The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  “Voilà!” I say with a flourish. “You can look now.”

  She gasps when she sees the dresses laid out on my bed like life-size paper dolls. “Are they . . . for me?”

  “Of course they’re for you, silly girl. They certainly won’t fit me.”

  She takes a tentative step forward, eyeing the dresses with wonder. There’s a soft pink floral with a smocked top and puffed sleeves, a white eyelet A-line with a yellow silk sash at the waist, and my favorite, a navy-blue sailor’s suit with a pleated skirt and crisp white collar. She reaches out but pulls her hand back at the last minute, as if touching them might make them disappear.

  “Where did you get them?”

  “They belonged to your mother,” I tell her gently. “Your father said it would be all right if I made them over for you. I used one of the dresses from your closet for the patterns, so they might need a few tucks here and there, but I wanted to surprise you.”

  “That’s why we haven’t been having lessons?”

  “Oui, chérie, that’s why.”

  Before I can brace myself, she’s hurtling herself against me. “Thank you! Thank you! I love them.”

  The feel of her arms around me sets off an unexpected longing, and for a moment I imagine what it would be like to have a daughter of my own, one with Anson’s blond hair and blue-green eyes. “Which one will you wear first?”

  Thia steps back to the bed, eyeing the sailor dress longingly, but in the end points to the pink floral. “That one.”

  “Really? I was sure you’d choose the navy.”

  “I wanted to, but I’m going to save that one for when Anson comes home. Would that be okay?”

  I smile past a throatful of tears. “I think that would be lovely. We’ll hang it—”

  “Daddy!” Thia’s head swivels toward the door. “Look!”

  Owen stands with a shoulder braced against the doorjamb, a glass in his hand, staring at me with a blend of surprise and annoyance, as if he’d forgotten I live under his roof. I try to smile, but his sudden appearance has unnerved me. “I was just showing Cynthia her new dresses.”

  “I assumed you would show them to me first.”

  His words are thick and slushy, his eyes slow to blink. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered about them. I know how busy you are.”

  “Come look, Daddy!” Thia is pointing excitedly. “They’re so beautiful.”

  Owen drags himself out of the doorway and pushes past me, coming to stand beside his daughter. Thia runs a hand over the pleated navy skirt, then cocks an eye up at her father. “This one’s my favorite. Soline says it belonged to Mummy. Do you remember it?”

  His face goes slack, and for a moment I think he won’t answer. Finally, he nods. “Yes, I remember.” But it’s the white eyelet that has captured his attention. His throat bobs as he brushes a knuckle over the neckline. The touch is so intimate I nearly look away. Thia senses it, too, and reaches for his hand.

  “I know you miss her, Daddy.”

  Owen looks up, as if just remembering his daughter is there. He pulls his hand free and looks at me. “These will do,” he mumbles before tipping back his glass and draining the contents. “Thank you, Miss Roussel.”

  Thia catches his hand again as he turns to go. “Daddy, are there any dresses in Mummy’s closet for Soline? She doesn’t have anything nice, unless you count what’s in the box, and she can’t wear that until Anson’s home.”

  He shakes free of her hand. “What box?”

  “The one she brought with her from France.” She turns to me with a toothy grin. “It’s where she keeps all her secrets.”

  Owen pivots awkwardly. “A box of secrets?”

  I smile past him at Thia. “It’s a little joke we share. A secret between us girls.”

  “We’re sisters-to-be, Daddy.”

  Owen stiffens. “It’s past eight, Cynthia. Time for bed.”

  Thia wilts a little but makes no protest as she gathers her new dresses and slips out into the hall. Owen closes the door behind her. The room suddenly feels claustrophobic.

  “My daughter is fond of you.”

  “She’s a sweet girl. And so much like her brother.”

  “But she is not her brother.”

  “No,” I say quietly, not sure what’s coming.

