The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  Her eyes suddenly connected with those of a woman sitting alone near the back of the shop. Her dark hair was swept up in a glossy chignon, and she wore a smart suit of crimson knit, with black velvet cuffs and shiny gold toggles running down the front. At her throat, a checked scarf of red, white, and black was arranged cravat-style and fastened with a pearl stickpin. She looked startled as their eyes met, as if briefly struck by a wave of panic. After a moment, she seemed to compose herself and inclined her head ever so slightly.

  Rory shifted the box to her hip and made her way to the table, not noticing until the last moment that there was a mug and plate in front of the empty chair. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I thought—”

  “Miss Grant?”

  Rory recognized the voice from the phone, smoky and low. French. But she was so young—late fifties, perhaps older, but not much. And absolutely beautiful with porcelain-pale skin and a perfect red bow of a mouth. Not a scar to be seen. “You’re . . . Ms. Roussel?”

  “I am.” She gestured with her chin toward the empty chair.

  Rory set the box on the corner of the table and took a seat. She couldn’t stop staring.

  “I took the liberty of ordering you a little something—as a thank-you.”

  Rory glanced at the table, where a mille feuille and a café au lait sat waiting for her. “Thank you. I love their pastries. But you really didn’t have to, Ms. Roussel. I was happy to come.”

  “Soline, please. You have questions, I’m sure.”

  Rory blinked at her, caught off guard by the matter-of-fact invitation. She had no idea how to begin.

  Soline seemed to sense her awkwardness. “Your name is Aurora. A beautiful name. In France we say Aurore. It means goddess of the dawn.”

  Rory couldn’t help smiling. It sounded so lovely when she said it. Not matronly at all. “I go by Rory,” she said sheepishly. “My mother hates it.”

  Soline’s lips twitched, the flicker of a smile. “Mothers like the names they give us.” Her smile faded as her gaze settled on the dress box. “You opened the box, yes?”

  Rory ducked her head. “I did. I’m sorry. I was just so surprised to find it. I couldn’t imagine why . . .”

  “Ask what you want to ask,” Soline prompted when Rory went quiet.

  Rory was surprised by her abrupt tone and by the fact that she hadn’t so much as touched the box. Instead, she sat stiffly, her hands folded primly beneath the table, as if braced for an interrogation.

  “The dress,” Rory began tentatively. “It’s one of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the other . . . things?”

  “They belong to me as well.”

  “The dress is so beautiful, like something from a fairy tale.” She paused, not sure how to proceed. “It looks . . . brand-new.”

  “It is new. And very old.”

  “You mean it was never worn.”

  Soline dropped her gaze. “Oui.”

  The single word posed more questions than it answered. Why had the dress never been worn? Infidelity? Or a tragedy of some sort? She thought of the letters, all penned by grateful brides who’d received the fabled happy ending. But it seemed the owner of the fairy-tale dress had had no such luck. Why?

  “I read some of the letters.”

  “Did you?”

  Rory nodded. “The ones that were in English. I couldn’t read the others.”

  “The recent ones were written to me. The others are from women my mother sewed for a long time ago, back in Paris.” She paused, swallowing as she looked away. “She died not long after the Nazis came. When people heard the news, the letters started showing up.”

  “And you kept them all these years.”

  “To remember her by, yes. And to remind myself that once upon a time, there were happy endings in Paris and that my mother played a part in a few of them.”

  Rory laid a hand on the box. “With dresses like this one?”

  She managed a thin smile, not quite bitter but almost. “No fairy tale is complete without a proper dress, chérie.”

  “But not just any dress,” Rory pressed, sensing evasion in the response. “A Roussel dress. There’s something special about them, isn’t there? Something that makes them lucky?”

  “Drink your café, Aurore. Before it gets cold.”

  Rory lifted her mug obediently. “I’m sorry for prying. I’m just trying to understand what I read. All those grateful brides with such amazing turns of luck. And they all seemed to be thanking you, as if somehow you’d made it happen. I know what people used to say—my mother told me—and the letters seem to be saying the same thing, that your dresses are . . . magical.”

