The Keeper of Happy Endings(114)

FORTY-FOUR


SOLINE

There is a grief worse than death. It is the grief of a life half-lived. Not because you don’t know what could have been but because you do.

—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

It can’t be, yet it is.

He has aged, the years softening his once-hard body, adding lines to his face and threads of silver to his hair, but I would know him anywhere.

For forty years, I’ve dreamed of seeing him again, knowing it was impossible but dreaming it still. And now, somehow, he’s here. Alive, and staring up at me like I’m the ghost. My throat is suddenly full of tears and answered prayers, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes. Because I see that something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. I see it in the way Rory is looking up at me, like she’s apologizing for some unforgivable crime, in Camilla’s folded arms and rigid stance, as if she is preparing to do battle. And in the icy blankness that has stolen over Anson’s face. In the space of an instant, I have become a stranger to him. No, not a stranger—an enemy. But how? Why?

“Anson?”

His eyes connect with mine, hooded and hard. I can’t see their color, but I can feel their coldness, like a steel blade between my ribs. It is a look he used to wear when speaking of the boche. And now he’s aiming it at me.

Somehow, I make my legs move, managing to take one step, then another. But he’s backing toward the door now, holding up a hand, as if to ward me off. And then he’s gone, out into the street, leaving the door hanging open behind him. For a moment, I’m in Paris again, sitting in the back of an ambulance, watching him disappear through a small square window.

My legs go then, and I fold down onto the step like a felled bird, too stunned to utter a word or even cry. Rory is at my side, taking my hands, murmuring again and again that she’s sorry, so very sorry, as if what just happened is her fault. I look at her, trying to make sense of what I see in her face. Sadness. Pity. And . . . is it guilt?

“I was going to tell you. After the opening, we were going to tell you everything.”

We?

I look to the foot of the stairs, where Camilla is staring up at me, clutching the newel with both hands, and I see it there too. The same guilt. But I can’t make sense of it there either.

“Going to tell me what?”

“That Anson was alive. I’ve known for a while now, and—”

“How long?”

“A few weeks. Maybe a little longer.”

I drag my eyes back to Camilla. “You knew too? And said nothing?”

“We wanted to tell you,” Rory blurts before Camilla can get a word out. “We were just waiting for the right time to break the news. I’m so sorry. I never dreamed he’d show up here. When I left him in San Francisco, he made it clear that he didn’t want to see you.”

“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.