  “Cynthia is quick to form attachments. Unfortunately, she isn’t always discerning in her choices. She’s like her brother in that way—rushing in only to find he’s misplaced his trust. Neither of them ever considers the possibility of being hurt.”

  I blink at him, stung. “You think I want to hurt your son?”

  “I don’t know you, Miss Roussel. I have no idea what you want.”

  “I love your son, Mr. Purcell. I want to be his wife.”

  “I’m quite certain of that,” he responds dryly. “Or at least the last part. It’s the why I’m not clear on.”

  It strikes me that somehow I have always known this was coming, that one day his suspicion of me would finally spill out. Still, the words chill me. “What is it you’re accusing me of?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to understand. It isn’t enough that my son decides to run off and join the Red Cross rather than enlisting in the US Navy, where he belongs. He compounds matters by sending me you, a seamstress-turned-nurse’s-aide, whose name I’ve never once heard him mention and can barely pronounce, and writes to inform me there’s going to be a wedding. It all seems a little rushed, don’t you think? Convenient?”

  I feel blood flood into my cheeks as my pulse ticks up. “You think sneaking out of Paris with the Nazis on my heels was convenient? Leaving my home? Leaving Anson?”

  “It got you to the States, did it not?”

  The room sways as a wave of nausea washes over me. I swallow thickly, shoving it down. “I came because this is Anson’s home. Because his family is here, and I want you to be my family, too, when we’re married—you and Thia.”

  “And your parents? Where are they?”

  “My mother died last year.”

  “And your father?”

  I touch the locket at my throat and think of Erich Freede, wondering, like Maman, about his fate. “I don’t know,” I say softly. “One of the camps, perhaps. Or dead.”

  His eyes narrow sharply. “You’re Jewish?”

  I see that the idea displeases him, and I find I’m savagely glad. “My father was Jewish. But it isn’t only Jews they’re sending to the camps. Anyone willing to stand against them is in danger of arrest.”

  “None of that is my concern at the moment, Miss Roussel.”

  “Yes, I can see that. But it’s Anson’s concern. Which is why he’s still there—to stop it.”

  He looks back at me with a blend of contempt and annoyance. “By driving around Paris with a patch on his arm while others do the real fighting?”

  His dismissiveness astonishes me. I open my mouth, prepared to defend the work Anson is doing, but catch myself in time. Instead, I lift my chin and meet his gaze head-on. “Do you truly think so little of your son? Because he’s not on a ship somewhere, in danger of being blown to bits? You’re disappointed that he won’t come home with a chest full of medals—or in a box—but I’m not. The war has taught me that there are all sorts of heroes, and that almost none of them will ever have something shiny pinned to their chests.”

  He sways as he raises his empty glass in mock salute. “Pretty words. Quite . . . impassioned. But at the end of the day, it’s what we do that counts, Miss Roussel. The mark we leave behind. And the Purcells have always been careful about the kinds of marks we leave. Our name is synonymous with respectability, with honor and service. I have a duty to protect that for the next generation, to preserve our traditions. That includes my son.”

  “Why do you never use his name?”

  His eyes narrow. “What?”

  “When you talk about him, you refer to him as your son or Thia’s brother, but never as himself. N
ever as Anson.”

  “I’ll refer to him in whatever way I choose. He’s my son. And I didn’t break my neck grooming him so he could throw his life away on the first woman who caught his fancy. He’s got school to finish, and then I have plans for him.”

  “And those plans don’t include a wife?”

  He stares into his glass, giving the melting ice a swirl. “I assume they will—at some point. But when that time comes, my son will marry a woman who will know how to help him be successful.”

  “How do you know I can’t help him?”

  “Our way of life comes with a very specific set of rules, Miss Roussel. And there isn’t room for someone who doesn’t understand them. It’s my job to make you see that.”

  A fresh wave of clamminess hits me as his words penetrate. He’s telling me he has no intention of letting the wedding go forward. The roses on the wallpaper spin dizzily. I drop my eyes to the floor and reach for the edge of the bureau to steady myself. There are tears in my eyes, my throat.

