The Keeper of Happy Endings(19)

“You haven’t thought this through, Aurora. Let me contact Steven Mercer and have him make a call or two. It might cost you a little something—rash decisions generally do—but the man knows his way around a contract. I don’t care what you signed. He’ll get you out of it.”

Rory stiffened, infuriated by her mother’s cool assurance. “I don’t want to get out of it.”

Camilla leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. “What if you can’t make a go of it? Have you thought about that? Or do you intend to keep throwing money at it until you’ve burned through your trust fund?”

Rory sagged back into her chair. “Your faith in me is overwhelming.”

Camilla’s face softened. “It has nothing to do with my faith in you. I just don’t want to see you disappointed, and I’m afraid you will be. It’s a big thing to open a gallery. And an even bigger thing if you’re not ready. Statistically—”

“Yes, yes. You already said that. I promise if I go belly-up, I’ll move away and change my name. I won’t embarrass you. And who knows, maybe I’ll finally make you proud.”

For a moment, Camilla looked genuinely startled. “You’ve always made me proud, Aurora. Always.”

Rory held her gaze. “Have I?”

“Of course you have.”

“Then be happy for me. After all these hideous months, something good is finally happening. Celebrate with me. Please.”

Camilla nodded coolly, a reluctant gesture of defeat. She reached for the bottle of Veuve and refilled both their glasses, then after a splash of orange juice, held up her mimosa. “To my daughter—the gallery owner.”

“Thank you,” Rory said over the rim of her glass. It was hardly a ringing endorsement, but then she hadn’t expected one. They’d reached a kind of armistice, though, and for now that would do. It’s what their relationship had always been, an endless cycle of arrows and olive branches. “I know it isn’t what you wanted for me. But it’s what I want for me.”

Camilla’s smile faded. “You’ve always been so much braver than me.”

It was a strange admission. Not a confession—her mother didn’t believe in confessions—but an unexpected compliment.

“I promise you, it’s nothing to do with being brave. In fact, I’m terrified that everything you just said is true. That I’m not ready. That I’m doing it for the wrong reason. But this gallery is the first thing I’ve cared about in months. Yes, it happened fast. And yes, it’s a huge risk, but it’s a reason to get out of bed in the morning. And getting out of bed was starting to feel much harder than it should.” She paused, realizing for the first time just how true those words were. “It isn’t just a matter of wanting this. I need it.”

“Then I suppose you’d better tell me about this row house of yours. I’m afraid the strata’s ice-cold. Should I pop it in to reheat?”

“No, it’s fine. Let’s just eat.”

Camilla scooped out a portion for herself, then held out her hand for Rory’s plate. “I think it’s still a little warm. The cheese is still stretchy. Now, tell me about this place you found. Where is it? What’s it like?”

“It’s right off Newbury, next to DeLuca’s. Red brick with a lovely turret and a big bay window in front. It needs some work, though. There was a fire a few years ago, and the repairs were never finished.”

“So it’s been empty all this time?”

“It has. The owner decided not to reopen after the fire but held on to the building. The contractor says an autumn opening is doable. We’ll tackle the ground floor first, then start on the upper floors once we’re open. Oh, and there’s this amazing staircase, black marble and wrought iron. Very dramatic. I’m thinking pale gray and mother-of-pearl, low lighting, glossy black floors.”

Camilla looked up from her plate. “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“I always knew the kind of feel I wanted. Clean. Monochromatic. The minute I saw the row house, I knew it would be a perfect fit. I just got that feeling, you know?”

Camilla arched a brow as she spooned a few more strawberries onto her plate. “What feeling would that be?”

“I don’t know. Like it was meant to be, I guess. I probably walked past the place a hundred times and never noticed it. Then a few weeks ago, on my way home from meeting Lisette, it just jumped out at me. I swear it was like magic.”

“What was it before?”

“A bridal shop. The woman who owns it is named Soline Roussel. I was hoping to meet her when I signed the lease, but she didn’t show. Her lawyer says she doesn’t go out much anymore.”

Camilla frowned, as if searching her memory. “I think I know her.”

“You know Soline Roussel?”

“I’m sorry. I meant I know who she is. Everyone did in my day. From Paris, or so she claimed. I don’t remember the name of her shop, something French, but she had quite a clientele, as I recall. She was famous for her bows.”

“Her bows?”

“Her trademark, you might say. The Roussel Bow. All her dresses had them in some shape or form. At the waist, the shoulders, the bustle. She was quite à la mode back then, with her accent and her elegant little shop, promising that her dresses would bring good luck.”