The Keeper of Happy Endings(104)

“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.

She pressed the photograph into Camilla’s hands, meeting her puzzled gaze squarely. “This started with you asking me what I was doing with this old photo. I told you I’d just come back from San Francisco. And now I need to tell you the rest.”

Camilla stiffened almost imperceptibly. “The rest?”

“I’ve found out something else. Something I didn’t expect. I asked an old friend—a reporter with the Globe—to help me dig up an old photo of Anson. I wanted to surprise Soline with it. A few days later—”

“Who’s Anson?”

“He’s the man Soline was supposed to marry.”

“Ah, the ambulance driver who was killed in the war.”

“Except he wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t what?”

“Killed. He was wounded, badly, and spent time in a prison camp, but he didn’t die. He’s been alive all this time, and two days ago, I met his sister in Newport.”

Camilla was frowning, clearly confused. “Have I missed something? What does Soline’s fiancé have to do with a picture of you when you were eight?”

“I’m getting to that,” Rory promised. She understood her mother’s impatience, but it was a lot to tell, and it needed to be told carefully. “I originally went to Newport to see Anson but wound up talking to his sister, Thia, instead. She showed me a photo of herself as a child. One so much like this one that it was like looking at twins born thirty years apart. She also showed me some things she found among her father’s papers after he died. An old ledger book and a copy of an adoption decree. That’s why I flew to San Francisco—to meet Anson and explain all this. He’s been walking around for forty years hating Soline because he believed she left him when she learned about his injuries. But it was a lie. His father sent her away because she was going to have a baby. I had to see him, to prove to him what I already knew—that the baby girl Soline bore all those years ago was you.”

Camilla went pale, her expression rigid. “It isn’t true.”

“It is,” Rory said gently. “I’ve seen the adoption decree, and George and Gwendolyn Lowell’s names were there in black and white. Soline’s was there too. And yours. The father was listed as unknown, but there’s no doubt the baby was Anson’s. His father paid a woman named Dorothy Sheridan to tell Soline you died shortly after being born. And then they gave you away.”

“No.”

“She named you Assia,” Rory said, ignoring the repeated denial. “It means ‘one who brings comfort.’”

Camilla shook her head, her eyes wide and glazed. “What you’re saying is impossible, Aurora. After all these years . . . the chances of it being her . . . of all people.”

“I know this is a lot to digest. It was for me, too, but it’s true. The woman who gave birth to you is alive and well and living right here in Boston. You had lunch with her last week.”

Camilla stood suddenly, sending the silver frame thumping to the floor. “Why are you saying this? Do you really need her in your life so badly that you’d swallow this preposterous story? Or is this my punishment for misbehaving the other day?”

Rory stared at her, stunned. “You think I’d make up something like this out of spite?”

“I’m saying I think you want to believe it, no matter how outlandish it seems. You barely know this woman, but in your mind, she’s some kind of saint.”

“You sound like Anson. He said the same thing last night.”

Camilla seemed almost relieved at this news. “Anson doesn’t believe it either?”

“It isn’t a matter of believing. I laid the proof out for him. I even left him the ledger. But he made it perfectly clear that he isn’t interested in a family reunion.”

“And Soline?” Camilla asked coolly. “What does she have to say about this miracle?”

“She doesn’t know any of it. She’s not speaking to me at the moment. Won’t take my calls or answer the door since the day at Seasons.”

“And that’s my fault, I suppose.”