And there was my own reaction, the immediate wave of recognition I felt as I took in the carefully coiffed gold hair, the high cheeks and wide mouth. The resemblance to her daughter was inescapable, a reminder that I am an outsider—that Rory is not mine.
And yet I’ve grown so close to her in such a short time. Me, who prefers to keep the entire world at a distance. But she’s become a part of my life now. A surrogate, I suppose, for the daughter I lost. From that very first day, when she walked into Bisous Sucrés, hugging my battered dress box to her chest, I’ve felt the connection, as if fate were somehow winking at the two of us.
She seemed to me a kind of angel that day, the gift I never knew I wanted—or needed. And perhaps I’ve been that for her too. She calls me her fairy godmother, and I’m glad to have had a hand in making her dream come true. My contribution was leasing her the row house, and I’ve already made arrangements with Daniel to gift it to her, as Maddy once gifted it to me.
She has asked me to be at the opening, and I would like very much to be there, but I see now that it would be a mistake to go. I would happily play second to Camilla were I welcome. Clearly, I am not, and I will not embarrass myself by pushing in where I don’t belong. I’ve had my little run, as they say. Any tragédienne worth her salt knows when it’s time to exit the stage. As does any decent fairy godmother. She’ll have this last gift from me, the row house for her gallery, and that will be the end. I will have done my bit of good and will back away quietly.
I tell myself I’m fine with it all, but it’s a lie. What was I thinking? To let a stranger into my life, after so many years of self-protection, to feel again after the blissful numbness. Like my hands after the fire, when the nerves began to regenerate. The pain was so excruciating that all I wanted was to be numb again.
Today felt like that.
I saw it the instant Camilla’s eyes locked with mine. She’d taken her measure of me and found me wanting. The flared nostrils and tilted chin, the thin smile that made me go cold all over. It was the way Anson’s father used to look at me, like an interloper who had overstepped her bounds. I didn’t belong in his son’s life, and I don’t belong in Rory’s either.
I look at my fingers as they close around the stem of my wineglass, curling and shiny pink, and recall Camilla’s casual mention of the fire—as if I need help remembering. For as long as I’m alive, I will always remember.
22 July 1981—Boston
I haven’t had a moment’s peace since word leaked that L’Aiguille Enchantée has been chosen to create a gown for one of the Kennedy cousins. The phone rings all day—brides who read the society pages and are suddenly desperate for a Roussel gown. And then there are the curiosity seekers who wander in off the street or stand gawking on the sidewalk, as if expecting to see the bride-to-be having her hem pinned in my front window.
I understand why everyone is très agité. The Kennedys are the nearest thing to royalty Americans are ever likely to have, which means even a distant cousin is treated like a fairy-tale princess. And if I have my way, her gown will be worthy of a fairy tale. It’s a stunning thing, perhaps my best work ever. Ivory shantung embellished at the hem with silver embroidery and pale-pink crystals. But there is still the bow to attach and the beading on the sash to finish, and time is growing short. I’ve been working day and night to complete the dress on time, but I cannot work without sleep. Not even for Boston royalty.
It’s nearly 2:00 a.m. when I climb the stairs to my rooms on the third floor. I need only an hour or two, and then I will go back down. But I’m too wound up to sleep. I go to the kitchen and make a small pot of chocolate, add a splash of bourbon, the way Maddy used to drink it, then carry it back up to bed.
I think about having a cigarette, but I’ve left the pack downstairs in my workroom, and I’m too weary to go down after it. The chocolate will have to be enough, and I can already feel my eyelids beginning to droop. Two hours. That’s all I need.
I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep when I awaken with my throat on fire. The room is dark and thick with smoke. I roll from the bed and onto my knees, in search of air as I crawl in the direction of the stairs. I cling to the rail as I go, disoriented by the thickening smoke and eyes rendered useless. The heat is savage, searing my throat and chest. Keep moving, my brain screams. Keep moving! But I freeze when I see the ruddy glow at the back of the house and hear the sickening crackle of flames, feeding, consuming.
My workrooms. My work. On fire.
Frantic, I find my feet, hurtling toward the hideous glow rather than away from it. The heat is like a wall, knocking me backward as I reach the largest of the workrooms. Shelves stacked with spare bolts of fabric are completely engulfed, the curtains, too, and the surface of the worktable where a few hours earlier I had been pinning a pattern. It’s what I always imagined hell to look like.
And then I see them, three nearly finished gowns in various stages of completion, their shadows stretching grotesquely along the back wall so that they appear to be dancing. I watch, horrified, as flames lick up the side of a skirt, then leap to the sleeve of the gown beside it, feeding on lace, buttons, beads.
I hear a wail from somewhere, muffled in the greedy rush of flames. A siren, I think dimly. Someone must have called the fire department. But no, the sound is coming from me, raw and desolate—a mother grieving for her imperiled children.
Without thinking, I stagger forward, wrapping my arms around the waists of two dress forms, weeping and gasping as I drag them to the door, tripping over skirts and trains as I stumble down the final set of stairs, making blindly for the door and the safety of the street.
