The Keeper of Happy Endings(37)

“Are you . . . being careful?”

He tips his head to one side, studying me in return. “Does it matter to you that I’m careful?”

My cheeks go hot. He’s nothing to me and isn’t likely to be, but I tell myself it’s a perfectly valid question. “I think it must matter to your father and sister.”

His smile slips, replaced by something flinty and unreadable. “There isn’t time to be careful. You do what you’re sent to do. If you’re lucky, you get back in one piece so you can do it all over again the next day.”

“How do you do it? Aren’t you afraid?”

“Every single day.”

“But you do it anyway.”

“Same as you.”

I shake my head, unwilling to concede that his work and mine are in any way similar. “You save lives. I change sheets and write letters.”

“Don’t think for a minute that writing a letter to a soldier’s mother or sweetheart isn’t saving his life. It’s a lifeline, a reason to keep going.” He pauses, running a hand through his thatch of blond hair. His expression is deadly earnest. “We’re all doing what we can, Soline, and we’re all scared silly. But we show up every day, because it’s important stuff. All of it—all of us—important.”

I’m trying to think of something to say when I hear my name. I turn to find Adeline standing in the doorway, pointing to her wristwatch. I throw her a nod and stand. “I have to go.”

Anson pushes to his feet, catching my hand. “I’ll miss you, Soline Roussel.”

His voice, low and warm, makes my pulse quicken. “Don’t be silly. You can’t miss someone you don’t know.”

He shoots me a roguish grin. “You’re Soline Roussel from Paris, France. You’re kind and beautiful, and once upon a time you and your mother owned a bridal salon. Now you spend your time nursing soldiers. I’m Anson Purcell, Yale dropout. My family is from Newport, Rhode Island. My father is named Owen, and he builds racing yachts. My mother’s name was Lydia. My sister is Cynthia—Thia for short—and she wants to be a French Impressionist when she grows up. There. Now we know each other, which means I can miss you properly.”

Something warm and unfamiliar spirals in my belly. My world has been one of women, brides and their mothers, Maman. No one has ever flirted with me, but I recognize it when I hear it, and I can’t blame him. It’s easier than talking about war and death. But I’ve been warned about Americans, all disarming smiles and apple pie. I take an awkward step back, pulling my hand free.

“I have to go. The patients need their lunch.” I turn toward the door, then glance back at him over my shoulder. “Try to be careful.”

I feel curiously removed from my body as I walk away, as if my feet aren’t quite touching the floor. Adeline is waiting with an arched brow and a sly cat’s grin.

“And what was that about?”

“Nothing,” I reply quickly. A lie. Because even in that moment of flushed confusion, I know it was the very opposite of nothing. “He lent me a handkerchief on my first day, and I was just saying thank you.”

“Over coffee?”

I reach for an explanation but quickly give up. Nothing I say will wipe the grin off her face. “It was nothing, Adeline. He was kind to me.”

She chuckles knowingly. “They usually are—kind. But be careful, chérie. This isn’t the cinema. The hero, however handsome, isn’t always a safe bet.”

“Do you think he’s a hero?” I ask, sounding every bit as dreamy as I feel.

“Well, if he isn’t, he certainly looks the part. And the AFS must think so. They’re terribly picky about who they accept. Then, I suppose they have to be. It takes a special breed to do what they do. Which is why you should be careful with your heart, little girl. Attachments are dangerous things in wartime.”

I nod obediently, but in my bones, I know it’s too late. An attachment has already been formed, at least for me.

Adeline claps her work-reddened hands as we approach the orthopedic ward, where a cart stacked with metal mess trays awaits. “Voilà! C’est très bien. We’ll feed the men, and then you and I will have some lunch, and you can tell me about this handkerchief.”



I don’t know where I would be without Adeline. She’s helped me find my footing, introducing me to the other volunteers and stepping in to smooth over my blunders.

I remember one day in particular. We had a flurry of casualties come in and everyone was scurrying to make up fresh beds. I’d just left the laundry with an armload of linens and was coming around a corner when I blundered into the hospital’s resident physician in charge—Dr. Jack, as he’s known—soaking him with a scalding cup of coffee.

Sumner Jackson’s temper is a frequent topic of discussion among the nurses. But as I looked up at him that day, at his dripping white coat and thundercloud face, I realized the rumors hadn’t done him justice. He was tall and broad with thick shoulders, heavy brows that sat low over his eyes, and a nose that reminded me more of a prizefighter than a surgeon.

I gulped out an apology in French, then in English, then in French again, all the while trying to keep my armload of sheets from tumbling to the floor. As usual, Adeline appeared to rescue me, explaining that I was new and still a little clumsy. I held my breath while he looked me over with his dark, flat eyes.