The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  This part of the training came hard for me. I was impatient, which made me clumsy, perhaps because I found the work so achingly dull. I longed to make dresses, beautiful, shimmering gowns like the ones pictured in La Joie des Modes. But Maman refused to let me do more than pin a hem or trace a pattern until I had mastered charm crafting.

  I thought her terribly unfair. At fifteen I was already as good with a needle as she, perhaps better, and had a sketchbook full of ideas I ached to bring to life. Voluminous princess skirts, tightly nipped waists, bead-encrusted bodices, and wide satin bows with sashes so long they skimmed the floor. They were gowns meant to celebrate the female form, offering glimpses of shoulder and back and bosom.

  Maman detested them all, pronouncing them fanciful and vulgar, fit only for the stage. Her opinion stung more than I let on, but one day after yet another harsh critique, I informed her that her shapeless confections were très démodé—dreary and outdated. No woman, I snapped sullenly—not even the ones who need our help—wanted to walk down the aisle in a dress that looked as if it had been fashioned from her mother’s best tablecloth, and certainly not at the prices we were charging.

  She responded as I knew she would, by pointing out that our clients weren’t paying for fashion but peace of mind. Still, I scorned the idea that a Roussel bride should have to choose between fashion and la magie. I saw no reason they couldn’t have both. If she would only let me make up a few of my dresses and display them in the salon, she would see that I was right. But Maman was not persuaded. And so I began to sew in secret, working every night after her light went out, dreaming of the day women would walk down the aisle in gowns bearing my name on the label.

  Now, years later and an ocean away from where I began, the memories are still raw, but it was work that helped put me back together again after Paris and all that came after. Daniel is right. Despite it all, I managed to make a name for myself and carried on the Roussel legacy in a way I hoped would make Maman proud. With my shop, I found my feet. And I found myself. Selling it, no matter how long it’s been sitting empty, would be like letting go of all of that—like letting go of me—and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

  FIVE

  SOLINE

  Always, there must be free will. It is not for us to impose our beliefs on others or to endeavor to persuade one to the practices of our faith. We do not seek those who need our help. Rather, they must seek us and request our assistance.

  —Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

  31 May 1985—Boston

  This time, Daniel waits until after breakfast to call. I consider letting it ring but know it’s pointless. He’ll only show up at my door with a box of my favorite truffles. After so many years, he knows how to get around me.

  I take my time refilling my coffee cup while the phone continues to ring. Seven times. Eight. Nine. I still don’t know what I’m going to say. I haven’t allowed myself to think about it since his first call. But now I have to think about it, because he knows I’m here—where else would I be?—and he isn’t giving up.

  “You’re becoming a nuisance,” I growl when I finally pick up.

  “What if it wasn’t me?” There’s a smile in his voice and a hint of annoyance that I’ve made him wait.

  “Who else would be calling me?”

  “True enough. Have you thought about what you might want to do?”

  I take a sip of my coffee, wincing as it goes down, hot and strong. What I want to do is turn back the clock, go back to a time when I still had dreams, before my heart froze over. “No,” I say flatly. “I haven’t had time.”

  “I know a little more than I did the last time we spoke. The agent called again yesterday. His client’s been looking for a space to open a gallery. They’re definitely thinking lease rather than sale, which means you wouldn’t actually be letting go of the place. You’d just be . . . sharing it. For a good cause.”

  I let out a sigh. “There’s property all over this city. Why does he have to have mine?”

  “It’s a she, actually, though the agent still wouldn’t drop her name. He did tell me the gallery would showcase up-and-coming artists. She’s even got a name. She wants to call it Unheard Of.”

  I run the name around in my head. Clever. Intriguing. Of course it’s a woman. “You should have told him it wasn’t available when he called the first time,” I snap, annoyed that life seems determined to throw me back into the past when all I want is to be left alone.

