The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  “Rory. The swimmer, right? Kelly said you called. What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping you could do me a favor. I have a friend who lost someone in the war—an ambulance driver she was engaged to marry—and I found out she doesn’t have a picture of him. I was hoping I could find one and frame it for her as a gift.”

  “We’re talking Vietnam?”

  “World War II.”

  Doug whistled softly. “Forty years. How old is this friend of yours?”

  “I know. It’s been a long time, but I thought there might be one in some archive somewhere. I know it’s not your usual thing, but I know reporters have access to lots of old records. He was from a prominent family in Newport. They made boats, I think. Racing boats. So I’m hoping there’s a shot of him in an old newspaper or something.”

  “Why not just contact the family and ask for one?”

  Rory bit her lip. “Let’s just say they’re not inclined to be helpful.”

  “Right. Got it.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything that would get you in trouble at work, but I’d love to be able to do this for her. Do you think you can help me?”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Purcell,” Rory blurted before he could change his mind. “Anson Purcell. Middle initial W. He was a driver with the AFS, if that helps.”

  “It might. Anything else that could help me narrow it down? Date of birth? Relatives?”

  “No to the date of birth, but his father’s name was Owen, and he had a sister named Cynthia.”

  “Owen and Cynthia Purcell of Newport, Rhode Island. Okay. I’ll see what I can do. There might be an old yearbook photo somewhere or a graduation photo. Give me a few days to do some digging. I’ll be in touch when I know something.”

  Rory left her number, thanking him profusely before hanging up. She would do what Daniel said. She would give Soline space while she concentrated on the opening, and then in a few weeks, she’d write a letter and send it with the photo of Anson. As a token of friendship—or a parting gift if she preferred.

  THIRTY-SIX

  RORY

  September 23, 1985—Boston

  Rory walked through the door of her apartment, exhausted but happy. She’d taken the early ferry to P-town to meet with Helen Blum, a modernist bronze artist recommended by Kendra Paterson. It was one of the things she loved most about budding artists, their unfailing generosity toward other members of their community. Without it, she’d still be trying to scrape together enough artists to open her doors next month.

  She kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for the phone. It had been three days since her conversation with Doug, and she was beginning to worry that no news might be bad news—as in no photo. The message light was flashing. She pushed “Play.” The first message was from her mother, another invitation to dinner, and still no mention of the lunch. Apparently, she was still trying to pretend it never happened.

  The second message was from Doug. Call me. I think I’ve got what you’re looking for.

  She dialed his number at the paper, then punched in his extension, hoping he hadn’t already left for the day. She hated the idea of bothering him at home, but she wasn’t sure she could wait until tomorrow.

  “Doug Glennon.”

  “Hey, it’s Rory. I got your message.”

  “It took a little doing, but I finally hit the jackpot. I’ve got two headshots. One’s a college yearbook photo; the other is him in uniform, taken by the local paper right before he shipped out. Clean-cut, all-American type. You want the current stuff too?”

  “Current stuff?” Rory repeated with a sinking feeling. He’d found the wrong guy. “The Anson Purcell I’m talking about died in World War II, probably somewhere near Paris. He was an ambulance driver for the AFS.”

  “Yeah. That’s the guy. But he didn’t die in France. Or anyplace else, for that matter. He’s alive and well, and quite the philanthropist, apparently.”

  “No. That’s impossible.”

  “Impossible or not, I’m looking at an article that says he made a sizable donation to the ADL in March. Sounds like he’s loaded, and a hero to boot. Captured, it says. Badly wounded. The dates fit; I can fax it over if you want, but I’m telling you, it’s the guy.”

  Rory sagged onto the bed, her head suddenly full of white noise. There’d been some kind of mix-up. Perhaps Thia had a son and had named him after her brother. But the dates . . . “I don’t have a fax machine,” she replied finally. “How long will you be there?”

  “I should already be gone. We’re having dinner with Kelly’s folks, and I can’t be late again. I could put it all in an envelope, though, and leave it at the front desk on my way out. Would that work?”

  “I’ll be by within the hour to pick it up.”

  Rory sat staring at the phone after she hung up. It couldn’t be true. But what if it was? How would Soline take the news? Not well, if her current seclusion was any indication. The only thing more agonizing than a lost love was one that had been purposely thrown away.

  Forty-five minutes later, she was sitting in the parking lot of the Globe building in Dorchester, staring at a manila envelope with her name penned in heavy black marker across the front. It had taken every ounce of willpower she possessed not to open it right there in the lobby, but she’d managed to make it back in the car.

