“What happened, Rory?”
“My fiancé,” she whispered finally. “His name is Hux. Well, it’s Matthew, actually, but everyone calls him Hux. Nine months ago, he left for South Sudan, to work with Doctors Without Borders. He wrote to me all the time, two or three times a week, like clockwork. And then all of a sudden, the letters stopped. It took a few weeks—there was some confusion about his next of kin—but they finally confirmed that he and several colleagues had been abducted.”
Soline’s hand went to her throat. “Mon pauvre enfant. Was he . . .”
Rory stared at the wadded napkin in her fist. “I don’t know. No one does. There wasn’t a ransom demand, and there’s been no news for months.” She paused when her voice began to wobble and cleared her throat. “They have no idea where he is or who has him. Or if he’s even alive.”
“How long has it been?”
“Six months. I lie awake every night, imagining a thousand different scenarios, terrible things. And yet, I can’t make myself believe he’s gone. I know it’s crazy, but I feel like I would know if he’d been killed, that I would have sensed it somehow. Does that sound silly?”
“Not to me.”
The empathy in her voice was like balm on a wound. Kindred spirits. Perhaps they were. “I’ve been reading a lot of books,” she blurted. “The kind where the hero always wins and love always triumphs. It’s like an addiction. But they’re not real. In real life, things turn out badly.”
“That’s why you wanted to know my story,” Soline said gently. “You were hoping for a happy ending. A real one this time.”
“Like I said, silly.”
“No. I know what it is to wait, to not know. You grab on to anything to get through another day.”
Rory dragged the elastic from her hair, blowing out a breath as she raked a hand through the heavy waves. “I’m such a mess. Sometimes I think I’d rather . . .”
“Know the worst?” Soline supplied quietly.
Rory clamped a hand over her mouth, ashamed of the thought. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? To even think something like that. It’s just, this limbo is torture. When you got the news, were you—” She stopped, realizing they’d never spoken of it. “How did you get the news?”
Soline sat very still, her eyes suddenly clouded. “There was a telegram saying he’d gone missing. They found his ambulance abandoned . . . and a lot of blood. Someone reported seeing German soldiers marching him into the woods at gunpoint.”
Rory felt herself go pale. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that people talk about closure, about it being easier once you know, and I was wondering . . .”
“No,” Soline said before Rory could get the rest out. “It wasn’t easier. At least not for me. We tell ourselves we want to know. But when the truth finally comes, and it isn’t what we’d hoped for, we’d give anything to go back to that place of waiting, where even a flicker of hope still exists.”
“The other day, you said there comes a time when we have to let go of what’s gone. But how do you know when that time is?”
Soline’s face softened. “I was speaking of myself, chérie. Only of myself.”
“But how did you know?”
Her eyes dipped for a fraction of a second before coming back to Rory’s. “In the beginning, I couldn’t believe it. I was certain there’d been a mistake. And even after . . . For years, I would take out Anson’s shaving kit and open the empty cologne bottle, because I swore I could still smell him, like a cool breeze coming in off the sea. And then one night, I couldn’t smell him anymore. He was just . . . gone. That’s when I put the box away, when I realized there was nothing left to hold on to. But it’s different for you. You have time, Rory.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to have faith.”
Rory cleared her throat, determined to stave off another rush of tears. “What you said before, about the gallery filling the hole in my life . . . It’s true. It was Hux’s idea for me to open the gallery, and I was so excited. Then, when they told me he was missing, I stopped caring about everything—until I saw your building. It felt like fate was sending me a message. But sometimes I wonder if it’s just a way to hold on to him, by doing the thing he wanted me to do.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
“I keep one on my nightstand.”
“May I see it?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll go get it.”
Moments later, Rory returned with the photograph. It was a shot of them standing arm in arm, beaming like the newly engaged lovers they’d been when it was taken. “He asked me to marry him the day before it was taken. We drove out to the cape to celebrate.”
“You’re beautiful together,” Soline said, studying the photo. “And just look at that smile. You make him happy.”
Rory found herself smiling too. “It’s mutual. I never felt like I fit anywhere until we met. Everyone had all these ideas about who I was supposed to be. The only thing Hux ever wanted me to be was me. He made it okay to want what I want.” She paused to look at the photo when Soline handed it back, pressing her fingertips to the glass. “Now that he’s gone, I’m afraid . . .”
“That you’ll lose yourself again?”
Rory’s head came up slowly. “Yes.”
“Then don’t let him be gone.”
“Don’t . . . let him?”
“The night my mother died, she gave me a locket with my father’s picture in it. I never knew him, but she asked me to keep him alive for her sake—here.” She paused, pressing a hand to her heart. “She said to keep someone in your heart is to keep them alive forever. You can do that for Hux, Rory.”
“Is that what you did with Anson—kept him alive in your heart?”
“I tried.”
“Was there ever anyone else? After, I mean.”
Soline smiled sadly. “There is only so much room in a woman’s heart, chérie. Anson filled all of mine.”
Rory nodded. The thought of anyone taking Hux’s place was simply unfathomable. “Sometimes it’s all I can do to look at his picture. Was it like that for you?”
“I don’t have any pictures.”