  “I’m not your guard dog,” Daniel says in the voice he reserves for me when I’m being exasperating. “I’m your lawyer. My job is to offer counsel when there’s a serious opportunity on the table. And this one is serious. They know about the fire, that repairs were never completed. Gleason says she doesn’t care. Apparently, they’ve been looking for a space for almost a year, but nothing he showed her measured up. Eventually, she shelved the idea. Then she spotted the row house and just knew it was the one. Her exact words. She said it was as if the building had been waiting for her.”

  Waiting for her . . .

  The words seem to vibrate in my chest, the way a tuning fork resonates when struck. “She thinks the building—my building—has been waiting for her?”

  “That’s what he said. Who knows with these artsy types.”

  “I’m an artsy type,” I remind him dryly.

  “Of course you are. So maybe you and this want-to-be gallery owner are kindred spirits. Should I set up a meeting?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I know, but maybe she’s right. Maybe the building has been waiting for her. Maybe you have too. They’re only talking about a lease. And you’d know it was being used for something meaningful. For art.”

  “Stop your wheedling, Daniel. I’m not a child.”

  To his credit, he remains silent. The truth is I can be rather childlike at times. Sullen and immovable. And yes, difficult. I suppose that’s what comes from a life that’s denied you everything you ever wanted. But now it’s someone else doing the wanting. Someone with a dream. Someone who believes in art and artists. Do I really want to play the spoiler?

  “Soline?” Daniel prods finally.

  “Set up a meeting.”

  There’s a beat of startled silence. “For what day?”

  “You pick the day. I won’t be there.”

  “You don’t want to meet this mystery woman?”

  “No.” My answer comes so fast it surprises even me. I’ve never cared much for the business end of things. That’s why I have a solicitor. Daniel can oversee the negotiations and finalize the deal if one is reached, then send the necessary paperwork by courier. I can bear that much, as long as I don’t have to sit through it all with a smile on my face and pretend I don’t remember the stitch-by-stitch unraveling of my life. Because I do.

  I remember the day I learned the Nazis would come. I remember where I was and what I was wearing. I remember what Maman was wearing and what she said. And I remember not wanting to believe any of it. It was impossible. But Maman knew better and had quietly begun hoarding what we would need—what I would need—and on my sixteenth birthday, she decided it was time to prepare me for what was coming.

  SIX

  SOLINE

  A crucifix around your neck and a charme magique in your pocket may keep away the witch hunters, but they are worthless against the Nazis.

  —Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

  17 September 1939—Paris

  It’s near closing time, and I’m tidying up the workroom, complaining about the bolts of fabric beginning to pile up in the corners, when Maman’s sewing machine goes quiet.

  “There will come a time,” she says gravely, “when we’ll need more than flour and sugar to survive.”

  My mother has never been given to dramatics. She is a woman who lives her life in the cool and careful middle, with no time for theatrics, so this dire prediction, delivered out of the blue, takes me by surprise.

  I blink at her. “Who said
anything about flour?”

  She reaches over and clicks off the radio, then folds her hands in her lap. “It’s time for me to say a few things, Soline, and I want you to listen.”

  This alone is enough to put me on my guard. Maman is not a talker, unless it’s to point out an uneven hem or shabbily cut pattern. But war changes things. My belly tightens when I meet her eyes, dark like my own with a fringe of black lashes that are suddenly and inexplicably spiked with tears.

  She points to the empty chair beside her worktable. “Come sit by me and listen.”

  Her tears, so rare, terrify me. “What is it?”

  “There are changes coming,” she begins. “Dark times that will test us all. Even now, the winds are blowing.” She is fingering the gold crucifix she has taken to wearing every day, a new habit, like the garnet beads she keeps in her apron pocket and works absently when her hands happen to be free.

  Oui, Maman carries a rosary. And wears a crucifix. It isn’t uncommon for our kind to practice a blend of Catholicism and la magie des esprits. She doesn’t attend mass or make confession, but she goes to the church now and then to light a candle—as a kind of hedge against malchance.