  The corners of Soline’s mouth curled, lending her a faintly feline air. “Any businesswoman worth her salt knows the value of a good gimmick. Toothpaste that makes you kissable. Shiny floors that make you the envy of your neighbors. Brides want fairy tales, so that’s what I gave them.”

  Rory eyed her skeptically. “You’re saying your dresses had nothing to do with what was in those letters?”

  “I’m saying people have ways of clinging to ideas that make the world seem nicer than it is. And perhaps that’s to be expected. When life is hard, it helps to cling to illusion. I suppose the letters were that for me once. But life has taught me that even in fairy tales, the heroine must make her own magic—or not, as the case may be.”

  “But you kept them. You could have thrown them away, but you didn’t.”

  Soline pulled in a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “There was so much ugliness back then, so much heartache and loss everywhere you looked. The letters were a way to remember the good.”

  “And yet they wound up in a box under the stairs.”

  There was an uncomfortable beat of silence, but finally Soline replied. “Before she died, my mother told me there is a time for holding on and a time for letting go and that I needed to learn the difference. I didn’t understand then, but there came a time—a moment—when I knew I had to let go of those broken pieces of my life. In the end, I couldn’t bear to part with them. I thought if I hid them from myself, put them where I wouldn’t see them every day, it would be enough.”

  Rory studied her over the rim of her mug. Beneath the flawless style and carefully applied cosmetics, there was an air of tragedy that reminded her of Camilla. “Was it?”

  “It must seem silly to you, clinging to such painful reminders, but they were all I had left of that part of my life. Of Paris and the life I thought I would have.”

  The life I thought I would have. Rory rolled the words around in her head. They might just as easily have come out of her mouth. “No,” she said finally. “It doesn’t seem silly at all. We all have our own ways of coping.”

  “And you, chérie?” Soline asked, her eyes suddenly keen. “Are you . . . coping?”

  Rory shifted in her chair, unsettled by both the question and Soline’s steady regard. “I think we’re all trying to cope, one way or another.” She’d been aiming for nonchalance but missed badly. Time to change the subject. “I was sorry to hear about your shop. About the fire, I mean. Did you never think of reopening?”

  Soline looked down at her lap, as if weighing her answer. “Life has a way of letting us know when something’s over. It’s not always pleasant, but it’s always obvious if we’re paying attention. I spent half my life reaching for things that weren’t meant to be mine—and paying dearly for it. At some point, one must read the signs.”

  Rory sipped her coffee, wondering about the kinds of things Soline had reached for and why they hadn’t been meant for her.

  “You have other questions,” Soline said brusquely. “Go on, then, ask them. I owe you that, I suppose.”

  Rory found her bluntness both unsettling and refreshing, a welcome change after so many careful conversations with her mother. “The shaving kit. It’s connected to the dress, isn’t it? It belonged to the groom?”

  “An ambulance driver who was killed in
the war.”

  “And the dress is yours.”

  Tears suddenly pooled in Soline’s eyes. “It was meant to be, yes.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressed you.”

  Soline gave her head a little shake, as if annoyed with herself. “I’m sorry to get soppy. It’s just . . . after the fire . . . They said everything was lost. I never expected to see it again.”

  “Please don’t apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry for pressing you. Please forgive me.”

  “C’est oublié,” she murmured, reaching for a napkin and carefully blotting her eyes. “It’s forgotten.”

  Rory tried not to stare. Until that moment, Soline’s hands had been in her lap, but now she saw the gloves: black kid, with tiny jet buttons at each wrist, and glaringly out of place in the middle of June.

  Scars. Not her face. On her hands.

  She averted her eyes, pretending not to notice. “Before I forget, I want to thank you for letting me lease the row house. I had actually given up the idea of opening the gallery. And then one day I was crossing the street and there it was. I was crushed when Daniel said it wasn’t available. I’m so glad you changed your mind.”