  She clicked on the dome light, then fumbled with the string clasp and slid the contents out into her lap. There were several Xeroxed newspaper articles. The first was the piece Doug had mentioned, praising the Purcell Foundation for its history of philanthropic endeavors, including a recent seven-figure donation to the Anti-Defamation League. The next article had to do with being given a Lifetime Service Award by the New England Leadership Council, and offered a bit more background:

  Since ending his tenure as the director of financial resources for the International Federation of the Red Cross (IFRC), Mr. Purcell continues to serve the organization as a policy consultant and negotiation specialist, is associated with numerous humanitarian organizations, and sits on the boards of several NGOs and charitable trusts. He is also currently a member of the board of directors for Purcell Industries Ltd., where he serves along with his sister in an advisory capacity. In 1941, prior to the United States joining the war, Mr. Purcell left Yale for France, where he volunteered with the American Field Service (AFS), driving an ambulance and working at the American Hospital in Paris, until he was gravely wounded during the successful extraction of a downed RAF pilot. He was captured and held in a German prison camp for nearly five months, where he struggled to recover from his injuries. When the war ended, Purcell spent two years with specialists in Switzerland, learning to walk again. As an only son and heir to a sizable fortune, he could hardly have been blamed had he opted to step into his father’s shoes as CEO of the family business, along with all the perks the position entailed. Instead, he chose a life of service and philanthropy, earning the gratitude of the Leadership Council of New England and of this publication.

  Rory laid the article aside, staring at the grainy photos beneath. She had never laid eyes on Anson Purcell, and yet the young man looking back at her seemed eerily familiar. She couldn’t remember Soline ever describing him in any detail, but somehow his face felt . . . right. Pale eyes and a wave of fair hair, a mouth that was at once sensuous and serious. He was wearing a dark suit with a narrow tie. Below the photograph, she could make out part of a blurry caption—ANSON WILLIAM PURCELL, CLASS OF 1941.

  He was dressed in khakis in the second photo, a leather jacket slung rakishly over one shoulder, like Van Johnson or Tab Hunter, the handsome, wholesome American hero. This was what he had looked like the first time Soline laid eyes on him. And the last time.

  There was one more photograph, a five-by-seven color shot taken fairly recently. Rory stared at it, a hand to her mouth. For a man in his sixties, he was still strikingly handsome, with an athletic build and a head of silver-gold waves men half his age woul
d envy. But he wasn’t the young Anson of the yearbook photo or the dashing Anson in uniform. Deep lines fanned out from his eyes, and the once-square jawline had softened with time.

  And there was something different about the mouth. The earlier sensuousness was gone, leaving a firm, almost grim line in its place. Not a mouth used to smiling, Rory concluded. There was pain there, old pain that had hardened over the years. But then, after what he’d endured at the hands of the Nazis, he was probably entitled. And yet, he’d dedicated his life to good works.

  A barrage of questions assailed her as she continued to stare at the photo of present-day Anson. Captured and held for five months. Two years in Switzerland, learning to walk again. What had gone through his mind when he returned to find Soline gone? What had his father told him about her—and about the baby? And more importantly, why had he not come looking for her? Or perhaps he had looked and hadn’t been able to find her. That seemed unlikely, though, given his obvious resources. Was it possible time and events had simply blunted his feelings for her?

  The last question sent a prickle of dread through her. Perhaps because it struck too close to home. For months, she’d been fixated on Hux coming home to her, safe and sound and whole. Not once had she let herself imagine him returning a changed man, broken and tormented by what he might have endured at the hands of his captors.

  Rory shoved the thought down as she gathered the photos and clippings and slid them back into their envelope, preferring to focus on the matter at hand. She had asked Doug to dig up a photo of a dead man, and instead, he’d managed to dig up the man himself. And now she was going to have to figure out how to tell Soline that the man she’d been mourning for more than forty years was very much alive.

  One thing was certain. She wasn’t breathing a word about any of it until she’d looked Anson Purcell in the eye and gotten some answers. Soline deserved at least that much.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  RORY

  September 24, 1985—Newport

  Rory pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine, then glanced at the Post-it note stuck to the dash one more time. Purcell Industries Ltd., 6 Commercial Wharf, Newport, Rhode Island. This was the place. Not an ideal venue for the kind of conversation she was about to have, but it was the only address directory assistance had.

  She grabbed her purse and headed up a meticulously landscaped walk toward a pair of smoked glass doors. It was a massive building of dark red brick, with a steeply pitched roof and arched windows that gave it the look of an old mill or railroad depot.

  She hesitated as she reached the door, noting the elaborate matching logos etched into the glass. Was she really doing this? Ambushing a stranger at his place of business and demanding to know why he wasn’t dead? And when all was said and done, what did she think she was going to accomplish? Perhaps the whole thing was better left alone. Except she was here now, after a nearly two-hour drive, with a long list of unanswered questions. If he refused to talk to her, all she’d have lost was half a day and a tank of gas.

  She pulled back the door, stepping aside to let a man in navy shorts and deck shoes exit. The interior was clean and open with a high blue ceiling meant to mirror the sky and gleaming floors of honey-hued teak. There was a tall glass reception desk, where the Purcell Industries logo was again on display. Rory cleared her throat as she approached, hoping to convey the kind of confidence her mother displayed when entering a room.

  The receptionist lifted her head, smiling. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Purcell.”

  The woman’s smile slipped as she peered at Rory over half-moon glasses. “Mr. Purcell?”

  “Anson Purcell,” Rory clarified, realizing there might be more than one.

  She smiled politely but with the slightest shake of her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Purcell doesn’t work in this office. If you care to tell me what it is you were hoping to discuss, I might be able to direct you to the correct party.”

