“I always knew the kind of feel I wanted. Clean. Monochromatic. The minute I saw the row house, I knew it would be a perfect fit. I just got that feeling, you know?”
Camilla arched a brow as she spooned a few more strawberries onto her plate. “What feeling would that be?”
“I don’t know. Like it was meant to be, I guess. I probably walked past the place a hundred times and never noticed it. Then a few weeks ago, on my way home from meeting Lisette, it just jumped out at me. I swear it was like magic.”
“What was it before?”
“A bridal shop. The woman who owns it is named Soline Roussel. I was hoping to meet her when I signed the lease, but she didn’t show. Her lawyer says she doesn’t go out much anymore.”
Camilla frowned, as if searching her memory. “I think I know her.”
“You know Soline Roussel?”
“I’m sorry. I meant I know who she is. Everyone did in my day. From Paris, or so she claimed. I don’t remember the name of her shop, something French, but she had quite a clientele, as I recall. She was famous for her bows.”
“Her bows?”
“Her trademark, you might say. The Roussel Bow. All her dresses had them in some shape or form. At the waist, the shoulders, the bustle. She was quite à la mode back then, with her accent and her elegant little shop, promising that her dresses would bring good luck.”
Rory glanced up, intrigued. “Good luck?”
“That was the talk—some nonsense about her dresses guaranteeing a happy marriage. She made them all by hand, a custom-made good-luck charm for each and every bride. A great gimmick, I suppose, if you can make people believe it. But then, most brides will believe anything. Throw in the French thing and you’ll have them eating out of your hand. And she did. My friends were all wild for her dresses.”
“But not you?”
Camilla shrugged. “What I wanted was immaterial. A local salon would never have done.”
“Why?”
“I was a Lowell, darling. Nothing but a proper gown from Paris would do for a Lowell. And so off to Paris we went, to visit Maison Dior. We left Boston with two trunks and came back with seven.”
“Dior,” Rory breathed. She’d never cared about fashion, but even she knew a wedding dress from The House of Dior was worthy of awe. “I wish the photos hadn’t all been ruined. You must have looked gorgeous.”
Camilla sniffed dismissively. “It was white, and French, and so tight I thought I would pass out before I got down the aisle, but it did the job.”
The job.
Those two words conveyed all anyone needed to know about Camilla’s feelings regarding the holy state of matrimony. They also signaled that it was time to steer the conversation back to safer waters.
“What else do you know about Soline Roussel?”
“Not much. Why?”
“Well, it’s quite a story, isn’t it? Enchanted wedding dresses and happily-ever-afters. And then her business being destroyed by fire. I wonder why she never reopened. I got the feeling from her lawyer that she’s something of a recluse. It’s sad.”
“I remember the fire—or at least the news about it. It was right around the time your father died. I don’t recall how it started, but I remember hearing that she ended up in the hospital with some pretty bad burns.”
Burns. That would explain her desire for privacy. “Do you know what happened to her? Later, I mean.”
“I don’t. You know how the news is. They only care about the tragedy. The aftermath is never quite as exciting. Anyway, she’s renting you her building, which is all that matters.”
Rory nodded half-heartedly. It was true. Soline Roussel’s story shouldn’t matter, but it did somehow. Perhaps because Rory had come to understand how the loss of something precious could completely unravel a life.
NINE
RORY
June 19, 1985—Boston
Rory sagged onto the bottom step with her legal pad, weary but happy to be able to check another item off her to-do list. The contractor’s men had delivered the scaffolding required to begin work on the ceiling; she’d scrubbed all the windows, hauled out the remaining trash, done a walk-through with the electrician, and contacted someone to come look at the furnace. Not bad for two o’clock.
There was plenty to do if she was going to be ready by fall. She’d need to start lining up artists, create a marketing plan and an event calendar, figure out what drafting a press release entailed, and brainstorm ideas for the grand opening. The learning curve would be steep, and there would almost certainly be missteps, but come hell or high water, she planned to make a go of it. No one would be able to say Unheard Of was just a trust-fund-fueled vanity exercise.
