The Keeper of Happy Endings(54)

I refuse too.

“I don’t care about the rules,” I murmur, pulling him back to me. “It’s our last night. Please don’t make me spend it alone.”

He says nothing as I lead him up the stairs. There’s a moment of hesitation when we reach the top. Whether his or mine, I can’t say, but it passes quickly and the decision is made, the point of denial behind us.

I feel shy suddenly and leave the light off. Until this moment, our rendezvous have consisted of brief, stolen moments, hurried embraces and feverish kisses. But tonight there’s no reason to hurry. I don’t know if I will be his first—I don’t want to know—but he will be mine.

I unbutton his shirt and push it back from his shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. I reach for his belt next, working with shaky fingers. He stands very still, his eyes on my face, and I wonder if he senses my nervousness. I’ve seen men without their clothes—I’ve bathed hundreds at the hospital—but I hadn’t been in love with any of them.

Finally, it’s Anson’s turn to undress me. I shiver as my blouse falls away, his fingertips like a whisper against my skin. There’s a kind of reverence in his voice as he murmurs my name, his eyes filled with such tenderness that my throat catches with an unexpected rush of tears.

Moments later, my clothes are on the floor and I’m standing there naked, chilly and trembling all over. I catch my reflection in the bureau mirror and wish I’d remembered to turn off the hall light too. I’ve lost weight since the war began and my body looks sharp in the glass, sinewy and pale, and I worry that I’m a disappointment. And then Anson is behind me, wrapping an arm about my waist, bending his mouth to the curve of my shoulder. I close my eyes, abandoning myself to the moment. I want only him. His breath. His hands. His skin.

He leads me to the bed, pulling me down with him onto the sheets. He smells of sweat and the strong carbolic soap they use at the hospital, earthy and astringent. Male. Our breaths mingle warm and wet as we find each other in the darkness, his hands insistent and everywhere, as if trying to map my body with his touch. And yet he’s in no hurry, content to savor the moment—to savor me—and I let him, lost in the bittersweet magic of these few brief hours before we must say goodbye.



I wait until Anson’s breathing grows even, then slip from the bed. It will be light soon, and there’s packing to be done. I know about the journey that awaits me. I won’t need much—plain clothes that are easy to move in, sturdy shoes with low heels, a few personal items. But there are other things too, things I can’t leave behind.

I’m careful not to wake Anson as I move about in the darkness, gathering Maman’s rosary, the locket containing Erich Freede’s photo, the packet of letters I saved after Maman died. They’re her legacy to me, a reminder that once upon a time, there had been happy endings and, just maybe, there would be again.

Downstairs, in the workroom, I flip on the light and stand staring at the dress I began sewing a seeming lifetime ago. It’s been finished for months, languishing in a darkened workroom, denied its moment of triumph. But the dreams I had when I began it were very different from the dreams I have now. I’m leaving Paris—for good it seems—and there’s something I must do before the sun comes up.

I gather what I need: a white candle, a pen and paper, a bowl of water, another of salt, a needle, a spool of white thread—and the dress. I light the candle and close my eyes, then slowly begin to breathe, waiting for something to come up. I scribble a few words, cross them out, begin again, wishing I’d paid better attention to Maman’s instruction about charm writing. There’s so little time, and I still have the stitching to do. I try again.

Finally, I’m ready to begin. But my hands are damp, and I have trouble holding on to the needle. Maman’s voice is in my head, scolding. You haven’t prepared properly before beginning. Your charm is clumsy and overly broad. Your stitchwork is abominable. Every word is true, but at last I lay down my needle and survey my handiwork.

Over distance, over time,

Whatever trials might come,

May the echoes of these two young hearts

Be forever joined as one.

The untidy needlework is bad enough, but I’ve managed to prick myself several times in the process, leaving tiny smears of blood on the lining of the bodice. It feels like an omen. I feed the remaining thread to the candle and snuff out the flame. The work isn’t up to Maman’s standards, but I’ve done my best. The rest is in fate’s hands.





TWENTY-TWO


SOLINE

To be effective, one must know one’s treatments and when to use them. A charm is a spell used to create opportunities . . . a series of serendipities meant to help fate along, while a fascination or glamour is an instrument of deception meant to distort natural events.

—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch 28 August 1943—Paris

I’m already dressed, sitting in a chair near the window when Anson stirs. His eyes open heavily, the corners of his mouth lifting in that lazy American smile I’ve come to love. I try to smile back, but I can’t manage it. All I can think about are the minutes ticking away.

He dresses in the dark, then follows me to the kitchen. I scrounge the last of the coffee Maman hoarded before the war, managing two nearly full cups. It’s stale but better than nothing, and helps wash down the crackers and jam that serve as our breakfast.