  Perhaps it’s to do with the early days of the church, when our feast days were assumed into the Christian calendar in an effort to herd women like us into the one true faith. Or a holdover from darker times, when being anything but Catholic might result in one being bound to a stake and set alight. Whatever the reason, many of the gifted in France continue to straddle the line between saints and spirits. Especially the women.

  The female sex has always been troublesome for those in power, because we see things, know things. And now Maman knows something. And so I sit quietly, waiting.

  “The Germans again,” she says harshly, picking up the thread of the conversation. “Led by un fou—a madman with a shadow on his soul. He will take everything. And what he cannot take, he will destroy.” She pauses, laying a hand on my arm. “You must be ready, So-So.”

  She rarely touches me. And she never calls me So-So. It was one of my tante Lilou’s pet names for me and has always set her teeth on edge. Her sudden show of tenderness sends a chill through me.

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’ve lived it before. And not so long ago. Now it’s coming again.” She squeezes her eyes tight, as if trying to rid herself of the images. “It will be no little thing, this war. Barbarity the world has never seen, and so will not see coming.” Her head comes up, her gaze riveted to my face. “You will need to be strong, ma fille. And careful.”

  She looks pale suddenly, her dark eyes bead-hard as she forces me to meet them. How have I not noticed the new sharpness in her face, the thinning of her once-full mouth? She’s frightened, and I have never seen her frightened.

  There’s something she isn’t saying, something that frightens her more than the prospect of war. Suddenly, I’m frightened too. “When, Maman?”

  “A year, perhaps more. But I’ve been preparing, laying up stores against what’s to come. It will be harder and harder to get things. Food. Clothes. Even shoes. Money won’t matter because there won’t be anything to buy and no one to buy it from. That’s why the workroom is jammed. And the pantry downstairs. So you’ll have what you need when the time comes. Things you can barter.” Her hand creeps back to the crucifix. “I’m afraid for you.”

  The words hang in the air between us. Heavy. Solitary. “Only for me?”

  Her eyes remain steady, her emotions unguarded for the first time in my memory. Fear. Sorrow. And a silent apology. Suddenly, I understand what she isn’t saying and what I haven’t let myself see until now. The hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes, the cough I sometimes hear in the night. Maman is sick and will be gone soon.

  SEVEN

  SOLINE

  For more than two hundred years, there has been a Dress Witch, the keeper of our secret and the teacher of our craft. Our gift, though taught, is at its roots hereditary, the title passed from one generation to the next. When the mother lays down her needle, the daughter takes it up. And so goes The Work.

  —Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

  17 January 1940—Paris

  For now at least, nothing seems to be happening. The tables at the sidewalk cafés are still full, the coffeehouses humming with artists and philosophers, sipping endless cups of black coffee, gnawing on life like a bone. The chefs keep cooking, and the wine keeps flowing, the cinemas draw their usual crowds, and fashion continues to be the chief pastime of Parisian women. More importantly—at least for the Roussels—young lovers continue to marry.

  Maman says it’s to do with Hitler’s troops sweeping through Europe like a plague of locusts. The prospect of soldiers on our streets is making everyone nervous, and brides are desperate to get down the aisle before the worst comes to pass.

  Every day now, we wake to reports of new atrocities. A woman who had fled Berlin with her aging parents told Maman about the night she witnessed dozens of Jews from her neighborhood being rounded up for the camps, their synagogues burned, their businesses destroyed, the streets where they lived and worked littered with shards of broken glass. Kristallnacht, they called it—the Night of Broken Glass. We’d heard about it, of course, on the radio, but not the way she told it.

  And this morning, there are reports of mothers putting their children on trains, giving them up to strangers in order to save them from what’s coming. Maman has been sobbing on and off for hours. She’s declining rapidly now, so thin the bones of her face have begun to show through her skin, and her cough worsens every day. She refuses to see a doctor, assuring me with alarming calm that it will make no difference. There is no longer any pretense between us. She’s dying, and all I can do is watch.

