The Keeper of Happy Endings(59)

Camilla blinked at her. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t see her wanting to be part of your court.” Rory paused, jerking her chin in the direction of the dining room. “She isn’t like them. And she certainly isn’t like you. She sees me. Not the way she thinks I should be but the way I am. Maybe that’s why I like her so much.”

And with that, she turned and stepped into the foyer, trying not to think of an eight-year-old in a party dress, perched on a piano bench and frozen with fear.





TWENTY-FOUR


RORY

An hour later, Rory found herself standing on Soline’s front step, a bag of takeout from Gerardo’s in her arms. She had knocked four times and was about to knock again when the door opened a crack.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

“It’s me,” Rory blurted. “I’m sorry. I should have called.”

A waft of coffee drifted out onto the stoop as the door swung back. “Rory?”

She was barefoot and simply dressed: a plain white tee, jeans rolled up at the ankles. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, her skin devoid of makeup. What was it about French women—even the middle-aged ones—that allowed them to roll out of bed, throw on the first thing they pulled out of the closet, and be ready for a photo shoot?

Her eyes narrowed perceptively, lingering on Rory’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Or maybe everything. Are you hungry?”

Soline eyed the bag and stepped aside. “Come through.”

The kitchen was at the back of the house and much larger than she expected, with a high ceiling and tall windows that let in the afternoon sun. Here, too, was a room meant to be used, with ropes of onions and garlic on the wall, bottled vinegars lined up on a shelf above the stove, tomatoes ripening on the sill.

“Whatever it is smells delicious,” Soline said as she began extracting the food from the bag. There was a container of pasta tossed with mushrooms, zucchini, and eggplant; another of salad; and a bag filled with fragrant knots of garlic bread. “Where did you get it?”

“There’s a place near my apartment—Gerardo’s. I order from there a couple times a week. Everything’s delicious, and they deliver. Can I set the table?”

“It’s a pretty day. Why don’t we eat on the patio? Grab plates and glasses from the cupboard next to the stove. Silverware is in the drawer just below. I’ll put the food on a tray and be out in a minute.”

Rory located the necessary items and carried them out to a sunny patio scattered with potted herbs and tomato plants. There was a small wrought-iron table in one corner, tucked beneath a rose-draped pergola. It was a lovely spot, cool and shady with the mingled scents of roses and basil drifting on the late-afternoon breeze.

Soline appeared with the tray just as Rory was finishing the table. “Here we are. Help me, please. It’s heavier than I thought, and my hands are trying to cramp.”

Rory hurried to relieve her of the tray. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I should have carried it out.”

“I’m not an invalid, chérie. I do quite well for myself. Most of the time.”

“Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” Rory set out the food, then dropped into one of the chairs. “Thank you for this. For letting me barge in on you. I hope I haven’t ruined any dinner plans.”

“Plans?” Soline barked out a laugh. “I haven’t had plans in years. And certainly not dinner plans.” She held out both hands—bare, since she hadn’t been expecting company. “It’s to do with the gloves mostly. They make me clumsy—especially when eating—and something of a spectacle in this day and age, an eccentric old woman stuck in the past.”

Rory shot her a dubious glance. No one in their right mind could ever mistake Soline Roussel for an old eccentric. Even now, makeup-free and unprepared for guests, she looked beautifully chic. Like the effortlessly beautiful women in Condé Nast Traveler, her face spoke of glamour and exotic adventures, lives lived in faraway places.

“I’ve always loved gloves,” Rory said. “I think they make you look chic.”

Soline smiled unconvincingly as she leaned across the table to fill Rory’s water glass. “Aren’t you sweet. Now, tell me why you’re here, and don’t say it was your turn. You have a face like a rain cloud. What’s happened?”

“Nothing, really. I just . . .” She shook her head, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s nothing.”

Soline arched a brow. “You knocked on my door because nothing happened? What kind of answer is that?”

Rory helped herself to a piece of eggplant, then poked disinterestedly at it. “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been a good day, and I needed someone to talk to.”

Soline’s face softened. “So talk.”

Rory shrugged. “It’s Friday. That’s the day I call to see if there’s any news on Hux. There wasn’t. I didn’t really think there would be, but . . .”

“But?”

“I can’t see how this ends, and it scares me. I’m afraid he’s never coming back, and the gallery will be all I ever have. What if . . .”

“You turn out like me?” she supplied quietly. “It’s all right to say it.”