“None?”
“We met during the war, at the hospital where I volunteered. There was no time for pictures.”
Rory was about to respond when the living room phone rang. Her eyes shot to the clock above the sink, suddenly remembering that she should have been at her mother’s an hour ago. “That’ll be my mother,” she said, pushing back from the table. “We were supposed to have brunch this morning.”
After a brief search, Rory located the cordless and braced for the inevitable.
“Why are you still at home?” Camilla demanded, skipping right past hello. “Brunch is ruined.”
“I’m sorry. I got caught up in something and lost track of time.”
“What was so important that you couldn’t pick up the phone and let me know?”
Rory bit her lip. The surest way to blow up their tentative truce would be to admit she’d forgotten their brunch date because Soline had shown up with pastries. “It was just some gallery stuff.”
“You don’t open for months. Whatever it was had to be done today?”
“I said I’m sorry. I was ready to walk out the door and I got sidetracked.”
“You sound funny,” Camilla said abruptly. “Stuffy. Like you’re getting sick.”
“Do I?” She couldn’t very well admit she’d been blubbering. Instead, she seized on the excuse with both hands. “You know, I think I might be. My throat’s a little raw. I was thinking about making some tea and crawling back in bed.”
“That’s a good idea. Do you have soup?”
“Um . . . yeah, I think so.”
“And tea?”
“Yes, I have tea.”
“Put some honey in the tea. It’ll help your throat.”
“Okay, I will. Thanks. And I’m sorry about brunch.”
“Never mind that. Jus
t get some rest. I’ll check on you later.”
Soline appeared as Rory ended the call, carrying her gloves and handbag. “I boxed up the remaining pastries and put the cups and plates in the sink.”
“You’re going?”
“You had plans. You should have said.”
“No! It was just brunch with my mother. We do it every Sunday.”
“And you let me spoil it.”
“Not really. In fact, I was dreading it. My mother and I . . . Well, let’s just say it’s been a little strained lately. She doesn’t think much of my gallery idea. Or my art or anything else I care about.”
Soline’s brows shot up. “You never told me you were an artist.”
“Oh, I’m not. It’s just something I used to play around with. When Hux went missing, I gave it up. I haven’t set foot in the spare room in months.”
“You keep a studio here?”
“A studio? No. It’s just an extra room where I kept my supplies.”
“May I see this nonstudio of yours?”
Rory hesitated, uncomfortable with the idea of showing someone as accomplished as Soline her work. But how could she say no to a woman who’d taken a cab across town to make sure she was okay? “Sure, I guess. If you want.”
At the end of the hall, she pushed the door open and waved Soline in. “Like I said, I haven’t been in here in a while, so it’s kind of a mess.”
Soline stepped past her into the room, skirting bins filled with tools and bits of fabric. She appeared to be about to say something when her eyes lit on the seascape hanging behind the desk. “Oh, Rory . . .” Her head came around, her expression one of wonder. “You did this?”
Rory nodded shyly.
“It’s exquisite. Like a painting but with fabric. Are there more?”
“Four in the closet and two more on the frames behind you.”
Soline rolled her eyes. “The closet. Mon dieu.” She wandered over to the unfinished piece on the nearest frame—a small schooner listing precariously on a dark and angry sea. “The stitching is so fine, nearly invisible. By hand, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Who taught you to sew like this?”
“No one. I taught myself.”
“Astonishing. And they’ll go up in the gallery when they’re finished?”
“Oh, no. This is just a hobby.”
Soline frowned. “Don’t you want your work to be seen, your name to be known?”
The question made Rory uncomfortable. Instead of answering, she countered with one of her own. “Is that what you wanted? For people to know your name?”
Soline stepped away, studying the fabric swatches littering the worktable. “Once,” she said finally. “When I was a girl. I used to dream of having my own label. I was going to turn heads all over Paris. But then the war happened, and Anson . . .”
“But you did it. You have an entire wall of magazine articles and newspaper clippings to prove it. You have a gift, and you used it to make people happy. You’ll always have that to be proud of.”
“And you have this, Rory. Don’t ever say it’s nothing. It’s the very opposite of nothing. Adding beauty to the world isn’t vanity, chérie. It’s a calling.”
A calling.
The word stayed with Rory as she pulled the door closed and led Soline back to the living room. Soline checked her watch, then collected her handbag and gloves from the coffee table. “Thank you for sharing your work with me, and please think about what I said. You have a gift, Rory, and gifts are meant to be shared.”
“You don’t need to go. I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee and we can talk some more.”
Soline smiled indulgently. “Don’t be silly. You don’t want to listen to an old woman prattle all afternoon. Besides, I asked the driver to come back and collect me. He’s probably out there waiting. I wanted to see that you were all right, and I have.” Her smile deepened as she crooked a finger under Rory’s chin. “Une gentille fille. Such a sweet girl. Remember what I said—about keeping Matthew in your heart. Until you know for sure, there is still hope. And hope costs us nothing.”
SEVENTEEN
RORY
Rory looked around the apartment, admiring her handiwork. After Soline left, she’d decided to put on some music, roll up her sleeves, and get the apartment in order. She’d made a good job of it too, even managing to haul several boxes of giveaway books to her car. Not bad for someone who was supposed to be coming down with a cold.
