was grateful for that. The week had been a blur of manic creativity and last-minute details, leaving little time for sleep, let alone reflection. Now, with nothing left to do but turn the OPEN sign around and unlock the door, she needed a few seconds of quiet to ground herself in the moment.

  It felt almost surreal standing in this place that she had created out of thin air, as if she’d stepped into the middle of someone else’s dream. And in a way, she had. A few months ago, the row house had been abandoned, gutted but not empty. Her grandmother had dreamed here once and had left a little of her magic behind, like bread crumbs for her to find one day. And she had found them. Or perhaps they had found her. Now, whatever the sign above the door might say, Soline Roussel’s echoes would continue to live within these walls. And so would hers.

  She stared at the acrylic placard for the gallery’s newest collection—DREAM WAVE BY AURORA GRANT—and blinked back the sting of tears. Suddenly she was with Hux, staring at her work through the window of Finn’s, hearing the words that had set it all in motion.

  Dreams are like waves . . . You have to wait for the right one to come along, the one that has your name on it . . . This dream has your name all over it.

  “Look what I did, Hux,” she whispered softly. “Look where I’m standing. It did have my name all over it. And now it’s real. Because of you.”

  “I think it’s time, sweetheart.”

  Rory batted away the last of her tears as she turned to look at her mother. She was wearing a calf-length skirt, a vest of plum-colored crepe, and gray suede boots with pencil-thin heels. Not a stitch of beige in sight. “Have I told you how amazing you look tonight?”

  Camilla dropped her chin, smiling shyly. “Thank you. I think we have the same dresser. And look at you—the suit fits like a glove. You look beautiful. And so does everything else. You’ve done an amazing job with all of it. And I’m so glad you decided to hang your work. It deserves to be seen and appreciated.”

  “It’s so strange. For months, I’ve been trying to imagine what this night would feel like, and now . . .”

  Camilla reached for her hand. “Oh, honey, what is it?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking about Hux. How none of this would be happening if it wasn’t for him believing in me. I wish he were here to see it.”

  “He will be, sweetheart. He’ll come back, and he’ll be so proud when he sees what you’ve done. But right now, we need to get you out front. Your public awaits.”

  The words sent a flurry of butterflies skittering against Rory’s insides. “I don’t have a public. What if no one shows up? We’ll be eating stuffed cherry tomatoes and roasted red pepper crostini for a week.”

  Camilla barked out an uncharacteristic laugh. “Now you’re just being silly. We mailed over two hundred invitations. Both papers covered the opening in their weekend sections, and I’ve told literally everyone I know—twice. My guess is there won’t be a tomato or a crostini to be had by the time you close the doors tonight. Now, march. There’s a party waiting to get started.”

  “Where’s Soline?”

  “Still upstairs, but she said she’d be right down. I think she’s a little nervous about being around so many people.”

  Rory knew exactly how she felt, but she managed to put one foot in front of the other anyway, dimly aware of her mother beside her, shooting a crisp nod to the tall brunette standing behind the bar, another to the redhead manning the food table, and a third to the guitarist, who instantly picked up his guitar. Soft strains of The Beatles’ “Blackbird” filled the air, and the artists scattered to take their places with their collections.

  “You’re ready,” Camilla whispered close to her ear. “I’ll man the door. Your job—your only job—is to smile, mingle, and look like a gallery owner. And remember to pace yourself. It’s going to be a long night.”

  A draft of crisp autumn air wafted in as Camilla pulled back the door. Within minutes, several clusters of women entered and were exchanging hugs and air kisses. Friends of her mother, she realized with a rush of gratitude.

  Camilla really was quite fabulous in action, completely in charge of the moment, pulling invisible levers with a nod or a glance, and making it all look effortless, and Rory found herself wondering if she was capable of developing such skills. She was still mulling the question when her mother and her gaggle of friends began heading in her direction.

  “Oh, there she is. My word, what have you done to yourself? You’re simply stunning, Aurora!” It was Laurie Lorenz, treasurer of the art council, running heavily made-up eyes down the length of her. “I barely recognized you without your hair. You look so chic, like you just stepped off a Paris runway.”

  Hilly was nodding enthusiastically. “It is divine, isn’t it? Will you look at those cheekbones? Just like her mother’s. And I can’t get over what you’ve done with this place. We bought my daughter’s wedding dress here four years ago, and now look at it. No one would ever guess it nearly burned to the ground.”

  “Thank you,” Rory said awkwardly, hoping Soline wasn’t in earshot. “The damage wasn’t as bad as originally thought, and I found a wonderful contractor. We managed to save quite a few of the original fixtures and the staircase, which I’ve fallen in love with.”

