The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

“Everything’s fine. I just came by to return this.” Rory held up the Tupperware container. “I didn’t know you had company or I wouldn’t have come.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s only Vicky and Hilly. We’ve just finished lunch. Have you eaten? There’s some bisque left and plenty of salad.”

  “I’m not hungry. And I’m not really dressed.”

  “Oh, no one cares about that. I know they’d love to see you.”

  Before Rory could protest, she was being steered toward the dining room. “Look who I found, ladies,” Camilla announced as they sailed into the room. “She stopped by to return a leftover container, but when she heard you were here, she just had to come in and say hello.”

  Rory managed a smile. Vicky Foster and Hilly Standridge were members of the Women’s Art Council and held prominent positions in Camilla’s entourage.

  Hilly smiled at her with sad eyes. “It’s lovely to see you, dear. We were awfully sorry to hear about your young man, but we’re keeping a good thought. Will you be joining us for dessert? I believe your mother’s gone to bring it in.”

  As if on cue, Camilla reappeared with the dessert tray. “Your timing is perfect, Aurora. I made your favorite. Apple spice cake with brown-butter frosting.”

  “Thanks, but I really can’t. I just stopped by to bring back your soup container. I’ve got tons to do, and traffic—”

  “Oh, sweetheart, stay for cake at least. I’m sure you can spare a few minutes—and give your mother a chance to brag a little to her friends.”

  Rory shifted awkwardly, keenly aware of Hilly and Vicky looking at her with indulgent smiles. For a sickening moment she was eight again, wearing a yellow chiffon party dress, being hoisted up onto a piano bench at one of her mother’s dinner parties, expectant faces all turned in her direction. Her little hands hot and sticky, frozen on the keys. Her mother’s voice, high and tight from behind her camera. Come now, Aurora, you don’t want to embarrass Mommy in front of her friends.

  The photo now sat in a silver frame in her mother’s curio cabinet in the living room, her humiliation captured for posterity. And here she was again, being called on to do her party piece.

  Her vision began to smear as she stared at Camilla. It’s just the perfume, she told herself, Shalimar and White Shoulders, mixed with her mother’s Chanel No. 5. She blinked the moisture away and dropped her eyes to the cake. Perfection, as usual.

  “Here, sit by me,” Camilla said, pulling out a chair. “And I’ll cut you a nice big slice.”

  Rory dropped into the chair obediently, watching as Camilla wielded the cake knife with the skill of a surgeon. Vicky filled four of her mother’s pretty china cups. Four cups, not three. Her mother had known all along that she would get her way.

  “Your mother mentioned an internship in Paris when you finish school,” Hilly said, spooning sugar into her coffee. “You must be looking forward to that. We sent all our girls after graduation, though not for anything so exciting as an internship at the Musée d’Orsay.”

  “I’m afraid that’s on hold for now,” Camilla answered for Rory. “Aurora has decided to pursue interests closer to home.”

  Vicky nodded. “Oh, yes. Of course. But it’s a shame to pass up such a wonderful experience after you went to so much trouble arranging it for her.” She paused for a sigh. “But I suppose school can wait, and Paris isn’t going anywhere.”

  Rory had been fiddling with her cake, content to let the conversation go on without her, but listening to her mother being painted as the real victim was a bridge too far. She put down her fork and turned to Vicky. “Actually, I’ve decided not to finish school, Mrs. Foster. I plan to open a gallery instead. With any luck, this fall.”

  “A gallery?” Hilly’s mousy brows shot up. “Why, that’s wonderful. Camilla, why didn’t you tell us about this?”

  Camilla lifted her coffee cup and sipped before offering a tight smile. “It’s all still in the planning stages. I didn’t want to jinx it.”

  “Well, this is exciting. Your very own gallery. You found a good location, I hope. You know what they say—location, location, location.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. I found a wonderful row house right next to DeLuca’s.”

