“You went to San Francisco? To see Anson?”
She drops her head, nodding. “But first I went to Newport. Thia told me how to get in touch with him.”
Newport. The word sends a shiver through me. And Thia. The name is strange after so many years. But my mind is too crowded with questions. I trip over them, teetering on the brink of panic. My world has been upended, and I don’t understand anything.
“I found out by accident,” Rory says, as if that makes a difference. “I asked a reporter friend of mine to look for an old photo of Anson as a surprise for you. Except I was the one who ended up surprised. One of the photos he dug up was only two years old. That’s why I went to Newport, to find out if it was the right Anson. Then I went to San Francisco to talk to him. I needed to understand what happened after the war, why he never came looking for you. I thought I could convince him to come to Boston to talk to you, but he wouldn’t budge. When I told Thia, she asked me to wait a little before telling you, and I agreed. We thought he might change his mind. We never dreamed he would just show up like that.”
I close my eyes, as if that will erase what has happened. The tears I wasn’t able to cry a moment ago are suddenly flowing as the truth slams into me. Anson—my Anson—has been alive these forty years but wanted no part of me . . . and still wants no part of me.
“There’s more,” Camilla says gently from the bottom of the stairs. “You need to know the rest.”
“I don’t want to know the rest,” I say, pushing to my feet. “I want to go home. Please call me a taxi.”
“I’ll take you home,” Camilla protests. “But first we need to talk. There are things—”
“I don’t want to talk.” My voice is strangely flat, hollow and unfamiliar. “I want to be alone.” I blink to clear my vision, but the tears keep spilling down my face. “Please. The taxi.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Camilla throw Rory an imploring look. She’s determined to keep talking, to explain away the secret they’ve kept, to somehow make it all better. But it will never be better. Rory sees it, too, and answers her mother with a faint shake of her head. She knows nothing they say now will make a difference.
The staircase tilts precariously as I move down the steps. I hold tight to the railing, afraid my legs won’t hold me. I brush past Camilla and then Rory, then stoop down to retrieve my handbag and make my way to the door.
“I’ll wait outside.”
I feel their eyes on me, waiting for me to break into a million tiny pieces. But I can’t. Not yet. Because this time when I break, I will break forever.
FORTY-FIVE
SOLINE
Always be mindful of the Rule of Three. Three times your deed return to thee. Work ill and thrice ill winds shall come. Work love and thrice love finds a home.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
30 October 1985—Boston
Four days.
That’s how long I’ve been hibernating, living on coffee and toast because I haven’t the energy to do more, wandering bleary-eyed from room to room or curled like a fetal thing, with Anson’s shaving kit clasped to my chest.
I’ve taken the phone off the hook again. I don’t want to hear it ring. Don’t want to wonder who it is or what they want. I already know, and I want no part of their placations. I don’t doubt that Rory meant well in keeping the truth from me. It’s not in her to be cruel. But she sees me as fragile, a brittle old woman unable to endure one more blow. And so I am. Perhaps she had good reason to worry about whether I’ll recover from this. I’m not certain I will.
I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter, that the fact that Anson is alive somewhere in the world changes nothing. But it isn’t true. Everything has changed. Because I’ve lost him all over again. Except this time, it wasn’t the boche who took him from me. It was his choice to stay away.
His proposal had come out of nowhere, at a time when our emotions were running high. Had he come to regret it once we were apart and been secretly relieved to return home and find me gone? Did he know about our daughter? That she left the world the same day she came into it? That I never even got to hold her?
My Assia.
All this time, I’ve imagined her with him, that somehow, somewhere, they were together. But she’s been alone all this time. He probably has children of his own, perhaps grandchildren—and a wife. Even now, all these years later, the thought doubles me over, and yet my eyes are dry. It seems I’m out of tears at last.