  The ladies followed Rory’s gaze to the staircase, nodding in unison. As if on cue, Soline appeared at the top of the stairs, magnificent in black silk palazzos and an embroidered silver jacket. She paused briefly, running an eye over the crowd, then began to descend, one black-gloved hand sliding along the railing.

  No one spoke. Rory could scarcely blame them. She was breathtaking, and so graceful her feet seemed not to touch the ground. She paused again on the last step, and for a moment, Rory was afraid she might turn and bolt back up the sta
irs. Instead, she squared her shoulders and looked out over the crowd until her eyes connected with Rory’s.

  Rory lifted a hand, aware of the curious stares of her mother’s friends. Camilla was aware of them, too, and appeared poised to rush to Soline’s defense if necessary. But Soline threw them both a reassuring smile as she approached. She looked amazing with her smoky eyes and scarlet lips, her hair swept back on one side with a jeweled comb.

  Camilla hooked her arm through Soline’s, drawing her close. “Ladies, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Soline Roussel.”

  There was a brief pause, followed by a ripple of polite murmurs. It was Hilly who finally spoke up. “Madame Roussel! This was your shop once. You made my Caroline’s wedding dress. Caroline Walden. I’m sure you don’t remember, but she and her husband have three lovely children now, thanks to you. And people still talk about that dress, the way the bow—”

  Camilla cut her off with a wave of a hand. “I’m sure Soline doesn’t want to spend the evening talking shop, Hilly. But perhaps you and Vicky could speak to her about the art council. I need to get back to manning the door, and Aurora needs to circulate with her guests. Be sure to sample the hors d’oeuvres and let me know what you think about using Aurora’s caterer for New Year’s Eve. She’s fabulous.”

  Rory ran her eyes around the room, surprised at how quickly it was filling up. She’d been worried that no one would come. Now she wondered if there would be enough wine. But it was good to see so many familiar faces. Kelly and Doug Glennon were just arriving; Daniel Ballantine and a pretty blonde she assumed was his wife were browsing the food table; and Brian, who had traded his contractor’s clothes for neatly pressed khakis and a brown tweed jacket, was sipping a beer and chatting with a couple she recognized as friends of her mother.

  She felt herself relax as she began to circulate. She was thrilled to see guests chatting with the artists, discussing media, technique, and sources of inspiration.

  At some point, her mother had pressed a glass of chardonnay into her hand, and then later, she had grabbed another. A mistake, she now realized. The evening’s excitement, coupled with a week of little or no sleep, seemed to hit her all at once, and she suddenly felt herself winding down. Camilla must have realized it, too, because she appeared with a plate of hors d’oeuvres, suggesting it might be time to eat something.

  She felt better after a little food. And even better after selling one of her pieces to a local surgeon and her husband. By the time the last guest left at ten thirty, they had sold a total of four pieces, booked two commissions, and had a promising lead for Kendra Paterson’s Crest. All in all, a successful night. And now that it was over, she was going to crawl into bed and sleep like the dead.

  She looked up to see her mother wandering toward her with two glasses of wine. “They’re breaking down the bar, so I figured I’d better grab one for each of us. Soline went up to your office about an hour ago. Tonight was a lot, but I think she did well. I offered to run her home around nine and come back, but she was determined to stay. Here.” She pressed one of the glasses into Rory’s hand. “I thought we’d round off the evening with a toast.”

  Rory eyed the glass warily. “I’m not sure I should. I’m dead on my feet, and I have to drive home.”

  “Just a toast. We didn’t get a chance before.”

  “All right. But just a sip.”

  Camilla raised her glass, waiting until Rory followed suit. “To the young woman I’m lucky enough to call my daughter. I haven’t always been particularly good at letting you know how proud I am of you or of trusting you to know what’s right for you, and I’m sorry for that. I am proud. Not just tonight but always, and I promise to do better in the future.”

  “Thank you,” Rory murmured, moved by her mother’s unexpected declaration. After a sip, she lifted her glass again. “And now it’s my turn. To the woman who taught me what grace under fire looks like. You were wonderful tonight, keeping your eye on everything, including me. I’m not sure I could have gotten through it without you.” She cleared her throat, dismayed to find herself choking up. “I haven’t always given you credit for how much you do—and for how well you do it, and I promise to do better too.”

  Camilla lowered her lashes as they touched glasses. “You’re going to make me cry.”

  “You started it,” Rory shot back before taking her obligatory sip.

