The Keeper of Happy Endings(21)

It was like something from a fairy tale: a sweetheart neckline encrusted with iridescent crystals and tiny seed pearls, sleeves of slashed organza, as filmy as a pair of dragonfly wings, folded almost tenderly over one another. Clearly vintage and, judging by the quality of the beadwork, almost certainly hand sewn.

Rory eyed it longingly, itching to explore its landscape, frothy lace and tissue-thin silk, the cool, nubby texture of the beading. And yet she hesitated. Disturbing it now, after it had languished so long in the dark, felt wrong somehow, like casually handling the contents of Tutankhamun’s tomb. But that was silly. If the dress meant anything to anyone, it wouldn’t be here, shut up in a box covered with dust.

The gown gave a little sigh as she lifted it out of its box, as if relieved to at last be free. The paneled organza skirts unfurled like flower petals as Rory gave them a gentle shake, luminous and frothy. Even the back was stunning, with corset-style lacing and a wide satin bow with sashes that trailed all the way to the floor.

The Roussel Bow.

She was beginning to see why Soline Roussel had made such a name for herself. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—or imagined. A dress fit for a princess—albeit a very small princess. The sleeves, clearly meant to be full length, fell a good six inches shy of her wrist, and the waist was ridiculously tiny. A custom-made gown, then, and not a mark on it, so probably never worn. What had happened to the bride who was meant to wear it?

The question unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Perhaps because every scenario she imagined was more heart-wrenching than the last. Illness. Betrayal. Death. And they all ended the same way—with a wedding that never happened.

Rory closed her eyes, willing the thoughts away. Whatever the story—and there was almost certainly a story attached to the dress—it was someone else’s story. It wasn’t a sign or an omen. It had nothing to do with her. The smart thing to do would be to put it and the box back where she’d found them.

But as she rearranged the sheets of tissue, she discovered a packet of letters at the bottom of the box and a zippered leather case, monogrammed in gold. A shaving kit, she realized as she picked it up, the kind men used for travel. The calfskin was scuffed and the monogram had begun to wear, but it had clearly been expensive.

She unzipped it, letting it fall open like a book. On one side was a shaving brush and a silver-handled razor; on the other, a tortoiseshell comb, matching shoehorn, and an empty flask meant to hold cologne. She traced a finger over what remained of the monogram—A.W.P. Andrew? Allen? She would likely never know. Unless the packet of letters offered some clue.

She slid them free of their ribbon, counting as she fanned out the envelopes. Eighteen in all. None was stamped or properly addressed, though several bore the words Mademoiselle Roussel across the front. Hand-delivered, then, rather than mailed. And kept together, presumably for sentimental reasons. Love letters from A.W.P.?

She selected one at random, teasing a single sheet of blue vellum from its envelope. It was written in French. A disappointment, since she’d long since forgotten the French she’d learned her freshman year at Tufts. But she could read the date: 17 décembre 1942. December, forty-two years ago. She tried another and then another. Both bore similar dates and were also in French. Finally, toward the bottom of the packet, she discovered a handful written in English. The first was dated August 4, 1964.

Dearest Mademoiselle Roussel,

It’s been almost a year since David and I exchanged our vows, and though you asked me to wait for our one-year anniversary, I find I cannot wait a day longer to express my gratitude for your kindness when I came to you with my troubles. Your generosity still astonishes me. To walk down the aisle in one of your gowns was more than a poor girl from the south side of Boston could ever have hoped for. But more importantly, David has had the most miraculous recovery from his accident. It’s so astonishing his doctors can hardly believe it, let alone explain it. It took everything in me not to tell them that it had to do with your dress. They would think me quite mad, and a year ago I would have agreed. But now I know I have you and your charm to thank for my happy ending. And for our baby, who will arrive in the new year. If there is ever any way I can repay your kindness, you need only ask.

With my deepest gratitude,

Kathleen P. Shore

Rory reread the letter several times, picking up something new with each pass. A poor girl from the south side of Boston. A miraculous recovery from an accident. A wedding dress given credit for a happy ending. A charm of some kind. It was inconceivable. But wasn’t it exactly what her mother had said at brunch last week? Enchanted gowns. Guaranteed happy endings. Was such a thing actually possible?

Kathleen Shore certainly seemed to think so.

Another letter chosen at random read much the same, though it was dated two years later. A young bride writing on her one-year anniversary, thanking Ms. Roussel for the resolution of some tricky financial problem just one month after walking down the aisle in one of her lucky gowns. A third bride wrote of being able to forgive her groom for a reckless infidelity on the eve of their wedding. A fourth had recovered from a chronic illness doctors believed would see her using a wheelchair within two or three years.

Each letter seemed more fantastic than the last. And each credited her astonishing good fortune to Soline Roussel’s special skills as a dressmaker. It seemed reasonable to assume those written in French contained similar stories. Eighteen brides. Eighteen letters. Eighteen happy endings kept in an old dress box.