  “You’ve written to him, haven’t you? To tell him you don’t approve. That’s why you asked if I’d had a letter. Not because you were worried. Because you expect him to write to me and break it off.” He doesn’t say anything, but I see that I’m right. “You’re going to make him choose,” I say quietly. “Between you and me.”

  “Life is choosing, Miss Roussel. And I intend to make sure my son chooses wisely.”

  “What happens when he chooses me over you?”

  He smiles, a thin, unpleasant expression that sends a chill through me. “How long have you known my son? Six months? Seven? I’ve known him all his life. He’s always had a soft spot for strays. He’s like his mother in that way, always taking up for some cause or other. But he’s been raised to know what’s expected of him. He may have forgotten while in France, but he’ll remember soon enough.” The smile vanishes as he sets his empty glass on the bureau and turns to leave. “He won’t choose you.”

  I stand there a moment, holding my breath until he’s gone, then rush to the bathroom and bring up my dinner.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  SOLINE

  The Work is our legacy to the world, the spells we weave, the hearts we bind, and all the generations that come after. These are our gifts made manifest.

  —Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

  29 October 1943—Newport

  It’s a Friday afternoon, and the house is eerily quiet when I return from my afternoon walk on the beach. Thia is home from school again, though I haven’t seen her for several days. Belinda will only say that she’s under the weather and that her father doesn’t want her disturbed. Owen has been scarce as well, locked away in either his room or his study, leaving me to dine alone.

  My mood has grown dark of late. I’m so isolated here, unmoored from my own world and a stranger in Anson’s. I have no friends here, no means of filling my time or striking out on my own. The days stretch before me with no horizon and no news from Anson on which to pin my hopes. Thia is my one happiness, and I suspect I am hers. Owen suspects it too, though he isn’t above keeping us apart to hurt me.

  As I climb the stairs, I find myself wondering what kind of woman could love a man like Owen Purcell, a man who treats his children like pieces on a chessboard, to be moved only when and where it suits him. Yet, in spite of her cold and dictatorial husband, Lydia Purcell managed to raise a pair of warm and wonderful children.

  I’m nearly to the end of the gallery when I hear a faint rustling and realize the door to my room is ajar. I feel my spirits lift at the thought of finding Thia sitting cross-legged on my bed with one of her sketchbooks. Instead I find Owen standing over the bed, pawing through the contents of my dress box.

  “What are you doing?”

  He glares at me. There’s no remorse in his expression, only annoyance that he’s been interrupted. His jaw is peppered with pale stubble, and his eyes are puffy and bloodshot. He looks as if he’s aged ten years, and grown smaller somehow, since our last conversation. And then I realize what has changed. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in something other than one of his impeccably tailored suits. Instead, he’s wearing a gray cardigan and trousers that look as though they’ve been slept in. The change is shocking.

  “What does it look like? I’m going through your box of secrets.” His words are slurred, his S’s thick and wet. It’s barely three o’clock, and he’s clearly been drinking for hours.

  I smother a curse when I see my dress—the one I’m meant to marry Anson in—lying at his feet, a froth of beads and white silk twisted around his ankles. I bend down and snatch it up, cradling it against me like a rescued child. “You have no right to go through my things.”

  His eyes glitter coldly. “You’re living in my house, eating from my table, sleeping on my sheets. I’d say that gives me every right.”

  “What is it you expect to find?”

  “You think you’re so clever, landing on my doorstep like some war orphan, without two nickels to your name and everything you own in a cardboard box, claiming to have landed the most eligible young man in Newport. I’ll say this for you, when you were shopping for a meal ticket, you didn’t mess around. Not a decent pair of shoes to your name, but you managed to bring a wedding dress all the way from Paris. That’s what I call planning ahead.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  He takes a step forward, swaying a bit in his attempt to look menacing. “What was it like?”

