The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  Rory bit her lip. Under no circumstances would there be a harpist at her opening. There was no denying that Camilla Grant knew her way around an event, but the only fingerprints on this event were going to be hers. “Thanks, but I’ve been working on some ideas, and I’d really like to do this on my own.”

  Camilla sighed breezily. “Suit yourself, but I’m here if you change your mind. How about letting me give you a makeover instead?”

  Oh, good grief. “I do not need a makeover, Mother.”

  “Sweetheart . . . How do I say this without sounding mean? With so much on your plate, you’ve let yourself get a little . . . shabby.”

  “You make me sound like a bag lady.”

  “All right, I’m sorry. But you have to admit that you’ve been focused on other things these last few months. You could do with a little . . . sprucing up. If you won’t let me help with anything else, let that be my contribution. We’ll get you a new outfit, something smashing, and maybe do something with your hair.”

  “I don’t need something smashing. It isn’t going to be that kind of night—or that kind of gallery.”

  “Fine. We’ll find you something less than smashing. We can do it next Saturday. I’ll make an appointment with Lorna for your hair, and a manicure, too, I think. We can grab lunch at Seasons afterward.”

  “We’ll see. I have to go. I’ve got the shower running.”

  “So . . . Saturday?”

  “I’ll call you later in the week.”

  Rory was still smarting over her mother’s use of the word shabby when she returned to the bathroom. Was she . . . shabby? She wiped the fog from the mirror and peered at her face. Her cheeks and forehead were smudged with paint, and flecks of gray speckled the wheat-colored waves that had escaped her ponytail. She pulled the elastic free, shaking out the unruly mass. It fell well past her shoulders now, her bangs so long they nearly obscured her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a haircut, and her highlights had grown out a good three inches, creating a subtle but discernible line of demarcation.

  Perhaps her mother had a point. She had let herself go. She’d never been a girlie girl, with drawers full of makeup and a twice-a-day skin-care regimen, but she’d never completely stopped caring about her appearance. Maybe it was time for a change. Nothing elaborate, just enough to signal the start of her new role as gallery owner.

  She turned off the shower, padded back to the bedroom, and opened her closet. Her wardrobe was another area she tended to neglect, partly because the thought of shopping for clothes made her break out in hives. Nothing ever seemed to fit her properly, as if every piece of clothing in the world had been made for someone else. She wasn’t petite like her mother. She was tall and long-limbed with broad shoulders and narrow hips. A swimmer’s body.

  She peered toward the back, where her good clothes hung. Gifts from her mother, mostly, intended to feminize her boyish daughter. Eggshell, beige, taupe, and ivory, with the occasional pastel thrown in, many still bearing their original tags. And if she agreed to go shopping with her mother next week, she’d have one more beige elephant to add to her collection.

  On impulse, she located Soline’s number and dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this the fairy godmother hotline?”

  “Rory? Is something wrong?”

  “No, but I need a favor. I need help with an outfit for the opening. My mother wants to take me shopping. She’s planning this whole makeover thing.”

  “And this is a problem?”

  “I hate shopping. As in, I’d rather have a root canal. Throw in my mother criticizing everything I pick out, and there isn’t enough Novocain in the state of Massachusetts. The thing is, she’s a little bit right. I do need to change my look if I’m going to be at the gallery every day. I was hoping you could give me some pointers.”

  “You want me to go shopping with you?”

  “No. No, I didn’t mean that. Just . . . tell me what to wear. And how to wear it. And where to buy it. Better yet, help me figure out what I already own that will work, so I don’t have to shop at all.”

  “When do you want to do this?”

  “The sooner the better. If I can tell my mother I’m set with an outfit and promise to get my bangs trimmed, maybe she’ll let me off the hook. I’m not talking full-scale makeover. I just need help putting a few things together, and you always look so chic. I’ll even cook if that will sweeten the deal.”

  “Maybe you should let your mother take you shopping, Rory. It might ease some of the tension between you. Maybe she wants that too.”