I’ve lost all sense of time, and the clock on the stove hasn’t been right in two years. I lift the kitchen blinds and peer out. The sky is the color of lead, and a steady rain spatters the panes. I give up caring and go to the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and butter and mushrooms. The spinach in the crisper has gone slimy at the edges, but there’s a tomato on the sill that isn’t too far gone. I don’t actually want food, but my head aches, and my insides feel hollowed out. I need to eat, and an omelet requires little skill.
I’ve just put the pan on the stove when the doorbell rings, and for one wild moment, I feel a bolt of hope tear through me. Could he have changed his mind? I flip off the burner and creep past the living room curtains, to the foyer, and wait.
It’s not him. It can’t be him.
The bell rings again, followed by the sharp rap of the knocker. I hold my breath, willing whoever it is to go away. It’s Rory, of course. Or Camilla. They’ve come by three times already, and three times I’ve ignored them. Or perhaps it’s Daniel, braving the drippy weather to come check on me again. I don’t want to see him either. He knows too much of my story as it is. I have no wish to be cross-examined for the rest.
“Soline?” A woman’s voice, muffled through the door. “Soline, it’s Thia.”
Thia. After all these years. My heart thunders in my ears, the saliva suddenly thick in my mouth. I lean close to the door, a hand on the knob. It’s a mistake, I know, but I’m weak.
“Are you alone?”
“I can be,” comes her answer. “If you want me to be.”
I turn the knob and pull the door back a few inches, glimpsing a narrow slice of unfamiliar face. A full mouth, the bridge of a too-wide nose, skin that shows the wear and tear of someone who spends too much time in the sun. And an eye. Pale blue-green, with flecks of gold around the iris. The same as Anson’s.
I open the door and stand with my hands at my sides, stunned to find her on my front steps, stunned by all of this. Even now, the similarities between them are impossible to ignore. But there’s something else, too, that keeps my eyes fixed on her, something just outside my grasp.
“Why are you here?” My throat is rusty from disuse and too many tears.
“I want to talk to you,” she says, her voice low and steady, as if addressing an animal that might skitter away. “About what happened after you left my father’s house.”
I keep my hand on the knob, pleased that the cold drizzle is slowly soaking through her shirt. Suddenly I’m very angry with her. “I know what happened. Your brother came home, and no one told me.”
“Please, can we all just sit down and talk?”
All? My chest tightens as I register the word. “Is he . . . Who’s with you?”
“Just Rory and Camilla. They’re in the car. I know you’re angry and hurt, and you have every right to be both, but there are things you need to know, Soline. Other things.”
There’s an ominous tone to her voice now, and I feel my stomach knot. “What . . . other things?”
“Please. I’m standing in the rain, and the steps aren’t the place to have this discussion. Let us come in.”
I drop my hand from the knob and step back. Thia looks down the street and waves, a signal for them to come. I catch a glimpse of myself in the foyer mirror as I turn away. I’m a ghost, pale and disheveled, my eyes heavy and shadowed with grief. I drag a hand through my hair, trying to tame it, then realize I’m wearing nothing but the robe I’ve had on for four days.
“I’ll
need a moment to dress.”
They’re in the living room when I return. Rory and Camilla are on the sofa. Thia is perched on the edge of a chair, her hair clinging damply to her forehead and neck. She looks me over, clearly relieved that I’ve tidied myself up. I’ve run a brush through my hair and traded my robe for a cardigan and slacks. Thia’s eyes linger on my white cotton gloves before sliding away. But there’s something else in the way she’s looking at me, the way they’re all looking at me. Pity mingled with discomfort, and I find myself wishing I hadn’t let them in.
“All right, you’re here. Say what you came to say, then go.”
“We think you should sit down,” Camilla says, patting the sofa cushion beside hers. “Here, between us.”
“I don’t want to sit.” I sound petulant now, like a cranky child.
Rory looks at me, eyes pleading. “Please, Soline. We have something we want to show you. Something that might help make all of this . . . easier. Please come sit down.”
I drop down beside her, sitting stiffly with my hands in my lap. Whatever this is, I want it over with.
