The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Davis, Barbara

  “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that I might not have been the only man in Soline’s life. And that there might be a very simple explanation for why the father is listed as unknown—she didn’t know herself.”

  Rory stared at him, stunned by his feigned indifference. And it was feigned. She could see it in the set of his jaw and in the way he gripped the base of his glass, so tightly his knuckles went white. He couldn’t let himself believe the truth because it meant he’d thrown away too much.

  “You don’t believe that,” she said evenly. “I know you don’t.”

  A muscle ticked along Anson’s jaw. “I think I should be the judge of what I believe and what I don’t. She’s convinced you that she’s some kind of martyr, but I happen to know better. It doesn’t matter how; I just do. So let’s dispense with the fairy tale that she’s spent the last forty years nursing a broken heart.”

  “She never married.”

  Anson lifted his glass, nearly empty now, and stared into the dregs. “That’s no business of mine.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Do I need to point out the obvious? She didn’t come looking for me either.”

  “Why would she look for you? She thought you were dead.”

  Anson’s head came up sharply. “Dead?”

  Finally, she seemed to have his attention. “Your father had already sent her away when news came that you were alive, and he was perfectly fine with letting her go on believing you were dead. And to let you believe she’d walked out on you. He didn’t just send her away. He made sure she’d have no reason to ever come back.”

  Anson met her gaze with strained calm. “That’s quite a story.”

  “Your sister can verify what I’m saying if you don’t want to take my word. She was crushed when Soline left, but she only knew what your father told her—the same thing he told you. Then she found the ledger and started putting the pieces together. She tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t let her. She thought you might listen to me.”

  For an instant, Rory thought she saw something flicker in Anson’s eyes, a chink in his icy armor, but it was gone almost instantly. “I understand my sister having a blind spot. They were close once. But I’m curious. What is all this to you? After all these years, why do you care? You’re a bit old for piggyback rides and camping trips with Grandpa. What is it you see happening here?”

  “Why do I care?” Rory echoed, stung to the point of tears by his cavalier response. “Soline is my grandmother. And even if she wasn’t, she’s still my friend. I don’t want anything from you. I’m just trying to right a forty-year-old wrong. Because I know what she went through when you went missing, the hell of not knowing if you were alive or dead, to never know what happened or even say goodbye. I know what that feels like. I know it firsthand.” She turned to wipe the tears from her face, mortified to have veered into such personal territory.

  “Ms. Grant . . .”

  When she looked up, Anson was holding out a crisply folded handkerchief. The monogram was in dark blue now, but it was there. A.W.P. She took it, blotting her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get emotional, but this is a lot to digest for me, too, and I really do know what it’s like to lose someone the way she did. To never know . . .”

  His entire bearing seemed to change as he leaned forward, arms folded on the edge of the table. “Your husband?”

  The lines around his mouth and eyes had softened, making him look younger—and so much like Camilla that she felt herself relax. “My fiancé, Hux. Sorry, his name is actually Matthew, but his last name is Huxley so everyone calls him Hux.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’s with the MSF—Doctors Without Borders—in South Sudan. He’s a pediatrician. There was a raid early one morning at the clinic where he was working. A truck pulled up and abducted him and two others. It’s been nine months, and no one seems to know anything.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s a tough part of the world right now, so much unrest and so many factions with their own agendas. But don’t give up. His abductors, whoever they are, know any chance of getting what they want begins and ends with keeping their hostages alive. It may feel hopeless, but I have some experience here. The IFRC works with governments all over the world to bring our guys home. Not hearing anything doesn’t mean nothing’s being done.”

  “Thank you for that,” Rory murmured, grateful for the words of comfort. “It’s hard to hold on when there hasn’t been a shred of news, not knowing how long is too long to hold out hope. I can’t imagine living this way for forty years. I guess I hoped . . .”

  “That after forty years apart, Soline and I would ride off into the sunset while the credits rolled?” He settled back in his chair, as if needing to put distance between them. “That we’d all become one big family, with birthday parties and Sunday dinners? I’m afraid it’s a little late for that.”

  Rory felt her cheeks go hot. In some tiny corner of her heart, it was exactly what she’d hoped. And for a moment, she’d glimpsed a side of him that might have made it possible. The man who had offered his handkerchief to a woman in distress. But that Anson had vanished the moment they returned to the subject of Soline.

  “You don’t believe in happy endings?” she asked quietly.

  “Not for a very long time.”

  “Is that why you never married?”

  He stiffened. “I fail to see how that’s relevant—or, for that matter, any of your business. But if it helps, let’s just say I’m privy to certain facts that you’re not.”

  Rory folded the handkerchief and handed it back. “I don’t know what that means, but if you’d just come to Boston—”

  “There is no chance of a happy ending here, Miss Grant. Sometimes things are just too far gone to be saved.” He stood then with a cool nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an early day tomorrow.” He tossed a handful of bills on the table. “I’m sorry about Matthew. I hope it turns out well for you both.”

  Rory’s heart sank as she watched him go. She hadn’t let herself believe the years could have hardened him enough to turn his back on the woman he’d loved so deeply all those years ago, or slam the door on a possible relationship with his daughter, but they clearly had.