  I try to think of something to say, something that will make him believe me. But there’s nothing. Because he doesn’t want to believe me. When he looks at me, he sees what he wants to see—an opportunist who used her wiles to trick his son into a marriage proposal.

  I drop my gaze, taking in the once-tied packet of letters, loose now and strewn across the spread. Several have been opened, their contents tossed aside. The sight makes me sick to my stomach. “You read my letters.”

  “I would have, but they’re all in French. Lovers, I assume. Did my son know?”

  There is no shame in his reply, no acknowledgment that he has trespassed where he has no business. Only icy accusation. I bend down to gather them, one at a time, hating that he’s opened them, touched them at all. “They belong to me,” I tell him sharply. “They have nothing to do with Anson.”

  I’m reaching for the ribbon that once bound them together when I see Anson’s shaving kit lying facedown among the letters. Owen sees it too. I lunge for it, reaching it before he can snatch it away. I can’t bear the thought of him touching that either.

  His eyes glint dully, fury blunted by drink. “Where did you get that?”

  “Anson gave it to me the morning I left Paris.”

  I’m surprised when his shoulders sag, as if all the air has left his chest. For a moment he seems on the verge of tears. “His mother gave it to him the Christmas before she died.”

  “He told me,” I say softly.

  “Give it to me.”

  I’m startled by the sudden change in his voice. I stare at his outstretched hand, then take a step back. “No. Anson gave it to me. It’s mine.”

  I don’t see the slap coming, but all at once there’s a dull crack in my head and a flash of bright light as his palm connects with my cheek. I taste blood as my head snaps back. Before I can get my bearings, the leather case is torn from my hands.

  “Nothing here is yours,” he hisses. “Nothing here will ever be yours. At least I can be sure of that now.”

  A blade of cold slices down my spine. Something about the way he says the last words, with an icy sense of satisfaction, thickens my blood. I watch as he reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a folded scrap of paper. When he tries to hand it to me, I shake my head, refusing to take it. He shoves it at me again. This time I take it, but I squeeze my eyes shut, unwilling to read the words I already know are there, unwilling to make them real.

  Every mother, sister, wife, and lover has imagined what this moment might be like,
rehearsing it in her mind while trying to pray it far away. And now it has come to me. I force my eyes open and feel my throat constrict when I see the words at the top of the page: Western Union.

  25 October 1943

  Mr. O. Purcell:

  It is with deepest regret that I must relay the news that your son, Anson William Purcell, has been reported missing dated 19 October after failing to return from a transport mission. If further details become available, you will be promptly notified.

  Charles M. Petrie

  C.O. American Field Services

  My lungs suddenly stop working, as if I’ve received a punch I didn’t see coming. Not dead—missing. I stare at the word. It should bring me comfort, some frail thread of hope, but I’ve heard the stories. I know how rare it is for a missing man to turn up alive. Suddenly, something Anson said the night before he sent me away floats back . . . If you’re safe, it won’t matter what they do to me.

  I tell myself I would know if he were dead, that I would have felt the loss instantly, like a part of myself being torn away. I haven’t. But as I recall the words Maman spoke the night she died, I realize this was what she was trying to prepare me for. This day. This moment.

  As long as you keep his beautiful face in your heart, he will never truly be lost.

  But he is lost. I’m holding a paper that tells me he is.

  I force my eyes back to the telegram, as if the words might somehow have changed. They have not. The final line blurs on the page as I read it. If further details become available . . .

  Details.

  I try not to think of him, lying somewhere, broken, bleeding. Or worse. But it’s all I can think of. How many women have read those same words? And how many ever got their soldiers back—or even learned their actual fate? As a member of the AFS, Anson isn’t actually a soldier. His Resistance missions aren’t carried out in coordination with the military. They’re secret and often spur-of-the-moment, meaning only a handful of people would even know where to look for him. Revealing such information could expose the entire cell, and the first rule of the Resistance is that the safety of one person must never be allowed to jeopardize the cell.