  “Trust me—what she wants is to make sure I don’t embarrass her in front of her friends.”

  “Are you certain you’re being fair? I’m sure she just wants it to be a special night for you.”

  “I’m not trying to be unfair. I just don’t want a big fuss. Say you’ll help me.”

  “All right, I can come tomorrow. But you don’t need to cook.”

  “Oh, you’re wonderful! I’m meeting an artist in Freeport in the morning, but I should be home by three. We’ll order a pizza.”

  “All right, pizza. But none of that pineapple nonsense.”

  Soline arrived a little after four, looking effortlessly chic in slim-fitting black slacks and a soft gray tunic. As usual, she was flawless, perfectly accessorized with pointy ballet flats and black gauntlet gloves.

  Rory eyed the ensemble with a pang of envy. Only Soline Roussel could pull off kid gloves in September. “Thank you for helping me with this. I hated to ask, but I’m clueless when it comes to fashion. And let’s face it, I’m not exactly runway material.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” Soline replied briskly. “Show me your closet. So I know what I’m working with. Then we’ll talk a little.”

  Rory led her to the bedroom closet and pushed back the bifold doors. “There it is. Everyday stuff here, dressier stuff at the back. My mother bought most of it.”

  Soline flicked through the hangers with military efficiency, pausing now and then to study a collar or a sleeve, clucking and tsking as she went. Finally, she pivoted to look at Rory. “A nightmare,” she pronounced flatly.

  “Aren’t they hideous?”

  “On the contrary. They’re quite lovely. Your mother has exquisite taste.”

  “I thought you said they were a nightmare.”

  “Oui. For you, they are a nightmare. I see why you haven’t worn most of them. These clothes are meant for une femme menue—a petite woman. You are not petite.”

  “Yes,” Rory said, ducking her head. “I’m aware.”

  “It’s not meant as a criticism, chérie. Only the truth. And when it comes to clothes, we must always tell ourselves the truth.”

  “I’m one of those people who’s just not meant to wear nice clothes.”

  “Everyone is meant to wear nice clothes. Most just get it wrong. They chase fashion rather than style.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Soline looked crestfallen. “Oh, Rory.”

  “What?”

  “Look,” Soline said as she began pulling pieces from the closet and tossing them on the bed. “This skirt. Beautiful, but too short for you. And that flounce at the bottom—you’ll look like you’re wearing a lampshade. This jacket with the nipped waist. Cute, as the teenagers say, but not on you. This blouse with the puffy sleeves and little pearl buttons. No. No. No. These are someone else’s clothes—someone else’s style. You must find your own.”

  “What if I don’t have one?”

  “Don’t be silly. Everyone has a style. Most women just never bother to find it. It’s easier to open a magazine or turn on Dynasty and copy someone else. That’s why everything in the stores looks the same. Because everybody is trying to look like everybody else. They’re happy being vanilla. But you’re not vanilla, Rory. You’re lovely and exceptional, with a flavor all your own. But you’ve been hiding in those boyish clothes for so long that you can’t see yourself
anymore.”

  Rory felt color rise in her cheeks. It was true. Or maybe she’d never been able to see herself. “So what do I wear? I hate fussing with outfits. Not that it matters. Whatever I put on looks wrong.”

  “Ah, but when you buy the right clothes, you don’t have to fuss. It all works together. Like the pieces you’ll choose for your gallery. You want them to say something to the people who see them. You’re after a theme, a statement. Clothes are the same.”

  Soline took her by the shoulders, turning her to face the mirror. “Look at your shoulders, strong and square. The long legs and narrow hips. You’re lean, but not stringy like those silly models. You exude power—or you will when we dress you properly. You need pieces that play up your shape instead of hiding it. Tailored shirts and blazers. Wide-legged trousers to balance the bottom with the top. Pinstripes. Checks. Yes, and tweed, I think. Jewel tones will work wonderfully with your coloring too. No more beige. And absolutely no lace of any kind.” She smiled secretively as she caught Rory’s eye in the glass. “Unless it’s underneath.”

