The Keeper of Happy Endings(108)

“How a person behaves toward us is never about us, Rory. It’s about them. Your mother acted as she did because she felt threatened. You’re hers, and she wanted me to know it. Because she’s afraid of losing you—and of being alone.”

Rory scowls at the open french doors. “Then she should stop doing things to drive me away. She acts like I don’t deserve a life of my own, like everything I am and do is about her. My art, the gallery, even who I choose to be friends with.”

I feel her anger in my bones, the tug-of-war between mother and daughter. It’s a clash as old as time itself, for there have always been mothers who knew best. Just as there have always been daughters who knew better. It’s a contradiction that is part of every woman’s journey—the need to shape in one’s own image versus the aversion to being shaped at all.

I smile sadly. “It’s a hard thing for a mother to relinquish her bébé. You’ve been a part of her life for a very long time, her whole world, and now all of a sudden, you’re grown up with a life of your own. She’s lonely.”

“How on earth can she be lonely? There isn’t a blank space on her calendar. She’s always flitting off to some luncheon or card game or going to the theater. She has an actual entourage. Especially since my father died, not that he was ever much of a companion.”

“One doesn’t have to be alone to be lonely, chérie. They’re not the same thing. We all cope with loss in our own way, inventing ways to fill up the emptiness. That’s why her calendar is full. And why she’s been so possessive. She wants to be part of your life, but she doesn’t know how.”

Rory folds her arms and lets out a sigh. She looks so young and petulant, sitting there with her arms crossed. It chafes to hear me defend her mother. But the rift between these two must be mended before it hardens into something cold and permanent. Perhaps that’s why fate has thrown me into their lives. To broker peace.

“In France we say, tu me manques. It means ‘you are missing from me.’ Not I miss you—the way Americans say it—but you are missing from me. The part of you that is a part of me . . . is gone. This is how it is for her. There’s a void in her life where you used to be, and she doesn’t know how to fill it.”

Rory sinks into the chair beside me, silent. She’s determined to cling to her anger.

“She knows she’s made mistakes, Rory. That’s why she asked me to come today, to make amends. Not just with me but with you. And I think you should let her.”

“You don’t know her.”

“No. But she thinks the three of us should be friends, and I think so too. We’ve been brought together somehow. I don’t know how or why, but you can’t deny it. Perhaps we’re meant to help each other in some way, to fill each other’s empty places.”

She looks at me so strangely, as if I’ve said something earth-shattering and she’s about to correct me. For the tiniest moment, I’m afraid of what she’ll say, afraid our newly formed circle is about to be broken, and suddenly I don’t want it to be.

And then I hear the tinkle of Camilla’s bracelet as she approaches with a tray full of food. “Isn’t this just lovely,” she says, beaming. “The three of us, together at last.”





FORTY-TWO


RORY

October 18, 1985—Boston

Rory stared at the expanse of blank wall with a blooming sense of dread. Forty-eight hours ago, Dheera Petri had called to explain why, ten days before the opening, her pieces still hadn’t arrived for installation. She’d had a call from an interior designer who wanted all but two of her paintings for a new office building she’d been hired to decorate. She felt terrible putting Rory on the spot so close to the opening, but would it be possible to get out of their agreement so she could sell her pieces?

They’d agreed to schedule something in the future, and Rory had wished her well. She couldn’t, in good conscience, stand in the way of an offer like that, but she had no idea how she was going to fill the spot on such short notice. To top it off, Camilla and Soline were due to arrive any minute. It would be the first time either of them had seen the gallery, and she’d been looking forward to giving them the full tour. Instead, she was fretting about the prospect of a glaringly empty space on opening night. Not exactly a good omen.

She’d been so pleased with how it all turned out. Brian had done an amazing job, coming in both under budget and two weeks ahead of schedule. The color scheme she had settled on, soft layers of charcoal and slate, gave everything a slightly industrial feel, but careful lighting and reclaimed art deco fixtures added just the right amount of glamour. Even the installations had gone off without a hitch. Until Dheera called with her terrible good news.

“Aurora? Honey? Are you here?”

Rory started at the sound of Camilla’s voice. She hadn’t heard the entry chime, but apparently it was showtime. “I’ll be right there.”

The sight of Soline and her mother hovering in the doorway instantly lifted her spirits. They looked nothing alike—Camilla had inherited Anson’s pale eyes and blond hair, while Soline’s coloring was dark—and yet there was an inexplicable similarity as they stood side by side, an invisible cord that seemed to tether them.

A month ago, she couldn’t have imagined them spending time together, but in the weeks since her mother’s surprise brunch they had grown surprisingly close.