The Keeper of Happy Endings(24)

The corners of Soline’s mouth curled, lending her a faintly feline air. “Any businesswoman worth her salt knows the value of a good gimmick. Toothpaste that makes you kissable. Shiny floors that make you the envy of your neighbors. Brides want fairy tales, so that’s what I gave them.”

Rory eyed her skeptically. “You’re saying your dresses had nothing to do with what was in those letters?”

“I’m saying people have ways of clinging to ideas that make the world seem nicer than it is. And perhaps that’s to be expected. When life is hard, it helps to cling to illusion. I suppose the letters were that for me once. But life has taught me that even in fairy tales, the heroine must make her own magic—or not, as the case may be.”

“But you kept them. You could have thrown them away, but you didn’t.”

Soline pulled in a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “There was so much ugliness back then, so much heartache and loss everywhere you looked. The letters were a way to remember the good.”

“And yet they wound up in a box under the stairs.”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence, but finally Soline replied. “Before she died, my mother told me there is a time for holding on and a time for letting go and that I needed to learn the difference. I didn’t understand then, but there came a time—a moment—when I knew I had to let go of those broken pieces of my life. In the end, I couldn’t bear to part with them. I thought if I hid them from myself, put them where I wouldn’t see them every day, it would be enough.”

Rory studied her over the rim of her mug. Beneath the flawless style and carefully applied cosmetics, there was an air of tragedy that reminded her of Camilla. “Was it?”

“It must seem silly to you, clinging to such painful reminders, but they were all I had left of that part of my life. Of Paris and the life I thought I would have.”

The life I thought I would have. Rory rolled the words around in her head. They might just as easily have come out of her mouth. “No,” she said finally. “It doesn’t seem silly at all. We all have our own ways of coping.”

“And you, chérie?” Soline asked, her eyes suddenly keen. “Are you . . . coping?”

Rory shifted in her chair, unsettled by both the question and Soline’s steady regard. “I think we’re all trying to cope, one way or another.” She’d been aiming for nonchalance but missed badly. Time to change the subject. “I was sorry to hear about your shop. About the fire, I mean. Did you never think of reopening?”

Soline looked down at her lap, as if weighing her answer. “Life has a way of letting us know when something’s over. It’s not always pleasant, but it’s always obvious if we’re paying attention. I spent half my life reaching for things that weren’t meant to be mine—and paying dearly for it. At some point, one must read the signs.”

Rory sipped her coffee, wondering about the kinds of things Soline had reached for and why they hadn’t been meant for her.

“You have other questions,” Soline said brusquely. “Go on, then, ask them. I owe you that, I suppose.”

Rory found her bluntness both unsettling and refreshing, a welcome change after so many careful conversations with her mother. “The shaving kit. It’s connected to the dress, isn’t it? It belonged to the groom?”

“An ambulance driver who was killed in the war.”

“And the dress is yours.”

Tears suddenly pooled in Soline’s eyes. “It was meant to be, yes.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressed you.”

Soline gave her head a little shake, as if annoyed with herself. “I’m sorry to get soppy. It’s just . . . after the fire . . . They said everything was lost. I never expected to see it again.”

“Please don’t apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry for pressing you. Please forgive me.”

“C’est oublié,” she murmured, reaching for a napkin and carefully blotting her eyes. “It’s forgotten.”

Rory tried not to stare. Until that moment, Soline’s hands had been in her lap, but now she saw the gloves: black kid, with tiny jet buttons at each wrist, and glaringly out of place in the middle of June.

Scars. Not her face. On her hands.

She averted her eyes, pretending not to notice. “Before I forget, I want to thank you for letting me lease the row house. I had actually given up the idea of opening the gallery. And then one day I was crossing the street and there it was. I was crushed when Daniel said it wasn’t available. I’m so glad you changed your mind.”

Soline rolled her eyes. “Mr. Ballantine knows how to get around me. He told me about your gallery for new artists. He knew it would soften the ground. When will you open?”

Rory found herself breathing a sigh of relief as the conversation shifted to safer territory. “October, if all goes well. I’d love for you to see it when it’s finished. Maybe you could come to the opening. I’d be honored to have you there.”

Soline’s shoulders stiffened. “Thank you, no. I don’t go out much these days, and I haven’t been back to the shop since the night of the fire.”

“Not once in four years?”

Soline shrugged. “Memories, you know. It’s . . . hard.”