  “Will it be much longer?” I ask as she clicks off the radio and settles back against her pillows. “Before they come to Paris, I mean.”

  She turns her head, coughing into a handkerchief, a broken rattling that leaves her winded and pale. “They’re closer every day now. They won’t stop until they have it all.”

  Her answer comes as no surprise. It’s what they’re saying on Radio Londres too. “They’ve already taken half of Europe. Why do they need Paris?”

  “They want to purge all of Europe—to purify it. Many will die. And the ones who don’t will lose everything.”

  I nod, because there’s no longer any doubt about her being right. Every day brings fresh horrors. Raids and roundups. Trains crisscrossing Europe, loaded with prisoners bound for the camps. Communists. Jews. Roma.

  “Will no one be safe, then?”

  “Those willing to turn a blind eye and go along, but only those. Some will even profit from it. For the rest, they will come with their scythes, cutting down anyone who stands in their way. And I won’t be here. There will be no one to protect you.”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’ll get well and everything will be fine, but we both know better. And so I say nothing.

  “I’ve had a letter from Lilou,” she says abruptly.

  The news leaves me speechless. Maman has never forgiven her sister for falling in love with an Englishman and running off to get married. He was wealthy and dashing, with a flat in London and a house in the country where he kept horses and sheep. I found it all terribly romantic. Maman felt quite differently and had shown little emotion when a letter arrived telling us Lilou’s husband was dead. She had torn the letter to pieces and thrown it into the fire, muttering that it had all been inevitable, and it served her right for abandoning us. Now, more than a decade later, it seems there has been another letter.

  “I didn’t know you and Lilou were writing letters.”

  “War changes things,” Maman replies stiffly. “And there were . . . things to say.”

  “You told her you were sick?”

  “She said you should come.”

  I stare at her. “To London?”

  “It’s still possible. But not for long.” She surprises me by r
eaching for my hand, her knuckles white as her fingers close around mine. “I want you to go, Soline. I want you to be safe. And you won’t be in Paris. No one will. You must go. Tomorrow.”

  “Without you?”

  Her eyes flutter closed. “Oui, ma fille. Without me.”

  “But how—”

  She shakes her head, cutting me off. “You can’t stay, Soline. I was a fool to think a pantry full of coffee and sugar could keep you safe. It won’t. Nothing will if they decide to come for you.”

  The panic in her eyes is so raw, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I narrow my gaze, certain she knows something I don’t. “What reason could they have to come for me, Maman?”

  Her eyes glitter, fever mixed with fear. “Don’t you see? They don’t need a reason! But they’ll find one. People always find a way to justify their hate—and give others an excuse to fall in line. They put words in people’s mouths, plant them like viruses, then watch them spread. People here in Paris—people we know—will be infected. And when the fever spreads, they’ll point the finger at anyone they think might save them. Please, I beg you, go to Lilou.”

  “How can I go?” The words spill out more sharply than I intend, but she is asking the impossible. We’ve never been close—not the way most mothers and daughters are—but she’s my mother. I can’t just abandon her. “You’re so weak you can’t get down the stairs, and you can barely feed yourself. If I go, there will be no one to take care of you.”

  “You must, Soline. You must go. Now.”

  “What about The Work? Someone has to be here to do The Work.”

  She lets out a sigh, clearly weary of arguing. “There won’t be any work, Soline. There will be no brides because there will be no grooms. The men will be gone. All of them.”

  I feel the air go out of my lungs. I’ve heard stories about the last war, the shortage of marriageable men after, because they went off to fight and never came home. I never imagined it happening again. But of course, she’s right. Referrals have already slowed to a trickle, and it will only get worse. And then what? Still, I can’t do what she’s asking.