  Soline rolled her eyes. “Mr. Ballantine knows how to get around me. He told me about your gallery for new artists. He knew it would soften the ground. When will you open?”

  Rory found herself breathing a sigh of relief as the conversation shifted to safer territory. “October, if all goes well. I’d love for you to see it when it’s finished. Maybe you could come to the opening. I’d be honored to have you there.”

  Soline’s shoulders stiffened. “Thank you, no. I don’t go out much these days, and I haven’t been back to the shop since the night of the fire.”

  “Not once in four years?”

  Soline shrugged. “Memories, you know. It’s . . . hard.”

  “I’m so sorry. About . . . everything.”

  “Never mind all that. Pity is my poison.” She pushed to her feet then, surprisingly petite despite her sleek black heels. “Thank you again, Aurore. It was kind of you to go to the trouble. I wish you bonne chance with your gallery.”

  She picked up her handbag. Rory watched as she fumbled with the strap, her gloved fingers stiff and clumsy. After several attempts, she managed to get the strap up onto her shoulder, but the dress box was nearly as big as she was. She’d be lucky to make it out of the café, let alone navigate the crowded sidewalk.

  “If you’d like, I can walk you to your car.”

  “Thank you. That won’t be necessary. I don’t drive anymore. But my town house is close.”

  “Then let me give you a lift. The box—”

  “I’ve already been enough trouble, and I’m quite capable of walking.”

  Rory eyed Soline’s shoes with skepticism. Boston’s frost-heaved sidewalks—the by-product of decades of harsh New England winters—could be challenging in flats. Pencil-thin heels coupled with a box she’d barely be able to see over spelled disaster.

  “It’s no trouble,” she assured Soline as she pushed to her feet and grabbed the box from the table. “I’m parked right up the street.”

  Soline nodded, but her discomfort was plain. “Yes, all right.”

  Rory held the door open as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. She couldn’t explain her sudden solicitousness. Soline Roussel wasn’t remotely feeble. And yet there was an air of fragility about her, like a broken bit of porcelain whose pieces hadn’t been properly mended. If she were jostled too roughly, she might break into a million pieces. And Rory knew only too well what that felt like.

  ELEVEN

  RORY

  Soline sat stiffly in the passenger seat, hidden behind a pair of Hepburn-esque dark glasses, her purse clutched tightly on her knees. She hadn’t spoken since rattling off her Beacon Hill address. Rory glanced at her as she turned onto Cedar Street and let off the gas.

  “Which house?”

  “That one,” she said, pointing. “The red door. Just drop me here. I’ll be fine.”

  Rory pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. “I’ll carry the box inside for you.”

  Before Soline could protest, Rory was out of the car, retrieving the dress box from the back seat. Soline struggled with her seat belt a moment but eventually climbed out of the car and sailed past, keys at the ready.

  Rory fell in behind her, eyeing the house’s Georgian facade as they moved up the walk. Weathered red brick, glossy black shutters, a pair of chimneys at each end. And in one of Boston’s most desirable neighborhoods. Apparently, Soline had done quite well for herself.

  After some fumbling with the key, Soline pushed inside, leaving Rory to follow her into a spacious entry hall dominated by an ornate pedestal table and a French empire chandelier. She shed her sunglasses, depositing them on the table along with her handbag, and immediately set to work on her gloves.

  Rory looked on uncomfortably until it became obvious that Soline wasn’t making much progress. “Those buttons look tricky. Why don’t I help you?”

  Soline’s shoulders sagged, like a flower wilting all at once. She said nothing as she held out her hands. Rory set down the box and unbuttoned both gloves, then met Soline’s gaze. “Would you like me to . . .”

  Soline nodded. “But don’t pull them off by the fingers. Peel them back. Slowly.”