  Rory stared at her reflection, trying to mentally swap her Red Sox T-shirt and lumpy sweatpants for anything remotely resembling what Soline had just described. “In twenty minutes you figured all that out?”

  Soline shrugged. “I’ve been dressing women for forty years. We’ll go shopping next week.”

  “We as in . . . both of us?”

  “Unless you don’t want to.”

  “No, I’d love it, but are you sure?”

  “Yes. But only this once, as a kind of training exercise. Next time, you’ll do it on your own. Or with your maman. No, don’t shudder. Once you know what works for you, you’ll have confidence to choose for yourself. That’s what style does for a girl.” She paused, squinting at Rory’s reflection. “Have you ever thought about cutting your hair?”

  Rory scowled at the mirror. “I know, I need a trim. It’s on the list.”

  “No, I meant short, like this.” She reached around, gathering Rory’s hair to the crown of her head. “You have beautiful cheekbones and a lovely neck. Wearing it short would show off those beautiful eyes too. And you have such good hair. Paul would love to get his hands on it.”

  Rory found herself grinning. “My mother would have seven fits. She thinks I’m half a boy as it is.”

  “You wouldn’t look like a boy, Aurore. You’d look beautiful. Chic.”

  “Chic,” Rory repeated softly, catching Soline’s eye in the glass. “Me?”

  “Oui, chérie—you.”

  Rory stared at her reflection, trying to imagine her mother’s reaction to the kind of cut Soline was suggesting. She’d asked to cut her hair short once, when she first started swimming, because it was such a pain to stuff it into her swim cap, but her mother had been adamant. Young ladies do not lop off their hair for the sake of convenience. She hadn’t thought about cutting it since. But she was definitely thinking about it now. It would have to be a surprise, though. If she breathed a word to her mother, she’d wind up getting talked out of it, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to be.

  Soline caught her eye in the glass. “What do you think?”

  “I think I might want to. But I’m not telling my mother until it’s done. She won’t be happy, but by then it will be too late.”

  Soline said nothing, but the corners of her mouth turned down.

  Rory shot her a sheepish grin. “I know. I seem to be taking up an awful lot of your time lately. What’s the going hourly rate for fairy godmothers these days?”

  “It isn’t that,” Soline said, letting Rory’s hair spill back down around her shoulders. “I’m happy to help.”

  “Then what?”

  “I can’t help thinking your mother is going to resent me for the new you. From what you’ve said, she doesn’t seem the type of woman who’d appreciate another woman’s interference. And were I in her shoes, I might feel the same.”

  Rory thought about that. She made a valid point. Soline was the last person her mother would want giving her fashion advice—or anything else—but she really did need guidance. In so many things. And from someone who knew what it was like to have to reinvent herself after life had knocked her down. Camilla had never been anyone but who she was right now. Stolid and perfect and in control of every facet of her life.

  “Then we’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t find out,” Rory said finally. “I’ll tell her it was all my idea. Now, how do I find this . . . Paul, was it?”

  “If you’re really sure, I’ll phone him tomorrow and get you in.”

  It was all Rory could do not to throw her arms around Soline. “I’m so excited. Thank you.”

  Soline’s mouth twitched, as if she were about to say something, but she bit her lip instead. “What are fairy godmothers for?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  RORY

  September 14, 1985—Boston

  Rory held her breath, silently repeating Soline’s words as another shower of hair fluttered into the lap of her black nylon cape. When it comes to hair, Paul Ramone and the staff at Bella Mia are as good as it gets. No doubt, it was true. But as she sat there, surrounded by a puddle of freshly cropped locks, she prayed she hadn’t made a mistake she’d regret for months.

  She had green-lighted Paul’s suggestions for lowlights and a sassy pixie cut and had held her breath as he set to work. An hour and a half later, she’d been foiled, shampooed, moussed, and blow-dried, and was now in the process of being debulked—whatever that meant—while Soline pretended not to watch from behind her magazine.