  “On Newbury? How perfect—”

  “Wait,” Vicky interrupted, waving her fork. “Isn’t that where the bridal shop was? The French woman with her magic dresses. Guaranteed all her brides a happy ending. Hilly, your daughter bought her dress there, didn’t she, back before it burned? What was it called? Something catchy.”

  “The Charmed Needle,” Hilly replied. “The woman did stunning work, and all by hand. Though I can tell you, we paid for every last stitch.”

  Rory leaned forward in her chair, cake forgotten. “Did it work? The magic, I mean.”

  Hilly smiled serenely. “Three grandbabies later, I suppose it must have. The doctors said she couldn’t after she fell off that beast of a horse, but I am thrice a grandmother.”

  Vicky rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you actually believe those silly rumors.”

  “I’m saying it never hurts to hedge your bet, darling. If I had to do it over again, at twice the price, I’d pay.”

  Vicky sniffed at her. “Whatever floats your boat, as they say. But it was a lovely shop. I remember the owner, I think. French and absolutely gorgeous. I seem to remember her being tapped to do a dress for one of the Kennedy girls. A cousin or niece or something. I can’t remember which one, but I remember it being a very big deal. Heaven knows the Kennedys need all the luck they can get. And she certainly had the reputation for it. Whatever happened to her?”

  “Died when the shop caught fire, I think,” Hilly replied, fingering the strand of pearls at her throat. “My daughter was terribly upset when she saw it in the papers. They said she was asleep when it started. I’m trying to remember her name.”

  “Soline,” Rory supplied. “Her name is Soline Roussel. And she didn’t die. In fact, she’s my landlady.”

  “Your landlady! Well, what do you know about that?”

  “The building wasn’t really for lease—it had been vacant for years—but when she heard I wanted to open a gallery for new artists, she agreed to let me rent it.”

  Vicky turned to Camilla, who had remained silent throughout the conversation. “You’ve been holding out on us, Camilla, dear. You never said a word about Ms. Roussel. And it sounds as if she has an interest in the arts. Perhaps we should invite her to join the council.”

  Camilla continued to stir her coffee, her expression carefully blank. “I’m afraid it’s Aurora who’s been holding out. I’ve never met Ms. Roussel, though I understand she’s something of a recluse. Perhaps we could invite her to make a contribution instead.”

  Hilly turned to Rory. “Could you talk to her about joining our little group? Just, you know, feel her out?”

  Camilla set her spoon down with a clatter. “Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves? Five minutes ago, you couldn’t remember the woman’s name. Now you’re ready to invite her to join the council. Don’t you think we should find out if she’s our sort of person first?”

  Hilly rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Camilla. It’s the 1980s, not the 1880s. No one thinks like that anymore.”

  Vicky sighed and laid down her napkin. “Personally, I’m bored to death with our sort of person. And in case you haven’t noticed, Camilla, our membership numbers are in the loo, which means we can’t afford to be snooty. Perhaps it’s time to shake things up. She must know scads of people. Think of the buzz it would create.”

  Camilla looked genuinely astonished. She wasn’t used to being countermanded, and certainly not at her own table. “I just meant it might be better to stick with people we know.”

  Vicky was undaunted. “Why don’t you drop a few hints the next time you speak with her, Aurora, and see if she’d be interested in joining forces.”

  Rory reached for her coffee, uncomfortable with being put on the spot. “I really d
on’t know when I’ll speak to her again. I usually deal with her attorney on anything to do with the building. Which reminds me,” she said, emptying her cup and pushing back from the table. “I’m due to meet my contractor at four. It was nice seeing you both again.”

  Camilla’s face fell. “You’re going already?”

  “I told you I couldn’t stay.”

  “But I hoped you’d help us brainstorm for the fundraiser. We seem to repeat the same old themes, and you always have such creative ideas.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Rory said, turning to go. “You always do.”

  She was nearly to the door when Camilla caught her. “Aurora. You’re not really going to talk to that woman about joining the council, are you?”

  “Her name is Soline. But you know that, because we’ve talked about her. And why would it be so terrible for her to join your precious council?”