Rory’s stomach let out a groan, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch. She ran down the legal pad one more time, concluding that she’d done what she could for now. She’d head home, grab a sandwich and a shower, then get to work on the brochure copy.
She had just finished locking up and was hunting for her purse when she spotted what appeared to be a small door cut into the dark wood paneling of the staircase’s outer wall. She’d never noticed it before, but there it was, with a small hole where, presumably, a knob had once been. After a few tugs, the door yielded, revealing a low, inky crawl space. There was no switch or string, no light anywhere that Rory could find. Going down on one knee, she squinted into the opening, trying not to think about what might have taken up residence under the stairs of a building that had been abandoned for almost four years.
The floor was bare wood, gritty with dust, but at least nothing seemed to be moving. She held her breath, not sure what she expected to find as she groped about blindly. She came up empty on her first attempt, but on the second try her knuckles grazed what felt like a large, flattish box.
It took some doing, but she finally managed to extricate the box and drag it into her lap. It was an old dress box, similar to the elaborate hatboxes women used to carry when they traveled. This one was fashioned of heavy gray cardboard, with metal fittings at the corners to avoid crushing and a length of badly frayed cord threaded through as a handle, so it could be carried like a suitcase.
There appeared to be a bit of writing in one corner. She wiped at the grime with the heel of her hand until a single line of cursive finally emerged—Madame Roussel, Paris. Apparently, Soline Roussel had owned a shop in Paris and had brought this box with her all the way to Boston. But what was it doing under the stairs?
She willed herself to go slowly as she worked the cord free, then gently lifted the lid. There were several sheets of tissue paper, crumpled and yellow with age. One by one, she peeled them away, breath held until an expanse of creamy white lace came into view.
It was like something from a fairy tale: a sweetheart neckline encrusted with iridescent crystals and tiny seed pearls, sleeves of slashed organza, as filmy as a pair of dragonfly wings, folded almost tenderly over one another. Clearly vintage and, judging by the quality of the beadwork, almost certainly hand sewn.
Rory eyed it longingly, itching to explore its landscape, frothy lace and tissue-thin silk, the cool, nubby texture of the beading. And yet she hesitated. Disturbing it now, after it had languished so long in the dark, felt wrong somehow, like casually handling the contents of Tutankhamun’s tomb. But that was silly. If the dress meant anything to anyone, it wouldn’t be here, shut up in a box covered with dust.
The gown gave a little sigh as she lifted it out of its box, as if relieved to at last be free. The paneled organza skirts unfurled like flower petals as Rory gave them a gentle shake, luminous and frothy. Even the back was stunning, with corset-style lacing and a wide satin bow with sashes that trailed all the way to the floor.
The Roussel Bow.
She was beginning to see why Soline Roussel had made such a name for herself. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—or imagined. A dress fit for a princess—albeit a very small princess. The sleeves, clearly meant to be full length, fell a good
six inches shy of her wrist, and the waist was ridiculously tiny. A custom-made gown, then, and not a mark on it, so probably never worn. What had happened to the bride who was meant to wear it?
The question unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Perhaps because every scenario she imagined was more heart-wrenching than the last. Illness. Betrayal. Death. And they all ended the same way—with a wedding that never happened.
Rory closed her eyes, willing the thoughts away. Whatever the story—and there was almost certainly a story attached to the dress—it was someone else’s story. It wasn’t a sign or an omen. It had nothing to do with her. The smart thing to do would be to put it and the box back where she’d found them.
But as she rearranged the sheets of tissue, she discovered a packet of letters at the bottom of the box and a zippered leather case, monogrammed in gold. A shaving kit, she realized as she picked it up, the kind men used for travel. The calfskin was scuffed and the monogram had begun to wear, but it had clearly been expensive.
She unzipped it, letting it fall open like a book. On one side was a shaving brush and a silver-handled razor; on the other, a tortoiseshell comb, matching shoehorn, and an empty flask meant to hold cologne. She traced a finger over what remained of the monogram—A.W.P. Andrew? Allen? She would likely never know. Unless the packet of letters offered some clue.