  She dropped the photos into her tote, then picked up the ledger and pushed to her feet. He hadn’t even bothered to look at it. If he had, he might . . .

  Yes . . . he might.

  Heads turned as Rory slung her tote up onto her shoulder, narrowly missing her wineglass, and scurried out of the bar. She paused when she reached the hotel lobby, glancing frantically in both directions. She saw him finally, disappearing around the corner toward the elevators. She quickened her pace, nearly running now, desperate to reach him before he stepped into the elevator and was whisked away.

  “Anson!” Her voice ricocheted appallingly in the empty corridor. “Wait! Please!”

  He had just stepped into the elevator when he saw her. He stiffened briefly, then began to jab at the control panel in an attempt to close the door. Rory threw out an arm as the door began to close. It bucked, as if confused, then slid open.

  Anson stared at her, too astonished to react as she shoved the ledger against his chest and stepped back out of the elevator. He would probably throw it in the trash as soon as he reached his room, but she had done all she could do. The rest was up to him.

  FORTY

  RORY

  September 26, 1985—Boston

  Rory flipped the wipers to high, wishing she had stayed home and climbed into the bathtub as planned. But when she’d returned home from the airport, there was a message from her mother on the machine. It was another invitation to brunch on Sunday—which she had no intention of accepting—but she’d also mentioned having theater tickets for this evening, which meant if she hurried, she could slip in and return the borrowed photo before her mother realized she’d taken it.

  She was exhausted after a night of no sleep. She’d been naive enough to hope Anson wo
uld go back to his room, take one look at the ledger, and suddenly change his mind. He hadn’t. She tried his room while waiting for her breakfast to arrive, to make one final plea, only to be told by the front desk that Mr. Purcell had already checked out. She’d called Thia with the news before leaving for the airport and had agreed to give her a few more weeks to work on her brother. In the meantime, she’d say nothing to her mother and do what she could to repair the rift between herself and Soline.

  The house was dark as she swung into the drive, with only the foyer light showing through the sidelight curtains. There was no sign of her mother’s car either. She located her old house key, grabbed her tote from the passenger seat, and headed up the walk.

  She felt like a burglar as she let herself in, groping about with just the light from the foyer, but she would only be a minute. Then she could sink to her neck in a tub full of bubbles with a snack and Heather Graham’s latest release. Or maybe she’d just skip the bath and go straight to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a full day.

  In the living room, she navigated the sofa, then a pair of wingbacks, finally making her way to the curio cabinet in the corner. She had just turned the tiny key and was pulling back the door when the living room lamp snapped on.

  “Aurora, what on earth are you doing skulking around in the dark?”

  Rory’s mouth worked soundlessly as she racked her brain for an explanation.

  Camilla frowned at her. “I saw your car in the driveway when I pulled in. Is something . . .” Her voice trailed off when she noticed the picture frame in Rory’s hand. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I was just . . .” Rory ran her eyes around the room, as if there might be an excuse lurking in one of the corners. There wasn’t. “I thought you were going to the theater.”

  “I’ve been, but my allergies are kicking up, so I left at intermission.” Camilla set her handbag on the arm of the sofa and peeled a shimmery beaded shawl from her shoulders. She gave it a shake, sending a shower of rain droplets flying, then laid it aside. “Aurora, what’s going on? You haven’t returned any of my calls, and now I find you slinking around in the dark. Is there something I should know?”

  “Like what?”

  “I have no idea, but something’s going on. If you wanted to borrow a photograph, all you had to do was ask.”

  For a moment, Rory considered lying, but she’d never pull that off, not when her mother knew how much she’d always hated this particular photo. “I wasn’t taking it,” she said finally. “I was putting it back.”

  “Back from where?”

  “I came by the other night while you were out and sort of . . . borrowed it.”

  Camilla looked genuinely baffled. “Why?”

  “I’ve just come back from San Francisco. And before that, I was in Newport.”

  “I don’t understand. What do San Francisco and Newport have to do with a photo of you as a little girl?”

  Rory closed her eyes, letting out a long sigh. She was going to have to tell her—all of it. “It’s not just to do with me. It’s about you too.”

  “You’re not making sense, Aurora. What are you saying?”

  Rory dropped her gaze. She wasn’t prepared to have this conversation now. For starters, she’d given the ledger and adoption paperwork to Anson. She had no proof for the claims she was about to make. But there was no walking it back now. Her mother was waiting for an answer.

  “I’m saying we need to talk.”

  She looked wary suddenly. “About what?”

  Rory took a deep breath, letting it out all at once. “Your parents.”

  Camilla sagged onto the sofa, her eyes bent on the carpet. When she finally lifted her head, she looked tired and strangely relieved. “How did you find out?”

  Rory stared at her, trying to wrap her head around the response. She hadn’t asked, What about my parents? She had simply conceded the point. “You knew about the adoption?”

  Camilla nodded.

  “For how long?”