  “For starters, we know nothing about her.”

  “Correction. You know nothing about her. I know quite a lot about her, and I like her.”

  “That much is obvious. Honestly, the way you went on in there. Like she’s the patron saint of unknown artists or something.”

  “I didn’t go on about her. I was asked about her—by your friends. I didn’t come here to talk about her or to have cake. I came . . . Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What doesn’t matter? What were you going to say?”

  “Nothing. I wasn’t going to say anything. I’m just having a bad day. I didn’t expect anyone to be here. I thought . . . we could talk.”

  “We can. I’ll get rid of them, and we’ll talk all you want. You can stay for dinner. We’ll cook like we used to. Or we can go out. You name the place.”

  But it was too late for talk. Somewhere between kicking off her shoes and sitting down for cake, the need to pour out her troubles to her mother had evaporated. “I’m all right now.”

  “But something’s wrong. I can tell.”

  “Something was wrong when I got here. I told you that, but I had to have cake with your friends and smile and make polite conversation, so you could play hostess.”

  “It isn’t Matthew, is it? You haven’t had news.”

  She shook her head wearily. “No. No news.”

  “Then what?”

  “Go back to your guests, Mother. With any luck, they’ll forget about Soline.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did. I saw your face. You hated that her name even came up. I don’t know why, but you did. Or maybe it was me talking about the gallery that set you off. You twist my arm until you get me to stay. Then, when I commit the unpardonable sin of going off script, you get all huffy. You expect everyone to dance to your tune. Even me.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “But it is. It was true when I was eight, and it’s true now.”

  “When you were . . . Aurora, what are you talking about?”

  “Forget it. And don’t worry—I won’t mention your precious council to Soline. I don’t see her fitting in, though not for the reasons you think.”

  Camilla blinked at her. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I don’t see her wanting to be part of your court.” Rory paused, jerking her chin in the direction of the dining room. “She isn’t like them. And she certainly isn’t like you. She sees me. Not the way she thinks I should be but the way I am. Maybe that’s why I like her so much.”

  And with that, she turned and stepped into the foyer, trying not to think of an eight-year-old in a party dress, perched on a piano bench and frozen with fear.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  RORY

  An hour later, Rory found herself standing on Soline’s front step, a bag of takeout from Gerardo’s in her arms. She had knocked four times and was about to knock again when the door opened a crack.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

  “It’s me,” Rory blurted. “I’m sorry. I should have called.”

  A waft of coffee drifted out onto the stoop as the door swung back. “Rory?”

  She was barefoot and simply dressed: a plain white tee, jeans rolled up at the ankles. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, her skin devoid of makeup. What was it about French women—even the middle-aged ones—that allowed them to roll out of bed, throw on the first thing they pulled out of the closet, and be ready for a photo shoot?

  Her eyes narrowed perceptively, lingering on Rory’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Or maybe everything. Are you hungry?”

  Soline eyed the bag and stepped aside. “Come through.”

  The kitchen was at the back of the house and much larger than she expected, with a high ceiling and tall windows that let in the afternoon sun. Here, too, was a room meant to be used, with ropes of onions and garlic on the wall, bottled vinegars lined up on a shelf above the stove, tomatoes ripening on the sill.

  “Whatever it is smells delicious,” Soline said as she began extracting the food from the bag. There was a container of pasta tossed with mushrooms, zucchini, and eggplant; another of salad; and a bag filled with fragrant knots of garlic bread. “Where did you get it?”

  “There’s a place near my apartment—Gerardo’s. I order from there a couple times a week. Everything’s delicious, and they deliver. Can I set the table?”

  “It’s a pretty day. Why don’t we eat on the patio? Grab plates and glasses from the cupboard next to the stove. Silverware is in the drawer just below. I’ll put the food on a tray and be out in a minute.”

  Rory located the necessary items and carried them out to a sunny patio scattered with potted herbs and tomato plants. There was a small wrought-iron table in one corner, tucked beneath a rose-draped pergola. It was a lovely spot, cool and shady with the mingled scents of roses and basil drifting on the late-afternoon breeze.