She slid them free of their ribbon, counting as she fanned out the envelopes. Eighteen in all. None was stamped or properly addressed, though several bore the words Mademoiselle Roussel across the front. Hand-delivered, then, rather than mailed. And kept together, presumably for sentimental reasons. Love letters from A.W.P.?
She selected one at random, teasing a single sheet of blue vellum from its envelope. It was written in French. A disappointment, since she’d long since forgotten the French she’d learned her freshman year at Tufts. But she could read the date: 17 décembre 1942. December, forty-two years ago. She tried another and then another. Both bore similar dates and were also in French. Finally, toward the bottom of the packet, she discovered a handful written in English. The first was dated August 4, 1964.
Dearest Mademoiselle Roussel,
It’s been almost a year since David and I exchanged our vows, and though you asked me to wait for our one-year anniversary, I find I cannot wait a day longer to express my gratitude for your kindness when I came to you with my troubles. Your generosity still astonishes me. To walk down the aisle in one of your gowns was more than a poor girl from the south side of Boston could ever have hoped for. But more importantly, David has had the most miraculous recovery from his accident. It’s so astonishing his doctors can hardly believe it, let alone explain it. It took everything in me not to tell them that it had to do with your dress. They would think me quite mad, and a year ago I would have agreed. But now I know I have you and your charm to thank for my happy ending. And for our baby, who will arrive in the new year. If there is ever any way I can repay your kindness, you need only ask.
With my deepest gratitude,
Kathleen P. Shore
Rory reread the letter several times, picking up something new with each pass. A poor girl from the south side of Boston. A miraculous recovery from an accident. A wedding dress given credit for a happy ending. A charm of some kind. It was inconceivable. But wasn’t it exactly what her mother had said at brunch last week? Enchanted gowns. Guaranteed happy endings. Was such a thing actually possible?
Kathleen Shore certainly seemed to think so.
Another letter chosen at random read much the same, though it was dated two years later. A young bride writing on her one-year anniversary, thanking Ms. Roussel for the resolution of some tricky financial problem just one month after walking down the aisle in one of her lucky gowns. A third bride wrote of being able to forgive her groom for a reckless infidelity on the eve of their wedding. A fourth had recovered from a chronic illness doctors believed would see her using a wheelchair within two or three years.
Each letter seemed more fantastic than the last. And each credited her astonishing good fortune to Soline Roussel’s special skills as a dressmaker. It seemed reasonable to assume those written in French contained similar stories. Eighteen brides. Eighteen letters. Eighteen happy endings kept in an old dress box.
Rory gathered the letters together, retying them before returning them to the box. A stack of letters spanning decades, a bridal gown worthy of a princess, and a man’s shaving kit. The whole thing had the feel of an unfinished story. A sad, unfinished story.
TEN
RORY
June 20, 1985—Boston
Rory was used to waking with a book beside her, but this morning it was a letter she found lying open amid the rumpled sheets. She folded it carefully and placed it on the nightstand with the others. She’d read them all again last night. Or at least those written in English. They were all variations of the same story: health recovered, fortunes repaired, careers saved, feuds mended, lost things found. And all as a result of a Roussel gown. Or so the grateful brides believed.
Her eyes slid to the dress box on the chest beneath the window. The easy thing would have been to put it back under the stairs, where it wouldn’t make her think about weddings that never happened. Instead, she’d taken it home, uncomfortable with relegating it to the dark again. It was silly, she knew, but she couldn’t get past something her mother had said.
A custom-made good-luck charm for each and every bride.
She crossed to the box and lifted the lid, trailing a hand along one sheer sleeve. So lovely, and clearly not off-the-rack, since Mademoiselle Roussel didn’t do off-the-rack. It had been created for someone, belonged to someone. But to whom? And how was the shaving kit connected? There was always a chance that it wasn’t, but it didn’t seem likely.