  “I was ten. I wasn’t supposed to know, but my mother let something slip one day when I made her angry. She said she should have known better than to think I’d ever be a Lowell, that I’d always be trash and she should have packed me up and sent me back when she had the chance. I had no idea what she meant, but a year later, she and my father were arguing, and I heard her say it again. Trash. I don’t know where I ever found the nerve, but I threw the door open and marched right in, demanding to know why she kept saying it. She slapped me so hard, my ears rang for an hour. She was furious that I’d been listening, but deep down I think she enjoyed telling me I wasn’t hers. My father didn’t speak to her for weeks.”

  Rory’s throat went tight as she imagined it. Hearing the woman she thought of as her mother refer to her as trash, being told point-blank that she’d never be good enough. No wonder she never spoke about her childhood.

  “All these years, you’ve been keeping this from me. Why?”

  Camilla’s eyes remained downcast. “I never told anyone. Not even your father.”

  “You never told Daddy?”

  “My mother was determined to see me married well. She didn’t care to whom, so long as the boy was from a suitable family. She told me to choose someone and get the business done. I chose your father, threw myself at him, really. He married me for my name. And for my inheritance. And I didn’t care. I would have married him on any condition. But my mother had conditions of her own. She made it clear that if I ever told your father about the adoption—if I ever breathed a word to anyone—she would cut me off without a cent, and that would be the end of my marriage. She would have done it, too, if I had crossed her.” She looked away, shaking her head. “I never cared about the money, but I couldn’t lose your father.”

  Rory let the words sink in, wondering if she’d heard them correctly. She’d always thought of her parents’ marriage as a kind of devil’s bargain, with both parties being compensated in some nebulous way in exchange for enduring a loveless union. Had she been wrong? Was it possible that her mother had actually been in love when she married Geoffrey Grant?

  “But that was years ago. Are you saying that after everything, all the arguing, all the women . . . Are you saying you were in love with him once?”

  Camilla managed a smile, her eyes suddenly shiny with tears. “I was in love with him always, Aurora. Always and always.”

  Rory shook her head as she digested this bit of news. How had she not seen this love that was suddenly written all over her mother’s face?

  You have no idea what I’ve lost.

  Her mother had uttered the words once in a heated moment. They hadn’t made sense then, but they did now. As a child, Camilla had been cast aside by her mother, then later, as a woman, she’d been cast aside by the man she loved. Again and again, while her friends looked on and felt sorry for her.

  “I’m sorry you felt like you had to carry that around by yourself all these years, that you didn’t think you could share it with me.”

  She shrugged. “I was ashamed, I suppose.”

  “Ashamed? Of what?”

  “Of being unlovable,” Camilla said, blinking the tears from her lashes. She reached for her handbag and fished out a tissue, dabbing at her eyes. “And I’m the mother. You’re supposed to lean on me, not the other way around. I’m glad you finally know about the adoption, though. I was always worried that it would come out in some terrible way. Some health thing would rear its head, and they’d need my family’s medical history, and I wouldn’t know what to tell them.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “How did you find out?”

  “By accident.” Rory glanced at the framed photo in her hand. Without meaning to, they seemed to have circled back to the original topic. “How much do you know about your birth parents?”

  Camilla shook her head slowly. “Only that I was a war baby and that my mother gave me up because she wasn’t married. It wasn’t uncommon back then. So many boys were killed, leaving sweethearts and
babies behind. My father finally told me, not long before he died. My mother—Gwendolyn—had lost three babies and was ashamed of being childless when all her friends had houses full of children, so he quietly arranged for the adoption. I was her consolation prize.”

  “Did he ever mention the name of your biological mother?”

  “Oh, no. Adoptions were very hush-hush in those days, especially when the mother was unmarried. Things are much more open now, but back then, the whole subject was taboo. My mother was adamant that no one know I wasn’t really theirs. They went abroad for a year—on her doctor’s advice, or so the story went—and lo and behold, they came back blooming and healthy, with a daughter in tow. If anyone suspected, they never let on. But of course, they wouldn’t dare if they wanted to stay in the Lowells’ good graces. And everyone did.”

  “And your father? I mean, your birth father.”

  “No one ever mentioned him, but I always assumed he’d been killed in the war.” She pressed her fingers to her lips, shook her head, as if to apologize for her display of emotion. “I loved George Lowell dearly. He was a kind and loving man, but he wasn’t strong. At least not when it came to my mother. He wasn’t able to . . . protect me from her. When he died, I remember thinking he’d finally found a way to be free of her. I couldn’t begrudge him that, but it left me at her mercy. That’s when I started daydreaming about my real father. I used to imagine what he looked like. Tall and handsome, like a knight in a fairy story. A hero to his dying breath. I used to wonder if he knew I’d been born and if he ever thought of me. I needed so much to believe he did.”

  The words seemed to hum in the silence that stretched between them. Rory dropped down next to Camilla, the photograph in its silver frame balanced on her knees. Her features, but Anson’s, too, and Thia’s, and Camilla’s. But Soline was there, too, in the heart-shaped face and high cheekbones, the long neck and pointed chin. The blending of bloodlines—so obvious now that she knew the truth.