Rory reaches into a black nylon tote, pulling out what looks like a photo album. I steel myself for something; I don’t know what. And then she presses the album into my hands. “Open it.”
The gloves make me clumsy as I attempt to turn back the cover. Rory reaches over to help me, and then I’m staring at an old black-and-white photograph. A tiny girl with pale curls and wide-set eyes, dressed in boots and a puffy snowsuit. She’s three, perhaps four, and familiar, though I have never seen the photo before. I glance at Rory, not sure what’s happening or what’s expected of me.
“It’s Thia,” she explains. “When she was a girl.”
I look at Thia, who is strangely still. I still don’t understand.
“Turn the page.”
It’s another photo of the same girl, but she’s older now, wearing a party dress dripping with ruffles. I can see Thia’s features clearly now, the broad cheeks and pointed chin, the dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose. I look up at three carefully blank faces and feel my patience wearing thin.
Camilla touches my arm. “Go on. Go to the next page.”
The page’s plastic cover crackles as I turn to the next photograph. It’s Thia again, roughly the same age, but wearing a different dress. But something else is different. Her face is thinner, her cheekbones higher and sharper. And there it is again, that elusive tug of memory, like a loose thread I can’t get hold of. I’m annoyed and confused—and suddenly frightened.
I narrow my eyes on Thia. “Why am I looking at old photos of you? What have they to do with me?”
“Look closely,” she says quietly. “That one isn’t me.”
I study the photo again, then flip back to the previous page. The photographs are nearly identical, but on closer inspection, I see that the second one was taken more recently. The nebulous thread, unraveling now. Impossible. And yet . . .
“Who is this?”
The question hangs in the air, untouched as the seconds tick by. No one speaks or breathes. Finally, I feel Rory’s hand steal over mine.
“It’s me.”
My eyes are still on the photo, taking in each curve and bone of the face looking back at me. Aurore. Yes, I see it now. I flick a glance at Thia, then Rory, then look at the photo again.
“I don’t understand. How . . .”
Rory still has hold of my hand. She squeezes tightly. “We’re related,” she says very carefully. “Thia and I . . . are related.”
Static fills my head, a scratchy white noise crowding out my thoughts. I can’t wrap my brain around what she’s just said, can’t find the questions I need to ask. Why won’t Rory let go of my hand? Why does Thia look like she’s afraid to exhale? And why is Camilla crying?
“Related . . . how?” I manage finally.
“I’m her grandniece.” She sits blinking at me, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she presses me. “Do you understand what that means?”
“No.” I shake my head, strangely numb. The thread is there, waiting to be pulled, but I can’t—or won’t. I shake my head again and keep shaking it. “No.”
“Anson is my grandfather, Soline. Which makes you . . . my grandmother.”
I stare at the photo, unable to breathe. “It isn’t possible.”
“It is,” Rory says and turns the page again. “Your little girl didn’t die. They took her.”
I peer down at the new page. It’s a photocopy, creased but legible enough. CERTIFICATE OF DECREE OF ADOPTION. In one of the boxes is the name Soline Roussel, in another, the name Lowell. And then farther down, Camilla.
I turn the names over in my mind, like tiles in a game of Scrabble. They mean something—they must—but I can’t connect them.
“Lowell was my maiden name,” Camilla supplies through a fresh rush of tears. “Camilla Lowell is the name I was given by the couple who adopted me. Before that, I had another name.”
I stare at her until my eyes fill with tears and her face begins to blur. It can’t be true. And yet her face—all their faces—says it is. “You’re . . .”
“I’m Assia,” she whispers. “Your daughter.”
I cover my face, the rush of sobs so sudden, it threatens to choke me. I feel arms around me—I don’t know whose—and then I’m rocking and keening, a high, thin gush of grief and inexplicable joy. I try to stop, to quiet myself, but the sound keeps welling up, pouring out of me like a storm. I’m making a fool of myself, and I don’t care. In fact, I don’t care about anything. Not that Anson didn’t love me enough to look for me. Not even that I’ve lost forty years with the daughter who should have been mine. She’s here now. And so is Rory.