  Rory did as she’d been instructed, holding her breath as she eased back the leather. There was an audible sigh as the first glove came free, though whether hers or Soline’s, she couldn’t be sure. When the second hand was presented she set to work again, aware that Soline’s lower lip was now caught between her teeth. Clearly, embarrassment wasn’t all she was suffering.

  When the job was done, Rory laid the gloves on the table, limp now and turned inside out, like the molted skins of some enormous insect. The thought sent a shudder through her, and she looked away, back to Soline, who’d begun to massage her hands with long, repetitive strokes. They were waxy white in places, puckered and pink in others, the fingers curled and faintly clawlike. Rory averted her gaze, not wanting to appear rude.

  “Go on,” Soline said evenly. “Look at them.”

  A lump formed in Rory’s throat as she surveyed the damage. The contracted palms and thickened scar tissue, the slightly webbed appearance of the fingers. Useless to a woman who made her living with a needle and thread.

  “It happened in the fire,” Soline explained. “But of course, you’ve guessed that.”

  Rory nodded. “I did wonder why you were wearing gloves in June.”

  “Scars make people uncomfortable, so I cover them when I’m in public, which isn’t often anymore. It’s easier to keep out of people’s way than to endure their pity. It isn’t their fault. They are rather awful to look at.”

  It was on the tip of Rory’s tongue to say she was sorry, but she caught herself. No pity. “That’s why you never reopened the shop,” she said instead. “Because of your hands.”

  “For a while, I thought I might be able to go back. I wanted to believe the doctors could work some sort of a miracle. I think they believed it too, in the beginning. But there was too much damage.”

  “Is it . . . painful?”

  “Not in the way you’re probably thinking. They’re numb, mostly. Scar tissue has no nerve endings. But there’s a thing called contracture that happens with deep burns, especially to the hands. As the scar tissue forms, it draws the fingers inward or twists them sideways.” She held up her hands again, inviting Rory to look more closely. Most of the nails were gone from her right hand, leaving the fingertips shiny and flat.

  “I’m one of the lucky ones, if you can believe that. There isn’t a lot of pain involved, but when I wear the gloves for too long, my fingers are stretched, which makes the joints ache. Like arthritis, I suppose.”

  “Isn’t there . . . Can’t they operate or something?”

  She’d begun to massage them again, alternately applying pressure to each palm with the balls
of her thumbs, wincing as she worked at the scarred flesh. “I’ve had six operations. Debridement, tendon repair, skin grafts. And every kind of splint known to man. Then came the therapy. Pressure therapy. Stretching therapy.” She shrugged. “Eventually, one reaches the end of the road. They gave me exercises to help with flexibility and range of motion. I did them for a while, when I thought there was a chance, but I stopped eventually. I didn’t see the point once I knew I’d never pick up a needle again.”

  Rory hated the finality in her voice. “Couldn’t you hire someone to do the sewing?”

  Soline’s gaze slid to the box at Rory’s feet. “Not with my dresses. The work is delicate, very . . . specialized.”

  “But couldn’t you train someone? An apprentice or something?”

  “The work I do can’t be taught and must be done by hand—by me.”

  “My mother remembers your shop. She said it was the most elegant bridal salon in town. I wish I could have seen it before—” Rory caught herself. “I’m so sorry. I only meant it must have been lovely.”

  Soline stepped away, then paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Follow me, and bring the box.”

  They passed through a large parlor with slate-gray walls and a long sofa upholstered in caramel-colored leather, then through a set of french doors into a small study.

  It was a warm, welcoming room, though sparsely furnished. An antique writing desk, a reading chair, and a small table in front of the fireplace, shelves lined with old books bound in jewel-toned leather. But it was the opposite wall that captured Rory’s attention: a montage of photographs mounted in identical black frames. Photos, newspaper clippings, magazine covers, and several rough pencil sketches of Soline’s designs. She let the dress box slide to the floor and inched closer, scanning the captions, many of which stretched back thirty years.

  Ooh là là! A Taste of Paris Arrives in Back Bay.