The Keeper of Happy Endings(60)

“No. It isn’t that.” At least it isn’t only that. “It’s something my mother said. She thinks I’m opening the gallery for the wrong reasons.”

“Why would she say that?”

“Because Hux is the one who put the idea into my head. It was something I used to toy with when I got bored with school, one of those what if kind of things. But Hux made it seem possible. He said it was a dream worth chasing. So I chased it.”

“And you think that makes it wrong? Because someone inspired you?”

“I was supposed to finish school, then do an internship at the Musée d’Orsay. When I told her I was leaving school to open a gallery, she said I was trying to prove something to someone who wasn’t even here. Because I was scared.”

“You’re not, are you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think so then, but now . . . I’m just second-guessing everything. It’s starting to feel like Hux is never coming home, and maybe I’ve known it for a while now. Why else would I decide to open a gallery right now, unless some part of me thinks it’s time to move on?”

“Your mother said all that to you?”

“No. Not in so many words, but she knows how to get under my skin. She doesn’t like it when I make plans for myself, so when I do, she has to undermine them. In twenty-three years, it’s never occurred to her that I might actually know what I want.”

“What do you want?”

Rory closed her eyes, fighting a hitch in her throat. “I want Hux to come home. Healthy and in one piece. I want to know what comes next. For me. For us.”

Soline’s smile was tinged with sadness. “Of course you do. But you can’t, chérie. None of us can. We can only live the life we have right now, today.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t have one. Not really. And part of me is afraid I’m making a huge mistake. My mother keeps reminding me that I don’t have any experience at this and that eighty percent of galleries don’t survive their second year. If I blow it, what happens then? If Hux . . .” She paused, swallowing hard when her voice suddenly broke. “I don’t think I can take losing anything else.”

Soline put down her fork and met Rory’s gaze squarely. “Rory, you must learn to separate Hux from the gallery. Right now, you’re thinking of them as the same thing, as if one cannot exist without the other. But it isn’t true. I had to learn this for myself—after Anson died.”

Rory blew out a breath. “Please don’t say you want me to get on with my life. My mother says that, and it makes me crazy.”

“All right, I won’t say it, but she’s not wrong. You were a person before Hux came into your life. And you will go on being a person, even if he leaves it. It’s not a choice. It’s how it works. The question is what kind of person you’ll be. What will you do with your life, your dreams, your art?”

Rory blinked at her across the table. “My art?”

“Yes, silly girl. Your art. You have a gift. You think you get those for nothing?”

“But I’m not—”

“If you’re having second thoughts, we can tear up the lease. You don’t have to go through with it.”

Rory stared at her. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t an offer to tear up the lease. The thought made her stomach lurch. “No, I don’t want that.”

Soline smiled knowingly. “I didn’t think so. You’re having—how do Americans say it—a case of cold feet. But if you want the gallery badly enough, you’ll make it work.”

“Like you did with your bridal salon?”

“I had nothing when I came here. I was a foreigner, broke and alone. It was a hard time, harder even than the war, because of what I’d lost. But I couldn’t just lie down and die, even when I wanted to.”

Rory watched as Soline tore a small bite from a garlic knot and slowly chewed. Her loss was still visible despite the patina of years. She had shared her story freely enough, but Rory couldn’t help feeling there was more, some heartache she still kept to herself. “You told me you and Anson were separated because of the war and that you learned he’d gone missing. Were you still in Paris then?”

“No. I had to leave. I didn’t want to, but Anson made me go. He was working with the Resistance, helping to get people out—people the Nazis were looking for. I began helping, too, until it became . . . problematic.”

Rory stared at her across the table. “You were part of the Resistance?”

“In those days, if you were living in Paris, you were either a collaborator or you were part of the Resistance. There were a few who tried to walk the middle road, but sooner or later we all had to choose. We did what we could. I was a courier. Women could get away with more. Especially if they were pretty.” She paused, smiling bitterly. “The Germans liked French girls. They were so busy flirting with us that they forgot to suspect us. But they found out about Anson and me—and they used me against him.”

Rory put down her glass, breath held as she waited for more.

“One night on the way back from a run, Anson’s ambulance broke down, and he was picked up by the Gestapo. They questioned him for hours. When he wouldn’t cooperate, they told him they knew who I was. They said if he didn’t give them the names they wanted, they would come after me. They used to do that, pick up wives and sweethearts and send them to terrible places. Prison camps and brothels. Anson refused to talk. They let him go eventually, but the next day he made me leave.”