  Soline appeared with the tray just as Rory was finishing the table. “Here we are. Help me, please. It’s heavier than I thought, and my hands are trying to cramp.”

  Rory hurried to relieve her of the tray. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I should have carried it out.”

  “I’m not an invalid, chérie. I do quite well for myself. Most of the time.”

  “Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” Rory set out the food, then dropped into one of the chairs. “Thank you for this. For letting me barge in on you. I hope I haven’t ruined any dinner plans.”

  “Plans?” Soline barked out a laugh. “I haven’t had plans in years. And certainly not dinner plans.” She held out both hands—bare, since she hadn’t been expecting company. “It’s to do with the gloves mostly. They make me clumsy—especially when eating—and something of a spectacle in this day and age, an eccentric old woman stuck in the past.”

  Rory shot her a dubious glance. No one in their right mind could ever mistake Soline Roussel for an old eccentric. Even now, makeup-free and unprepared for guests, she looked beautifully chic. Like the effortlessly beautiful women in Condé Nast Traveler, her face spoke of glamour and exotic adventures, lives lived in faraway places.

  “I’ve always loved gloves,” Rory said. “I think they make you look chic.”

  Soline smiled unconvincingly as she leaned across the table to fill Rory’s water glass. “Aren’t you sweet. Now, tell me why you’re here, and don’t say it was your turn. You have a face like a rain cloud. What’s happened?”

  “Nothing, really. I just . . .” She shook her head, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s nothing.”

  Soline arched a brow. “You knocked on my door because nothing happened? What kind of answer is that?”

  Rory helped herself to a piece of eggplant, then poked disinterestedly at it. “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been a good day, and I needed someone to talk to.”

  Soline’s face softened. “So talk.”

  Rory shrugged. “It’s Friday. That’s the day I call to see if there’s any news on Hux. There wasn’t. I didn’t really think there would be, but . . .”


  “But?”

  “I can’t see how this ends, and it scares me. I’m afraid he’s never coming back, and the gallery will be all I ever have. What if . . .”

  “You turn out like me?” she supplied quietly. “It’s all right to say it.”

  “No. It isn’t that.” At least it isn’t only that. “It’s something my mother said. She thinks I’m opening the gallery for the wrong reasons.”

  “Why would she say that?”

  “Because Hux is the one who put the idea into my head. It was something I used to toy with when I got bored with school, one of those what if kind of things. But Hux made it seem possible. He said it was a dream worth chasing. So I chased it.”

  “And you think that makes it wrong? Because someone inspired you?”

  “I was supposed to finish school, then do an internship at the Musée d’Orsay. When I told her I was leaving school to open a gallery, she said I was trying to prove something to someone who wasn’t even here. Because I was scared.”

  “You’re not, are you?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think so then, but now . . . I’m just second-guessing everything. It’s starting to feel like Hux is never coming home, and maybe I’ve known it for a while now. Why else would I decide to open a gallery right now, unless some part of me thinks it’s time to move on?”

  “Your mother said all that to you?”

  “No. Not in so many words, but she knows how to get under my skin. She doesn’t like it when I make plans for myself, so when I do, she has to undermine them. In twenty-three years, it’s never occurred to her that I might actually know what I want.”

  “What do you want?”

  Rory closed her eyes, fighting a hitch in her throat. “I want Hux to come home. Healthy and in one piece. I want to know what comes next. For me. For us.”

  Soline’s smile was tinged with sadness. “Of course you do. But you can’t, chérie. None of us can. We can only live the life we have right now, today.”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t have one. Not really. And part of me is afraid I’m making a huge mistake. My mother keeps reminding me that I don’t have any experience at this and that eighty percent of galleries don’t survive their second year. If I blow it, what happens then? If Hux . . .” She paused, swallowing hard when her voice suddenly broke. “I don’t think I can take losing anything else.”