I think of Maman, of her teachings when I was a girl at her knee, and know that somewhere, she is happy too. We cannot undo what has been done, but we can move forward—three generations bound by blood and echoes, making up for all the lost years.
I feel a tissue being pressed into my hand, and little by little, my sobs stutter to a halt. I mop my face, trying to pull myself together. When I look around, everyone’s cheeks are wet, but it’s Camilla’s face that holds my gaze. I devour it, every line and precious contour, as if seeing them all for the first time.
“All this time,” I whisper. “All this time, you were right here. My Assia.”
Rory disappears briefly, returning with an entire box of tissues, and for the next few hours, I hold my daughter’s hand and listen to Thia explain how far her father had gone to poison his son against me.
He’s dead now, and good riddance. I’ll never forgive him for what he took from me—or forgive his son for letting him do it. That Anson could believe me capable of such a betrayal is the bitterest pill of all. Because I see now that he was never the man I thought him. I lost that man the morning I climbed into the back of an ambulance and watched him disappear. That he has suddenly turned up alive all these years later changes nothing. Anson—my Anson—is dead.
FORTY-SIX
SOLINE
Lovers wound one another for many reasons, but in the end, fear is always at the root of it. It’s a hard thing, perhaps the hardest of all, to trust when we’re afraid—to open ourselves to the risk of forgiveness. But forgiveness is the greatest magick of all. Forgiveness makes all things new.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
They’ve gone, and I’m back in my robe after a long, hot shower, alone with this strange new reality. I’m curled up on the sofa, combing through the album of old photos Rory and Camilla left for me. I’ve been through it a dozen times already, but I can’t seem to stop turning the pages, savoring the details of each and every childhood photo, as if I’m trying to engrave their little faces on the blank places in my memory.
Assia—alive. And Rory.
For the second time in a handful of days, someone I loved has come back from the dead. It seems impossible, like the ending of a fairy tale, where the princess receives
a kiss and the spell is suddenly broken. The long, dark sleep is over at last. The Roussels have been taught that fairy tales are for other people. But something has set this strange chain of events in motion. It can’t be mere chance that brought Rory and Camilla into my life or me into theirs.
We will have much to talk about in the days ahead, stories I must eventually share—about la magie and the legacy that has always been a part of them. It will be a strange conversation, or perhaps not. From the beginning, I have sensed something special in Rory, and of course Camilla—my Assia—will have inherited the gift too. What they do with it will be up to them, but they will know about the Spell Weavers who came before them—Esmée, Giselle, Lilou, and all the rest.
I think of Maman and her belief that we are irrevocably connected to those we love. That our echoes will always tether us. Across years and miles and even death. Is that what’s happened? A collision of echoes? I suddenly realize it doesn’t matter.
I close my eyes, my limbs deliciously heavy, and let the events of the day wash over me. There is so much to think about, so much lost time to make up for, but I’m content to leave those things for tomorrow. Outside, the rain is still falling, heavier now, and the wind has picked up, buffeting the windows in uneven gusts. One of the shutters sounds as if it has come loose. I can hear it thumping against the house. No . . . not a shutter. The door. Banging on the door.
I bolt up from the sofa, my head muzzy. Rory promised to check on me later, but the phone is still off the hook. Surely she hasn’t come back out in this.
I scurry to the foyer, fumbling with the chain, then the bolt. A sharp gust of wind catches the door as I pull it back, spattering me with a wall of cold rain. I see him then as I push my hair out of my eyes. Anson.
His silhouette fills the doorway, unmistakable despite the years, but I can’t see his face. He’s backlit by the streetlamp, his shoulders hunched against the blowing rain. I stare at him, my breath tight and shallow. For forty years, I’ve imagined this moment, what it would be like to see him just once more, to say the things I wished I had said before we parted. And now that he’s standing on my front steps in the pouring rain, I find I can’t manage a word.
The Keeper of Happy Endings Page 35
