The Keeper of Happy Endings(26)

“Is it . . . painful?”

“Not in the way you’re probably thinking. They’re numb, mostly. Scar tissue has no nerve endings. But there’s a thing called contracture that happens with deep burns, especially to the hands. As the scar tissue forms, it draws the fingers inward or twists them sideways.” She held up her hands again, inviting Rory to look more closely. Most of the nails were gone from her right hand, leaving the fingertips shiny and flat.

“I’m one of the lucky ones, if you can believe that. There isn’t a lot of pain involved, but when I wear the gloves for too long, my fingers are stretched, which makes the joints ache. Like arthritis, I suppose.”

“Isn’t there . . . Can’t they operate or something?”

She’d begun to massage them again, alternately applying pressure to each palm with the balls of her thumbs, wincing as she worked at the scarred flesh. “I’ve had six operations. Debridement, tendon repair, skin grafts. And every kind of splint known to man. Then came the therapy. Pressure therapy. Stretching therapy.” She shrugged. “Eventually, one reaches the end of the road. They gave me exercises to help with flexibility and range of motion. I did them for a while, when I thought there was a chance, but I stopped eventually. I didn’t see the point once I knew I’d never pick up a needle again.”

Rory hated the finality in her voice. “Couldn’t you hire someone to do the sewing?”

Soline’s gaze slid to the box at Rory’s feet. “Not with my dresses. The work is delicate, very . . . specialized.”

“But couldn’t you train someone? An apprentice or something?”

“The work I do can’t be taught and must be done by hand—by me.”

“My mother remembers your shop. She said it was the most elegant bridal salon in town. I wish I could have seen it before—” Rory caught herself. “I’m so sorry. I only meant it must have been lovely.”

Soline stepped away, then paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Follow me, and bring the box.”

They passed through a large parlor with slate-gray walls and a long sofa upholstered in caramel-colored leather, then through a set of french doors into a small study.

It was a warm, welcoming room, though sparsely furnished. An antique writing desk, a reading chair, and a small table in front of the fireplace, shelves lined with old books bound in jewel-toned leather. But it was the opposite wall that captured Rory’s attention: a montage of photographs mounted in identical black frames. Photos, newspaper clippings, magazine covers, and several rough pencil sketches of Soline’s designs. She let the dress box slide to the floor and inched closer, scanning the captions, many of which stretched back thirty years.

Ooh là là! A Taste of Paris Arrives in Back Bay.

Bridal Couture Comes to Boston.

The Roussel Bow: A Must-Have For This Year’s Bride.

The photos were wonderful—Soline hovering over a frothy creation with a mouthful of pins; perched on a ladder, pulling a bolt of cloth from a shelf; tweaking a large taffeta bow at the waist of a whip-thin blonde. Rory lingered over that one a moment, studying Soline’s hands. Long, tapered fingers and neatly manicured nails. Beautiful and so capable—but ruined now.

The most recent photo was of the salon itself, taken four years ago for a spread in Boston Bride—less than a year before the fire. It was strange to see it as it had been then, elegantly furnished in shades of pewter and cream. Everything carefully chosen—and very French. Or at least what she’d always imagined French decor to look like.

There was also a shot of the large bay window, taken from the street. The salon name was lettered on the glass in elegant gold script, but she couldn’t make it out. She turned to Soline. “What does it say?”

“L’Aiguille Enchantée,” Soline answered softly. “It means the Charmed Needle.”

“The Charmed Needle,” Rory repeated with a dreamy air. Even the name smacked of magic. “A perfect name for a shop that sells fairy-tale dresses and happy endings.”

“Make-believe,” Soline shot back. “Silliness passed down through generations of Roussels.”

“You don’t believe in fairy tales?”

“Not for a long time now.”

Rory peered at Soline’s reflection, captured in the glass of the picture frame. “But you did once?”

“Fairy tales can be dangerous, Aurore. It’s easy to forget they’re not real. And then, before we know it, we’re lost in them. Which is why we must learn to let go of what’s gone and live with what is.”

Rory felt a shiver run down her neck. Soline had been referring to her own loss, of course—of A.W.P. But the words could just as easily have been meant for her. There was no denying the similarities in their stories. Their passion for the creative, their lost loves, their penchant for withdrawing from the world—and now the row house.

A coincidence? Or had some invisible hand nudged her into the path of this tragic woman and her forsaken dress? A cautionary tale, perhaps, about what happened when one clung too desperately to the hope of a happy ending?

“A.W.P. . . . ,” Rory said quietly.

“His name was Anson.”

“Anson, then. Do you still . . . Have you forgotten his face?”

“I thought I might. But no, I haven’t forgotten.” She pulled in a breath, letting it out slowly. “I saw him everywhere at first. On the street, hailing a cab. At the bar in a crowded restaurant. Through the window of a barber shop. He was everywhere—and nowhere.”