  It had already been a full day, beginning with a visit to Neiman Marcus. Soline’s personal shopper, Lila, had done the legwork in advance, so that when they arrived, an entire rack of carefully curated pieces had been waiting. All she had to do was try on and give the thumbs-up or -down.

  The final tally was more than she’d spent collectively on every scrap of clothing she’d ever owned, but the new pieces made her feel stunning. In fact, she’d been so excited with her updated look that she’d decided to wear one of the outfits out of the store.

  She’d ended up leaving with only a handful of bags, as the bulk of her purchases had been left for alterations. She had initially balked at the idea, until Soline explained that beautiful clothes, like beautiful women, deserved to be shown to best advantage, which meant they must fit properly.

  Ironically, the only thing they hadn’t nailed down was an outfit for opening night. But Lila had asked for another chance, promising to come up with a winner in plenty of time. Rory had been only too happy to agree. She had to admit, for someone who’d never cared for fashion, she was certainly enjoying the Cinderella experience.

  It took a moment to realize Paul’s scissors had gone quiet and that he was standing back, studying her head with narrowed eyes. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

  Rory slid worried eyes to Soline, who was nodding. “Shorter over the ears, I think. And soften the fringe.”

  Rory wasn’t sure what surprised her more, the words shorter over the ears or the fact that Soline was telling one of Boston’s most sought-after hairstylists how to do his job. “Can I please look now?”

  Paul’s and Soline’s “no!” came simultaneously. Paul also admonished her to hold still if she didn’t want to end up like Van Gogh. She closed her mouth, cringing as the snick-snick of his scissors resumed. It’ll grow back, she reminded herself. Eventually.

  Twenty minutes later, Paul removed the black nylon cape and gave Rory’s chair a spin until she faced the mirror. “Voilà!”

  Rory blinked at the woman staring back at her from the glass, familiar but a stranger too. Her eyes looked larger, her cheekbones more sculpted. She ran her fingers through the short waves, admiring the subtle lowlights Paul had added. She touched the bare skin at the back of her neck, her exposed ears. She felt naked. And strangely liberated. She already knew what her mother would think, but what about Hux? She looked nothing like the Rory
he’d left behind.

  “I look . . .”

  “Chic,” Soline supplied, appearing over her left shoulder. “And polished. And beautiful.”

  Rory blinked at her reflection. “Do I?”

  “Like a proper gallery owner.”

  Rory turned to beam at Paul. “You’re a miracle worker.”

  He shrugged, waving off the remark. “Who would guess that under such a mop lurked an absolute beauty? But promise me you won’t put either one of us through that again. I’ll see you in five weeks. And then every five weeks after that. Short hair requires upkeep. And mousse.” He handed her a tall silver canister. “A dollop the size of a golf ball. No more or you’ll be crunchy. Nod so I know you understand.”

  Rory nodded obediently. “How much do I owe you?”

  “For today? Nothing. I’m happy to do this favor for Ms. Roussel. God knows I owe her a thousand more. And please, put your tip money away. I don’t want it.” He paused, shooting her a wink. “This time.”

  Paul and Soline exchanged hugs and a few quick words while Rory gathered her purse and shopping bags. Soline smiled at her when they finally met up at the door. “You’re gorgeous, ma petite.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you for today.”

  “You don’t need to thank me. It’s what we fairy godmothers do.”

  “Just the same, I’m treating you to lunch. Even fairy godmothers need to eat. There’s a place down the block called Seasons. We’ll order something decadent, and then I’ll take you home.”

  It was nearly four by the time they reached Seasons, and the lunch crowd was long gone. The hostess showed them to a patio table, commenting when she saw Rory’s shopping bags that someone had spent the day cleaning out the stores.

  They ordered lemonades and browsed the specials, opting for the shrimp flatbread and a salad to share. When the waitress returned with bread and their drinks, Rory lifted her glass to propose a toast.