The Keeper of Happy Endings(10)

“Yeah, I guess. Would you be willing to contact her about a possible lease?”

There was a brief stretch of silence, the sound of a phone ringing in the background. “I can certainly do that,” Brett replied finally. “But I’ve got to be straight with you. We scouted at least twenty properties, and you passed on every one of them. If I’m going to go sleuthing around and lean on this woman, I need to know you’re actually ready to move.”

It was a fair statement and absolutely true. She had turned down every property he’d shown her. Not because she couldn’t have made them work or because she was squeamish about committing but because none of them had felt right. But this one—a building she’d never noticed until yesterday and had never set foot in—did.

“Rory?”

“I’m ready to move.”





FOUR


SOLINE

We may forsake The Work, but The Work will never forsake us. It will fight to keep us, throwing itself into our path, again and again, until at long last, we pay attention. This is what it means to be chosen.

—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

29 May 1985—Boston

I’m startled when my phone rings at precisely 8:00 a.m. I don’t get calls anymore, or at least not many, and when I do, they seldom come before I’ve finished my coffee. I let the phone ring as I fill the carafe and push down the plunger of the press, hoping whoever it is will hang up. There’s no one I want to talk to.

The phone keeps ringing. I lift up the receiver and immediately hang it up. Seconds later, it rings again. I hang up again, without a word, hoping whoever it is will get the message and leave me alone. When it begins to ring a third time, I snatch the receiver from its cradle.

“I don’t want to buy anything!”

I am about to slam the receiver back down when I catch a sharp bark of laughter. It’s a familiar sound and a surprisingly pleasant one, even at this uncaffeinated time of day. My solicitor, and friend too, I suppose, who I’ve not spoken to in months.

“Daniel Ballantine—is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. And I’m not calling to get you to buy anything. I’m calling to ask if you’re interested in selling something. Or to be more specific, leasing something.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I had a call last night. We’ve had an inquiry on the Fairfield property.”

I feel as though a blast of cold air has just hit the back of my neck. “Someone wants my shop?”

There’s a pause, the polite but uncomfortable sort. “Well, it hasn’t been a shop for years now, but someone’s interested in your building, yes.”

“Who?”

“The agent didn’t mention his client by name, but if the guy found me, he’s obviously done his homework. Brett Gleason’s his name, with Back Bay Land Group. They’ve asked for a sit-down.”

“It’s not for sale or lease.”

Daniel makes the noise he makes when he’s frustrated with me, half grunt, half sigh. “Soline, it’s been three years—more than three, actually—and we both know reopening isn’t in the cards. The fire caused a lot of damage, and what with everything . . .”

Everything.

I hold out my free hand, palm up, staring at it. The shiny pink skin, mottled with bits of waxy white, the slight clawlike curling of the fingers. The other hand, the one holding the phone, is a little better, but not much, the result of second-degree burns sustained when a cigarette I left burning set my bridal shop on fire. There were splints, physical therapy, a series of grueling surgeries. More splints. Followed by more therapy. Until the doctors all agreed there was nothing more to be done.

“You mean my hands?” I say quietly.

“I mean everything, Soline. You came here alone and worked your ass off, built a name for yourself out of nothing. People will never forget the name Roussel and what it stood for. But you’re retired now. Why leave the place sitting empty? We’re talking top dollar in the current leasing market.”

“I don’t need the money.”

“No. You certainly don’t. But you don’t need the memories either. Maybe it’s time to let go of them and move on.”

His words touch off a spark in me. “You think that’s all it will take? I sign a contract, someone else moves in, and it all goes away?”

Daniel sighs. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know what you’ve been through and that there are reasons you’re reluctant to let go. But you wouldn’t be letting it go. Not completely. Though, truthfully, I’m not sure holding on is serving you at this point.”

I scowl at the coffee press, cursing him under my breath. Why did he have to call now, when I’ve been doing so well pretending to be numb? “I don’t want to talk about this now.”

“Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

I heave a sigh, weary of being hectored. “All right.”

“All right, you’ll lease it?”

“All right, I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow,” I snap. “The day after.”

“All right. The day after.”

I hang up the phone and go back to my cold coffee. I have to start over now. I remove the plunger and toss the tepid slop into the sink. I know Daniel has my best interests at heart, and not only because I pay him to. But there are parts of my story even he doesn’t know, parts I have put away for good. And after so many years, what does it matter? People like me—like the Roussels—are a dying breed, our gifts of little value to a world that no longer believes in la magie.