The Keeper of Happy Endings(64)

Owen flicks a look at his daughter before returning his attention to me. “On your first day. Well, well, that was quick work. And it seems you and my daughter have become fast friends as well.”

“She asked about Anson as we were coming down,” I say, spooning up more bisque. “I’m sure she misses her brother.”

He puts down his spoon and fixes me with a cold stare. “We both miss him, Miss Roussel. And we’ll be happy to have him back home with his family—where he belongs.”

I manage a smile but say nothing, unsettled by his use of the phrase back home with his family. Surely he doesn’t think Anson and I will remain under his roof after we’re married. I try to imagine it, living under those cold, watchful eyes, constantly trying to earn his approval—constantly failing. The thought actually makes me queasy.

Belinda reappears in her ghost-gray uniform, balancing three plates, which she serves without a word. I look at the food, a small green salad and a salmon steak topped with a dill-and-cucumber relish. After weeks of little more than bread and watery soup, it’s an absolute feast, but as I stare at my plate, I find I’m no longer hungry.





TWENTY-SIX


SOLINE

A bride must remember that in being bound to her lover, she is also bound to his family, and that we make no claims with regard to the success of those relationships. Such is not our work.

—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

5 October 1943—Newport

Two weeks after stepping off the train, things with Anson’s father are no better. He’s civil when he has to be but rarely bothers to speak, even at meals when I’m seated directly across from him. He’s gone most of the time, which is some small mercy, either working late, attending meetings, or dining with clients at his club. And when he does happen to be at home, he’s in his study with the door closed.

The days stretch emptily, with nothing but the radio for company while Thia is in school. I listen to the news with clenched insides, wondering where Anson is, praying he’s safe and will be home soon. I wrote several times along the journey and again when I got to Newport, letting him know I arrived safely. Weeks later, I still haven’t received a letter, and the waiting is making me restless.

I haven’t left the house since I arrived, except to sit out by the pool or walk the small stretch of beach beyond the patio gate. The fresh sea air is good for my headaches and makes me feel less claustrophobic. I’m uncomfortable moving about the house, as if I’m somewhere I don’t belong—a trespasser. But I’m not entirely alone. There’s Belinda, who sees to meals, and a cleaning woman named Clara who comes in twice a week, but they treat me like a piece of furniture when they see me. And so I keep to my room with its hideous wallpaper and heavy gloom.

Thia is my one pleasure. She’s such a delight, so hungry for attention and for love. She receives neither from her father. He isn’t intentionally cruel; that would require more energy than he’s willing to spend. He simply doesn’t see her, which is a cruelty all its own. Perhaps that’s why she’s made me her special friend—her sister-to-be, as she calls me. I confess, it’s a title I like very much.

She finds me each day when she arrives home from school, eager for her lessons. She has asked me to teach her French so she’ll be fluent when she moves to Paris and becomes a famous painter. But today, she has come to my room with one of her sketchbooks under her arm. She drops down on the bed and waits for me to join her, then opens the book and slides it into my lap.

My throat catches as I look down and see Anson’s face captured in three-quarter profile. “This is wonderful,” I whisper, tracing the outline of his face with my finger.

“I miss him.”

“Me too.”

She tips her face up, trying to smile. “He’s brave, isn’t he?”

“Oui, chérie. He’s very brave. The bravest man I know.”

She blinks several times, her lashes spiked with tears. “I hope he comes home soon. Then you can get married and I can come live with you.”

My heart cracks as her words sink in. At her age, I desperately wanted to leave Maman and live with Tante Lilou, to escape my cage as Lilou had and follow my own dreams. But this feels different, not the restlessness of a spirit who longs to spread her wings but the deep sadness of a child who knows she isn’t loved.

I press a kiss to the top of her pale head and try to change the subject. “I used to draw when I was your age. Pages and pages of beautiful dresses I was going to make one day.”

Her eyes go wide. “You did?”

“I was going to be famous once. Not for my drawings but for the dresses I would make. Dresses with my name on the labels.”

“What happened to the drawings?”

“I had to leave them in Paris. They weren’t as good as yours, but they didn’t need to be. They were only ideas.”

“Did you ever make the dresses?”

I smile wistfully. “I made one. But then the war started, and no one was buying dresses like mine anymore.”

She sighs dreamily. “I wish I could have seen it. The dress, I mean. I’ll bet it was beautiful.”

I touch a finger to my lips, then go to the closet, pull out the box, and carry it back to the bed. Thia’s eyes turn to saucers as I lift the lid.