The Keeper of Happy Endings(25)

“I’m so sorry. About . . . everything.”

“Never mind all that. Pity is my poison.” She pushed to her feet then, surprisingly petite despite her sleek black heels. “Thank you again, Aurore. It was kind of you to go to the trouble. I wish you bonne chance with your gallery.”

She picked up her handbag. Rory watched as she fumbled with the strap, her gloved fingers stiff and clumsy. After several attempts, she managed to get the strap up onto her shoulder, but the dress box was nearly as big as she was. She’d be lucky to make it out of the café, let alone navigate the crowded sidewalk.

“If you’d like, I can walk you to your car.”

“Thank you. That won’t be necessary. I don’t drive anymore. But my town house is close.”

“Then let me give you a lift. The box—”

“I’ve already been enough trouble, and I’m quite capable of walking.”

Rory eyed Soline’s shoes with skepticism. Boston’s frost-heaved sidewalks—the by-product of decades of harsh New England winters—could be challenging in flats. Pencil-thin heels coupled with a box she’d barely be able to see over spelled disaster.

“It’s no trouble,” she assured Soline as she pushed to her feet and grabbed the box from the table. “I’m parked right up the street.”

Soline nodded, but her discomfort was plain. “Yes, all right.”

Rory held the door open as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. She couldn’t explain her sudden solicitousness. Soline Roussel wasn’t remotely feeble. And yet there was an air of fragility about her, like a broken bit of porcelain whose pieces hadn’t been properly mended. If she were jostled too roughly, she might break into a million pieces. And Rory knew only too well what that felt like.





ELEVEN


RORY

Soline sat stiffly in the passenger seat, hidden behind a pair of Hepburn-esque dark glasses, her purse clutched tightly on her knees. She hadn’t spoken since rattling off her Beacon Hill address. Rory glanced at her as she turned onto Cedar Street and let off the gas.

“Which house?”

“That one,” she said, pointing. “The red door. Just drop me here. I’ll be fine.”

Rory pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. “I’ll carry the box inside for you.”

Before Soline could protest, Rory was out of the car, retrieving the dress box from the back seat. Soline struggled with her seat belt a moment but eventually climbed out of the car and sailed past, keys at the ready.

Rory fell in behind her, eyeing the house’s Georgian facade as they moved up the walk. Weathered red brick, glossy black shutters, a pair of chimneys at each end. And in one of Boston’s most desirable neighborhoods. Apparently, Soline had done quite well for herself.

After some fumbling with the key, Soline pushed inside, leaving Rory to follow her into a spacious entry hall dominated by an ornate pedestal table and a French empire chandelier. She shed her sunglasses, depositing them on the table along with her handbag, and immediately set to work on her gloves.

Rory looked on uncomfortably until it became obvious that Soline wasn’t making much progress. “Those buttons look tricky. Why don’t I help you?”

Soline’s shoulders sagged, like a flower wilting all at once. She said nothing as she held out her hands. Rory set down the box and unbuttoned both gloves, then met Soline’s gaze. “Would you like me to . . .”

Soline nodded. “But don’t pull them off by the fingers. Peel them back. Slowly.”

Rory did as she’d been instructed, holding her breath as she eased back the leather. There was an audible sigh as the first glove came free, though whether hers or Soline’s, she couldn’t be sure. When the second hand was presented she set to work again, aware that Soline’s lower lip was now caught between her teeth. Clearly, embarrassment wasn’t all she was suffering.

When the job was done, Rory laid the gloves on the table, limp now and turned inside out, like the molted skins of some enormous insect. The thought sent a shudder through her, and she looked away, back to Soline, who’d begun to massage her hands with long, repetitive strokes. They were waxy white in places, puckered and pink in others, the fingers curled and faintly clawlike. Rory averted her gaze, not wanting to appear rude.

“Go on,” Soline said evenly. “Look at them.”

A lump formed in Rory’s throat as she surveyed the damage. The contracted palms and thickened scar tissue, the slightly webbed appearance of the fingers. Useless to a woman who made her living with a needle and thread.

“It happened in the fire,” Soline explained. “But of course, you’ve guessed that.”

Rory nodded. “I did wonder why you were wearing gloves in June.”

“Scars make people uncomfortable, so I cover them when I’m in public, which isn’t often anymore. It’s easier to keep out of people’s way than to endure their pity. It isn’t their fault. They are rather awful to look at.”

It was on the tip of Rory’s tongue to say she was sorry, but she caught herself. No pity. “That’s why you never reopened the shop,” she said instead. “Because of your hands.”

“For a while, I thought I might be able to go back. I wanted to believe the doctors could work some sort of a miracle. I think they believed it too, in the beginning. But there was too much damage.”