In the kitchen, she poked around in the pantry. Pasta, but no sauce. Cheerios, but no milk. Peanut butter, but no bread. Which left takeout—again. Soline was right. It was time to stop eating out of cartons. She’d make a list tomorrow and hit the market, but for now, Gerardo’s would have to do. She placed a delivery order for eggplant Parm and an antipasto, then decided she had time to start a load of whites and grab a quick shower before dinner arrived.
She was surprised to hear the doorbell ring just fifteen minutes later. Apparently it was a slow night at Gerardo’s. She grabbed a twenty from her purse, then clicked off the stereo, abruptly silencing the primal thump of Duran Duran’s “The Wild Boys.”
“That was fast,” she said, pulling back the door. “Sundays must—”
The words died in Rory’s throat. Instead of the delivery boy from Gerardo’s, Camilla stood blinking back at her, a CVS bag dangling from her wrist and a large orange Tupperware container tucked into the crook of one arm. She swept Rory with narrowed eyes, lingering on the twenty-dollar bill in her hand.
“Are you having a party?”
Rory stuffed the twenty into her pocket with a sigh. “No, I’m not having a party. I was just playing some music while I cleaned up a little.”
“I made soup with the little stars, like I used to when you were little. Sick soup, you used to call it. But I see you’ve made a miraculous recovery.”
Rory sighed. Camilla swept past her, charm bracelet jangling in her wake. Rory had no choice but to follow her to the kitchen.
“I told you I had soup.”
“You told me you thought you had soup,” Camilla replied sullenly. “And I didn’t want you having to fuss if you weren’t feeling well.” She ran an eye over her daughter as she began emptying the contents of the CVS bag. Cough drops. Vicks. NyQuil. A thermometer. “I don’t suppose you actually need any of this.”
Rory dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Why, Aurora? Why tell me you’re sick when you’re not? Is spending time with me so terrible?”
Rory swallowed another sigh. What was she supposed to say? Admitting she’d blown off brunch because her landlady showed up with a box from Sugar Kisses wasn’t likely to sit well. Best to leave Soline out of it.
“I felt bad about getting sidetracked, so when you mentioned that I sounded sick, I just . . . went with it.”
“Went with it,” Camilla repeated dryly. “Are you hungry, at least?”
“I actually just ordered takeout.”
“Right.”
Camilla grabbed the soup container and opened the refrigerator. For a moment, she stood staring at the contents. A package of onion bagels, two sticks of butter, a single can of Sunkist, and a nearly empty jar of olives. She turned finally, a pale brow crooked in disapproval. “You haven’t any food.”
“I know. That’s why the takeout. I was planning on hitting the market tomorrow.”
“Don’t you cook anymore?” She pulled open the pantry door, running her eyes over the thinly stocked shelves. “Look at this. Cheerios and canned soup. It’s a wonder you’re not sick eating like this.” Her gaze settled on the pastry box. She lifted the lid, peering inside. “Pain au chocolat. Very nice. I see you weren’t too distracted to go to the bakery this morning.”
“I didn’t go to the bakery,” Rory countered, weary of being scolded. “Soline brought them.”
Camilla’s face went blank.
“My landlady,” Rory supplied. “She stopped by this morning just as I was about to leave
.”
“Your landlady showed up out of the blue. With pastries.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s what sidetracked you?”
“We started talking.”
“About what? You barely know her.”
“Hux. The gallery. My art.”
“I see.”
There it was—the cool, affronted look her mother pulled out whenever she felt slighted. Rory counted to ten, refusing to take the bait.
“You’re talking about your life to strangers now, instead of your own mother?”
“We have things in common.”
Camilla closed the pantry door and stood with both hands on her hips. “What could you possibly have in common? The woman has to be in her eighties.”
“She’s nowhere near eighty. And we do have things in common. She lost someone she loved in the war, an ambulance driver who went missing.”
“Aurora . . .”
“She knows what it’s like to hear the phone ring and wonder if today’s the day you find out your prayers weren’t answered, to feel your heart tear open when you see other people being happy, to bury yourself in work because you can’t stand to be alone with your grief. She understands me needing to open the gallery. She even likes my art.”
Camilla took a step forward, laying a hand on Rory’s arm. “What’s going on, Aurora? You’re genuinely starting to worry me.”
“Please, not this again.”
“Yes. This again. You sound . . . I don’t know what. You skip out on brunch again, then lie about being sick. Now you’re talking about your art? What am I supposed to think? You’ve quit school. You live like a hermit. No one hears from you anymore. All you seem to care about is this gallery of yours. And this woman you’ve suddenly decided to befriend. I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”
“Maybe you never knew me.”
Camilla’s eyes widened. “Never knew you? I raised you.”
“No, Mother. You molded me—or tried to. And now that I’m doing what I want, you suddenly don’t know me. That’s what this is about. Not school or what’s in my refrigerator. It’s about me not being who you want me to be. Not liking the things you like or living the way you live. But none of those things are important to me, because I’m not like you.”
The Keeper of Happy Endings Page 13