  “Fair enough. I’m going to the kitchen now to see if there are any of those little crostini left; then I’m going upstairs to find Soline so I can go home and soak my feet.” She paused, pointing to her new boots. “These heels are going to take some getting used to.”

  Rory couldn’t help smiling as she watched her mother head for the kitchen. It had been a night of surprises, starting with a pair of high-heeled boots and ending with a moment of honesty and mutual respect she couldn’t have imagined just a few weeks ago. It was the perfect ending to a nearly perfect night, but she had to admit, she was glad it was over.

  She took one last turn around the room, on the lookout for plates or glasses the caterers might have missed, and collected stray cocktail napkins. She had just bent down to pick up a rumpled brochure when she heard the entry chime. Apparently, no one had thought to lock the front door.

  She straightened, reaching for a polite smile. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid . . . Oh my god.”

  No. Not now. Not like this.

  “Anson—what are you doing here?”

  He stood just inside the door, stiff and unsmiling, his hands fisted at his sides. “Thia told me your opening was tonight. I need to talk to you.”

  “You can’t be here!” Rory hissed. “Soline is upstairs, and she doesn’t know that you’re . . .” She paused, throwing a frantic glance up the staircase. “Please! You can’t be here!”

  “Aurora, I packed . . .” Camilla’s words trailed off when she saw that Rory wasn’t alone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

  “This is Anson,” Rory explained stiffly. “He was just leaving.”

  Camilla’s face went momentarily slack, her mouth parted in a silent O. Eventually, the spell lifted, and blankness was replaced with something Rory couldn’t name. “You look like your picture,” she said coolly.

  Anson took a step forward before catching himself. He stood stock-still, his eyes riveted on Camilla’s face. “Are you . . .”

  “Yes, I am. And you have to leave. Now.”

  “I need to speak to your . . . I need to speak to Rory.”

  Camilla arched a frosty brow. “Not now you don’t. Whatever you have to say has waited forty years. One more night isn’t going to change anything.”

  “Please,” Rory pleaded. “Go. And give us a chance to talk to Soline. She can’t find out like this.”

  The words were barely out of her mouth when she heard the rasp of an indrawn breath from somewhere overhead, followed by the dull thump of an embroidered silk clutch tumbling down the stairs.

  FORTY-FOUR

  SOLINE

  There is a grief worse than death. It is the grief of a life half-lived. Not because you don’t know what could have been but because you do.

  —Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

  It can’t be, yet it is.

  He has aged, the years softening his once-hard body, adding lines to his face and threads of silver to his hair, but I would know him anywhere.

  For forty years, I’ve dreamed of seeing him again, knowing it was impossible but dreaming it still. And now, somehow, he’s here. Alive, and staring up at me like I’m the ghost. My throat is suddenly full of tears and answered prayers, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes. Because I see that something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. I see it in the way Rory is looking up at me, like she’s apologizing for some unforgivable crime, in Camilla’s folded arms and rigid stance, as if she is preparing to do battle. And in the icy blankness that has stolen over Anson’s face. In the space of an instant, I have become a stranger to him. No, not a stra
nger—an enemy. But how? Why?

  “Anson?”

  His eyes connect with mine, hooded and hard. I can’t see their color, but I can feel their coldness, like a steel blade between my ribs. It is a look he used to wear when speaking of the boche. And now he’s aiming it at me.

  Somehow, I make my legs move, managing to take one step, then another. But he’s backing toward the door now, holding up a hand, as if to ward me off. And then he’s gone, out into the street, leaving the door hanging open behind him. For a moment, I’m in Paris again, sitting in the back of an ambulance, watching him disappear through a small square window.

  My legs go then, and I fold down onto the step like a felled bird, too stunned to utter a word or even cry. Rory is at my side, taking my hands, murmuring again and again that she’s sorry, so very sorry, as if what just happened is her fault. I look at her, trying to make sense of what I see in her face. Sadness. Pity. And . . . is it guilt?

  “I was going to tell you. After the opening, we were going to tell you everything.”

  We?

  I look to the foot of the stairs, where Camilla is staring up at me, clutching the newel with both hands, and I see it there too. The same guilt. But I can’t make sense of it there either.

  “Going to tell me what?”

  “That Anson was alive. I’ve known for a while now, and—”

  “How long?”

  “A few weeks. Maybe a little longer.”

  I drag my eyes back to Camilla. “You knew too? And said nothing?”

  “We wanted to tell you,” Rory blurts before Camilla can get a word out. “We were just waiting for the right time to break the news. I’m so sorry. I never dreamed he’d show up here. When I left him in San Francisco, he made it clear that he didn’t want to see you.”