It isn’t until I spill out onto the steps that I register the searing pain in my left arm. One of the gowns I rescued is crawling with flames, and they’ve caught the sleeve of my cardigan. I drop the dresses and let out a shriek, swatting at the spreading flames as they lick their way along one wrist, then catch the other as well. The pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt, blinding and bone deep. The flames continue to spread in spite of my flailing. There are sirens then, deafeningly real, and suddenly everything goes black as I’m shoved to the ground and smothered in a blanket.
Hours later, I wake in the burn unit, dry mouthed and groggy from the morphine. Both of my hands are bandaged to the elbow. Third-degree burns, the doctor explains, the left hand worse than the right. He speaks slowly, as he might to a child, and I feel like a child, helpless and confused.
The last thing I remember is the blanket swallowing me up. I have no memory of being loaded into the ambulance, where they put tubes in my arms, or the emergency room, where they had to cut the singed cardigan away from my flesh. The doctor has to tell me what happened, and I still can’t remember. A combination of shock and strong opiates, he explains, and not uncommon given my injuries.
I ask him about my shop. He can’t tell me anything. But he does tell me what will happen next. Debridement, skin grafts, exercises, scarring, contracture—and pain. So much pain.
He keeps saying I’m lucky to be alive, lucky to have gotten out when I did, lucky the burns aren’t worse. But all I hear is that I’ll never sew again, that the life I’ve built for myself is gone. The Roussel curse at work again, Maman would say.
My glass is empty. I refill it and go to the study for my box. Suddenly I want my things around me. It’s silly to care now, after so much time without them, but when so much has been uprooted—so many things lost—one must seek comfort in the familiar.
I carry the box back down the hall, holding it in my arms the way one holds a found child, closely, fiercely. And for an instant, as I move past the mirror, I see her looking back at me—the girl who dreamed of princes and believed in happy endings. But a moment later, the girl is gone, replaced by the woman I’ve become. Worn and alone. Dreamless. Scarred.
For a time—a handful of months—I actually thought I might make something of the time I have left, that I might even be happy again. But I see now that it was only a
trick of the light, a shimmery mirage that upon closer inspection falls away. Another loss for my collection. Another unhappy ending.
I strip off my clothes and then open the drawer to the nightstand. The pill vial is there. I take it out, hold it in my fist. A long sleep is what I need. Oblivion. I struggle with the lid, but finally it comes free, and they spill into my palm, small and white. I count them. There are seven. It doesn’t seem like enough. I want to sleep for a long, long time.
I swallow two pills with the last of my wine, then fall back against the spread. A clock is ticking somewhere, distant and oddly muffled. I pull the box close. It’s just us again. My box of memories and me. I close my eyes, welcoming the darkness, where everything is quiet and the memories can’t find me.
I have always grieved the ends of things.
THIRTY-FIVE
RORY
September 18, 1985—Boston
Rory pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. The knot in her belly tightened as she stared at the bright-red door. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d shown up on Soline’s doorstep unannounced, but the circumstances had changed. Four days had passed since their disastrous lunch, and she hadn’t heard a word from Soline, in spite of at least a dozen phone calls. Not that she blamed her. But she needed to apologize—not only for her mother’s behavior but for sitting there and letting it happen—and if that meant pounding on the door until she answered, so be it.
The curtains were still drawn, the front steps strewn with a trio of newspapers still in their clear plastic bags. She rang the bell several times, then tried the knocker. “Soline, it’s Rory.”
A woman walking a pair of overweight beagles slowed as she passed by, eyeing her suspiciously. When she finally moved past, Rory fished an envelope and pen from her purse and scribbled a quick note. Please call me. I need to talk to you. —R She knocked one last time, then wedged the note between the door and the jamb, crossing her fingers that it would stay there until Soline discovered it.
But on the drive back to the gallery, her thoughts took a dark turn. What if Soline wasn’t just holing up in her house, nursing hurt feelings? What if she were ill or hurt?
She tried Soline’s number once more, letting it ring eight times before hanging up and immediately dialing Daniel Ballantine’s office. As usual, his receptionist put her right through.
“Rory, good to hear from you. I trust the gallery’s coming along.”
“It is. Thank you. But I do need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Could you give Soline a call and make sure she’s okay?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
Rory bit her lip, wondering how much to say. “It’s kind of a long story. We were having lunch the other day, and the conversation turned . . . unpleasant. The next thing I knew, she was walking away from the table. Now she isn’t answering her phone, and when I went over and knocked on her door just now, she didn’t answer. I’m worried.”
He blew out a breath. “How long ago?”
“Four days,” Rory said quietly. “I’m worried that something might have happened to her. The curtains were still closed, and there were newspapers piled up on the steps.”
“Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word. “She does that sometimes.”
His casual tone surprised Rory. “Does what?”
“Pulls a disappearing act. Goes into hiding. Something sets her off and she just withdraws.”
“You think she’s just mad?”
“Mad probably isn’t the right word. Certain things set her off, things she’d rather not deal with. Hiding is how she deals with it. I’ve seen her go more than a week.”
“So what do you do, just wait her out?”
“Usually. She doesn’t do it for attention. She genuinely wants to be left alone.”