And where did the letters fit in? They’d obviously been important at some point, and yet they’d been shut up under the stairs along with the other things, abandoned when the shop closed. Unless . . . Was it possible Soline Roussel didn’t know they’d survived the fire?
Rory started a pot of coffee, then dialed Daniel Ballantine’s number. She was surprised when his receptionist put her straight through.
“Ms. Grant. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. I hope there isn’t a problem.”
“No. Not exactly. But I need to get in touch with Ms. Roussel. I know you said she doesn’t like to be bothered, but it’s rather important. I was hoping I could persuade you to give me her number.”
“I’m afraid not. As I’ve said, all her business goes through me.”
“It’s Rory, please. And this isn’t business. It’s a personal matter. I promise not to pester her. I just need to speak to her this once.”
“Concerning what, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Rory wasn’t sure how much to reveal and how much to keep to herself. “I’d prefer not to share that with anyone but Ms. Roussel, if you don’t mind. It’s rather . . . delicate.”
“The best I can do is pass along your number,” he said finally. “Though I doubt it will get you anywhere. Ms. Roussel isn’t a fan of the telephone. She barely talks to me.”
“All right, then. Tell her I found something that might belong to her—a box.”
“What kind of box?”
Once again, Rory was reluctant to reveal too much. “Just tell her I found a box. If it’s important, she’ll know.”
“All right. I’ll pass it along. But don’t be surprised if you don’t hear back.”
Two hours later, the phone rang. Rory abandoned the to-do list she’d been working on and grabbed the handset. “Hello?”
There was a stretch of silence, then finally a woman’s voice. “I’m calling for Miss Grant.”
Rory’s pulse ticked up. “This is Aurora.”
“My name is Soline Roussel. I’ve had a call from my attorney, Daniel Ballantine. He said you . . . found something. A box.”
“In the space under the stairs, yes. I don’t know how it ended up th
ere, but I thought you might like to have it back.”
Another pause, briefer this time, and then the words came tumbling out. “I didn’t know . . . I thought . . . Yes. Yes, I’d like to have it back.”
“I’d be happy to bring it to you if you’ll give me your address.”
“No. I couldn’t . . . I don’t receive guests.”
Rory swallowed her disappointment. She’d been hoping to finally meet the elusive mademoiselle. Apparently that wasn’t going to happen. “I could deliver it to Mr. Ballantine’s office if you’d like, and he could get it to you.”
“Thank you, no. Daniel’s sweet, but he can be a bit of a nag, and I prefer not to have to answer a lot of questions. The contents of the box are . . . well, they’re rather personal, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.”
“Is there somewhere else, then? The gallery . . . I’m sorry . . . the row house?”
“There’s a patisserie on the next street over, called Bisous Sucrés. Do you know it? I could meet you there at one thirty.”
“Sugar Kisses,” Rory translated. “Yes, of course. I’ll be there.”
She felt a ripple of excitement as she hung up the phone. She was finally going to meet Soline Roussel.
Rory seesawed her Audi into a cramped parking space along Boylston Street, dropped several quarters in the meter, and set off down the sidewalk with the dress box in her arms.
After a few minutes, the patisserie’s familiar black-and-white awning came into view. Its proper name, Bisous Sucrés, was splashed across the canvas in loopy gold script, with its lowercase English translation bracketed beneath in hot pink. As usual, business was booming.
Rory navigated the crowded bistro tables in the courtyard, scanning faces until she realized she had no idea who she was looking for. In her excitement, she’d forgotten to ask Ms. Roussel how to recognize her. Then she remembered her mother’s mention of burns. Presumably, there would be scars.
The heady aromas of chocolate, cherries, and rich dark coffee greeted her as she pushed through the front door. The line at the counter snaked nearly to the door. Rory sidled past, peering around the dress box. Families. Tourists. Students bent over textbooks. But no one who fit her invented image of Soline Roussel, who she now pictured as a fragile octogenarian with burn scars and an uncomfortable gaze.
The Keeper of Happy Endings Page 7
