The Keeper of Happy Endings(115)

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.