  She was the gatekeeper, Rory realized, strategically positioned to prevent random women from wandering in off the street to ask impertinent questions. “It isn’t business-related. I’m here about a friend of his. An old friend of the family, actually,” she added, thinking of Thia. “Do you know how I might get in touch with him?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t give out that information, but if you’d like to leave a contact number, I could pass it along to his assistant.”

  Rory did her best to maintain her smile. “Is Thia here, by any chance?”

  The receptionist’s brows lifted, a blend of wariness and surprise. “Thia?”

  “Anson’s sister, Cynthia. I’ve come from Boston, and it’s quite important that I speak to one of them as soon as possible.”

  The woman regarded Rory again—and then the barest of nods. “What is your name, please?”

  “Aurora Grant.”

  “Thank you. If you’ll just give me a moment.”

  She reached for the phone and punched in a number, twirling a pen while she waited for someone to pick up. “Yes, it’s Paulette,” she said, sitting up a little straighter in her chair. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a young woman here asking to see Mr. Purcell. When I explained that he doesn’t work here, she asked to talk to you. She’s from Boston. She says it’s about an old friend of the family.”

  She paused, covering the mouthpiece, and glanced up at Rory. “She wants to know who the friend is.”

  Rory hesitated, weighing how much to say. She’d do herself no favors by being indiscreet with the family’s secrets. “Tell her it’s a very close friend of her brother’s—from the war.”

  Paulette repeated Rory’s words verbatim, listened a moment, then nodded pertly. “Yes. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and reached for a notepad, jotting down an address and a hastily scribbled map. “Ms. Purcell says you’re to come to the house. This is the address. Someone will meet you at the gate.”

  Rory tried not to look astonished as she took the slip of paper and dropped it into her purse, as if this were exactly what she’d expected to happen. “Thank you so much for your help, Paulette.”

  It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the address on Bellevue Avenue. She turned into the drive, coming to a halt before an ornate iron gate. A woman in faded overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat scrambled up off her knees, abandoning her garden and her pile of weeds. She tilted her sunglasses down, peering at Rory.

  “My name is Aurora Grant,” Rory called as the woman approached. “I’m here to see Cynthia Purcell.”

  “Paulette said you came from Boston.”

  Rory ran her eyes over the woman, registering the similarities. The silvery-gold curls peeking out from beneath the straw hat, the pale eyes and wide mouth. “Are you Thia?”

  She brushed off her hands and parked them on her hips. “Why are you here?”

  “I was hoping to speak to your brother about his fiancée.”

  She adjusted her hat to better shade her eyes. “My brother doesn’t have a fiancée.”

  “But he did have one during the war. I’d like to talk to him about Soline Roussel.”

  “Right,” Thia replied with a peculiar crispness. “You’d better come inside.”

  Rory parked at the top of the drive, trying to imagine Soline, fresh off the boat from war-torn Paris, taking in the grandeur of the Purcell family home. It was just short of palatial, three stories of cream-and-gray-colored stone with high mullioned windows and a dizzying number of gables.

  If not for the interference of Owen Purcell, Soline might be mistress of this house. She would have been here when the news arrived that Anson was, in fact, alive. And when he came home, she would have been here to help him recover from his injuries. There would have been a wedding and children. Happiness instead of sorrow. Joy instead of grief.

  If not for Owen.

  Thia said nothing as she led Rory to the mudroom at the back of the house. She kicked off her shoes, hung her hat on
a peg just inside the door, and headed for the kitchen sink. “Let me scrub up, and I’ll pour us some lemonade.”

  Rory tried to be inconspicuous as she studied Anson’s sister. She was somewhere in her fifties, tall and earthy with sun-kissed cheeks and heavy wheat-colored waves that fell past her shoulders. That she was related to the man in the photographs couldn’t be denied, but there was something else, some quality she couldn’t put her finger on, that, in spite of the uncomfortable nature of her visit, put Rory at ease.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said as Thia filled a pair of tall glasses with ice and lemonade. “I know this must be . . . awkward.”

  Thia handed off one of the glasses, then sipped from her own, her pale eyes meeting Rory’s over the rim. “Perhaps we should go into my study, where we won’t be interrupted. Nadine’s here today doing the blinds, and the woman has ears like a bat.”

  It suddenly occurred to Rory that Thia might have jumped to the wrong conclusion about why she’d come. “I’m not here to cause trouble, Ms. Purcell. I don’t want anything from you, if that’s what you think.”

  “I know why you’re here. I’ve known since Paulette phoned. Come with me.”

  Thia’s study was at the back of the house, an airy room with interesting art on the walls—her own?—and an antique writing desk positioned dead center. Behind the desk, a pair of french doors led out to a small patio. Thia closed them, then pointed to a peach-colored sofa, indicating that they should sit.

  She settled across from Rory, her grass-stained overalls and bare feet strangely at odds with the room’s feminine decor. “Where should we begin?”

  Her matter-of-fact tone was a little unsettling. Rory took a sip from her glass to regroup, then met Thia’s gaze. “With Soline.”

  Thia nodded. “I’ve thought of her over the years, wondering if she were still alive and if she ever found happiness.” Her voice was thick with remembered fondness. “How is she?”