The Keeper of Happy Endings(17)

If she’d ever had a second thought, which she hadn’t, the building’s history would have been enough to make her take the leap, the idea that once upon a time the row house had been a place where taffeta, organza, and creamy satins had been used to create something lasting and beautiful. It felt like a sign, as if fate had in fact sent a wave with her name on it. Perhaps that’s why Soline Roussel hadn’t sold the building after the fire, because it was meant for her—for the gallery.

Things had moved relatively quickly once the decision was made. After several rounds of phone tag and one very brief showing, she’d made an offer, requiring yet another round of phone tag before finally being accepted. She’d been a nervous wreck waiting for the papers to be drawn up, afraid her mysterious new landlady would change her mind and back out of their deal. Thankfully, everything had gone as planned—or almost everything. She’d been hoping to finally meet the elusive Ms. Roussel at the signing, but as usual, her attorney had acted on her behalf.

She’d asked Daniel for Ms. Roussel’s phone number when the business was done or an address where she might send a thank-you note, but he had quickly nixed the idea, explaining that his client was an extremely private person and preferred to leave matters of business to him. All future inquiries would be handled through his office.

Rory doubted there would be need for future inquiries. She was ready to get the renovations started. The fire damage was largely confined to the second-floor apartment, where the blaze had actually started, but smoke and water had left their marks down here too. The roof and dormers, along with the windows on the upper floors, had been replaced soon after the fire, but after the initial gutting, work on the interior had been abandoned, leaving the place little more than a shell, stripped to the lath and littered with drop cloths, abandoned tools, and discarded paint pails overflowing with trash.

The contractor she’d hired to do the renovations—a friend of Brett’s—estimated the first-floor work could be completed in ninety days, give or take. After that, she’d need several weeks to furnish the place and complete the art installations. If all went well, an October opening might be doable. November at the latest.

A bloom of anticipation warmed her as she imagined the finished product. Glossy black floors and discreet lighting, soft gray walls lined with beautifully framed art. Black lacquer plinths. Acrylic vitrines. Well-placed benches for lingering and conversation. And later, upstairs, rooms for readings, lectures, perhaps even a workshop now and then.

She eyed the staircase with its black marble newels and art deco ironwork. Like everything else, it would require some TLC, but thank goodness they hadn’t torn it out. She ran a palm over the cool black marble, the almost sensuous curve of the iron railing, envisioning it all dramatically lit from above, mirrored in shadow on the wall behind—very film noir.

For a moment, she toyed with the idea of going upstairs for a quick poke around, but there wasn’t time. Not that she was in a hurry to tell her mother she wouldn’t be heading back to school in the fall. She’d been skirting the issue for several weeks, determined to keep her decision quiet until the lease was signed. But now it was time to face the music.

Maybe she’d come back after brunch, clean the windows, and round up the trash before the workmen showed up tomorrow. It would give her something to look forward to. She was turning away, her hand still on the stair railing, when she felt it—or thought she felt it. A subtle vibration coursing through her fingers and up her arm, like the hum of a tuning fork running through her bones. Stranger still were the quicksilver flashes she’d experienced as she squeezed her eyes shut, like heat lightning, imprinting the backs of her lids with a strange jumble of images.

She jerked her hand back, rubbing her bare arm. A shock? But how? The power had been off for years. Against her better judgment, she touched the railing again with the flats of her fingers, fast, as if testing an iron or a burner on a stove. Nothing.

Had she imagined it? She was sure the contractor had checked the wiring as part of his walk-through, and she didn’t recall him finding any problems. Just the same, she’d ask him to take a second look. The last thing she needed was an electrical fire or, worse, someone getting electrocuted on opening night.

Opening night.

Just thinking the words set little wings fluttering in her belly as she picked up her purse and moved to the door. Because it made her think of Hux and his belief in her vision. His voice had been in her head all morning, while she brushed her teeth, while she stirred cream into her coffee, while driving over. And she heard it again as she locked the door behind her.

Dreams are like waves, babe. You have to wait for the right one to come along, the one that has your name on it. And then when it does, you have to get up and ride it.



Her mother was already on the terrace when she arrived. She glanced up from her issue of Town & Country as Rory approached, her penciled brows lifting a notch.

“Aurora. You’re nearly on time.”

Rory offered the barest of nods. “Good morning to you too.”

“I just meant I haven’t brought the food out because I didn’t expect you yet. I have a spinach and tomato strata warming in the oven. And those little zucchini muffins you like.” She laid down her magazine and stood. “Go ahead and open the Veuve, and I’ll bring out the food.”

Rory went to work on the champagne cork, hoping her news might sit better after a little lubrication. She’d spent the drive over rehearsing what she was going to say, only to conclude that it didn’t matter. There was simply no good way to break this news.