“But what if it’s not that? What if she’s sick or hurt?”
“Based on what you just told me, I’m betting she’s neither. She’ll resurface when she’s ready.”
“Could you try calling her? Or maybe go by? Maybe she’ll answer the door if she knows it’s you.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“Please.”
“All right.”
“And if she does, could you ask her to call me? I need to talk to her.”
“I’ll pass it along if I get the chance, but don’t expect me to change her mind if it’s already made up. She’s a stubborn old bird when she wants to be. I’ll see what I can do and let you know.”
The next afternoon, Rory returned home from the gallery to find her answering machine blinking. The sight always made her pulse skitter, a mix of hope and dread that had become all too familiar in recent months. But none of the messages were about Hux. There were two from her mother, who she hadn’t spoken to since the fiasco at Seasons, and one from Daniel asking her to call him back.
She dialed his number and was put on hold, treated to a tinny rendition of Christopher Cross’s “Sailing” while she waited for him to end another call. Finally, there was a click, and Christopher Cross was gone.
“Rory?”
“Did you get hold of her?”
“No. I tried her several times last night, then went by today at lunch and rang the bell. No answer.”
Rory’s grip tightened on the phone. “We need to call the police and have them go by. Something’s wrong.”
“I don’t think so. I think she’s just holed up. Was the trash can out front yesterday?”
Rory closed her eyes, trying to remember. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Well, it’s there now. And the newspapers were gone.”
“Was there a note? I left a note in the crook of the door. Was it still there?”
“I didn’t see it.”
Rory’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Is there someone who does those kinds of things for her? A cleaning lady or helper of some kind?”
“No. There’s a kid who does the lawn, but that’s it.”
“So what do we do?”
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“For her to call one of us. But we’re on her time. This may only be the halfway point.”
“You promise you’ll let me know if she calls?”
“When she calls,” he corrected gently. “And yes, I promise.”
An hour later, Rory was stretched out on the bed with a slice of cold pizza and a stack of catering menus when the phone rang. She grabbed the cordless so quickly, she nearly dropped it. “Hello?”
“I’ve spoken to her.”
Rory closed her eyes as relief flooded through her. “And she’s okay?”
“Cranky as ever. But that might have something to do with me climbing over the back hedge and sneaking up to the kitchen window. She was making coffee, and all of a sudden there I was. She screamed blue murder, I can tell you. She finally let me in, but she wouldn’t give me any coffee.”
“But she’s okay? You’re sure?”
“She’s looked better, I’ll admit that. But she claims she’s fine. She’s been having some trouble with her hands again, and the pain meds make her sleep.”
“Did you tell her I’ve been trying to reach her?”
“She knows,” he said after a slight hesitation. “She heard you when you came to the door.”
“And the note?”
“She read it.”
“She’s not going to call, is she?”
Another pause, longer this time. “She thinks it would be better if she didn’t.”
“I see.”
“I’m not sure you do,” Daniel said quietly. “I’m not even sure I do. She’s so protective of her past, but I know some of what she’s been through. It wasn’t easy, but she made her peace with what was left of her life after the fire by numbing herself. Then you came along, and she suddenly stopped being numb. She changed. Now something’s happened. I don’t know what. She didn’t say. But she’s crawled back into her shell.”
“It was my fault. That’s
what I’ve been trying to tell her. That I’m sorry.”
“She isn’t angry, Rory. She just thinks it would be best if she didn’t see you anymore. She asked me to thank you and to wish you well with the opening.”
Rory closed her eyes, absorbing the finality of the words. “Will she change her mind, do you think?”
“Not if you push her. Give her some space. Focus on the gallery for now, and maybe try again after she’s had some time. In the meantime, I’m here if you need anything.”
Rory felt miserable as she ended the call. He was probably right about giving her space, but the thought of losing Soline’s friendship was startlingly painful given their relatively short acquaintance. She’d been a lifeline in the beginning, a kind of mirror in which to see herself, but she’d become so much more. A friend and confidante. Her fairy godmother.
Kindred spirits.
That’s how Soline had described their relationship. Strangers who shared a common past. The words had sent a chill up her spine then. Now they made her sad. It would seem the benefit of their paths crossing had been all on one side. She had received empathy and understanding when she needed it most, but in offering them, Soline had been forced to relive the loss of the only man she’d ever loved. And she’d done it without so much as a photograph for comfort.
Suddenly, the seed of an idea began to form, a way to thank Soline for her many kindnesses. But she was going to need some help.
At nine the next morning, Rory sat sipping her coffee, waiting for Doug Glennon to pick up. He was a sportswriter for the Globe and had married a friend of hers from Tufts a few years ago. He was a great guy, a jock with a heart of gold, and absolutely crazy about Kelly. She didn’t know him well, but they’d hung out a handful of times, and Kelly had assured her he’d be willing to help and had promised to mention it when he came in last night.
“This is Doug.”
“Doug,” Rory blurted, startled after being on hold so long. “It’s Aurora Grant—Rory. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was one of Kelly’s bridesmaids. I spoke to her yesterday, and she said I should give you a call.”
The Keeper of Happy Endings Page 27
