The Keeper of Happy Endings(3)

The official line from the State Department was that they were continuing to work with various humanitarian agencies to locate all personnel and secure their safe return, but the truth was that information had dried up, meaning prospects for a positive outcome were growing more and more doubtful.

Rory stared at the box, longing to lift out one or two letters and crawl back into bed, but she had somewhere to be. Two somewheres, actually, if she counted her promise to meet Lisette this afternoon at Sugar Kisses.

Twenty minutes later, she grabbed her purse and keys, checking her reflection one last time. White slacks and a sleeveless button-down in pale peach silk. Damp hair scraped into a ponytail. A single coat of mascara, another of lip gloss, and simple diamond studs. Far from up to standard, but when it came to her mother, nothing ever was.





TWO


RORY

The aromas of blueberry scones and freshly ground coffee greeted Rory as she let herself in. She caught the whir of her mother’s juicer from the kitchen as she kicked off her flats and stationed them near the door—facing out, in case she needed to beat a hasty retreat. Heaven knew, it wouldn’t be the first time.

As usual, the house was immaculate, a study in monied good taste with its plush beige carpets and carefully matched furniture. And the correct art on the walls, of course—bowls of fruit and pitchers of overblown poppies, hanging in heavy gilt frames. Not an item askew or a speck of dust to be seen.

It had looked like this even when she was little, thanks to her mother’s militant rules about cleanliness. No shoes beyond the foyer. No hands on the walls. No food or drink beyond the dining room—unless there was a party. And there were plenty of parties. Tea parties, cocktail parties, dinner parties, and of course the fundraisers for her mother’s pet charities, each catered to perfection, then painstakingly cleared by a crew of professionals kept on speed dial.

She found her mother in the kitchen, pouring fresh-squeezed orange juice into a cut-glass pitcher, her signature gold charm bracelet tinkling as she worked. She looked crisp and tidy in khakis and a starched white blouse, her heavy gold waves pulled back in a low Town & Country ponytail. As usual, her makeup was flawless, subtle eyes, lightly rouged cheeks, a hint of frosty peach gloss on her lips. At forty-two, she was still capable of turning heads.

She looked up when Rory entered. “There you are,” she said, performing a quick but thorough inventory of her daughter. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming again. Is your hair wet?”

“I didn’t have time to blow it out. What do you need me to do?”

“Everything’s done, and I hope not cold.” She handed Rory a plate of perfectly sliced melon and a bowl brimming with strawberries. “Take those out to the table. I’ll bring the rest.”

Rory took the fruit and headed for the terrace. It was a perfect morning, the sky a dizzying blue, the breeze ripe with the promise of an early summer. Below, Boston stretched in all directions, a jumble of crooked streets and tumbling rooftops. Storrow Drive with its endless ribbon of traffic, the Esplanade sprawling leafy and green, the shining stretch of the Charles River, dotted with bright little sailboats.

She adored the city with all its contradictions, its rich colonial history and vibrant melting-pot culture. Art, food, music, and science, all rubbing elbows and vying for attention. But there was something about seeing it like this, away from the bustle and noise, that had always felt a little magical when she was growing up, as if she might suddenly grow wings with which to fly away.

She used to dream of flying away a lot when she was a girl, of being someone else, living another life. One that was her own. A career that had nothing to do with her mother. A husband who was nothing like her father. She’d almost done it too.

Almost.

The word felt like a stone in her chest, the weight of it always with her, making simple tasks like going to the market or meeting a friend feel almost overwhelming. It wasn’t normal, this need to retreat from the world. But it wasn’t new either. She had always leaned toward the introverted end of the spectrum, doing her best to avoid dinner parties and other social events, not to mention the attention that came with being the daughter of one of Boston’s most prominent social and philanthropic elites.

Never a hair out of place, never a faux pas made—that was Camilla Lowell Grant. The right clothes, the right home, the right art. The right everything, if you didn’t count the chronically unfaithful husband and the intractable daughter. Still, Camilla bore her burdens admirably. Most of the time.

Rory took in the table as she set down the fruit plates. It looked like something out of Victoria magazine: crisp white islet laid with her grandmother’s Royal Albert china, linen napkins flawlessly folded beside each place setting. And in the center, a bowl of waxy white gardenias—her mother’s signature flower. Perfection, as usual.

The brunch tradition had begun on her twelfth birthday and had quickly become a weekly event. The menu varied from week to week—fresh fruit and some sort of pastry baked from scratch, toast points with smoked salmon and creamy Boursin cheese, flawlessly turned omelets made with whatever was in season, and the one constant: mimosas made with freshly squeezed orange juice and perfectly chilled Veuve Clicquot.

It was meant to be a time for catching up, but lately, their tête-à-têtes had become increasingly tense as her mother found new and not-so-subtle ways to suggest it might be time to move on with her life.