The Keeper of Happy Endings(65)

“It’s a fairy-tale dress!”

“Yes,” I say softly. “It is . . . sort of. It’s my happy ending dress.”

She cocks an eye at me. “Your what?”

“It’s something my mother and I used to say.”

“Did you really make it?”

“I did.”

“All the way from scratch?”

I smile at the turn of phrase. “All the way from scratch.”

“It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” She sighs, fingering the beads almost tenderly. “Did you make it to wear when you marry Anson?”

I think about how to answer as I fold the dress back into its box. The truth is, I started the dress long before I knew Anson, when all I cared about was proving myself to Maman. But even then, there had been the dream of someone like Anson. A prince of my own, kind and brave and handsome. Like Lilou’s Brit.

“Yes,” I say finally, softly. “I made it to marry Anson.”

She looks up at me, eyes shining. “I can’t wait till he sees you in it. You’ll be the most beautiful bride ever.”

I swallow past the tightness in my throat, surprised by the deep attachment I’ve come to feel for her. “And you’ll be a beautiful bridesmaid. What color would you like for your dress?”

“Blue,” she answers at once. “Mummy liked me in blue. She said it brought out my eyes. I had a blue dress a few years ago, with pretty puffed sleeves, but it doesn’t fit anymore. None of my good dresses fit now. But Daddy says it’s wrong to want new clothes while our boys are going without. We have to do our part.”

I suppress a scowl as I return the dress box to the closet. I’ve heard Owen’s mantra often enough now, and I recognize it for what it is—a way to keep his daughter in line. But an idea begins to form as I eye Thia’s shapeless jumper and too-tight skirt, a way to help her without depriving American GIs, but I won’t say anything until I speak to her father.



Owen is both surprised and annoyed to find me waiting when he comes home from wherever he’s been. I’m seated on the cream-colored sofa, pretending to read a book I borrowed from his library. I feel all wrong sitting here, worrying about what I look like, how my legs are crossed, what to do with my hands, but he pretends not to see me as he goes about pouring himself a drink.

I watch mutely as he drops two cubes of ice into a glass, then adds a splash of amber liquid, and I find myself wondering how the ice got into the bucket. Belinda, I suppose. But Owen isn’t the least bit curious about the ice. He’s used to everything being exactly as he expects it to be. It’s why he doesn’t like me, because I’m not what he expected for his son.

Finally he turns, pivoting stiffly on his bad leg. I close the book, waiting while he takes a pull from his glass. At long last, he fixes me with a chilly stare. “What is it that has you up so late, Miss Roussel?”

Two weeks and he still refuses to call me by my first name, as if our relationship is a temporary one. “I was hoping to talk to you about Cynthia—about her clothes.”

“Her clothes?”

“Girls are different from boys.”

“You don’t say.”

There isn’t a hint of humor in his tone, but I push on, determined to make my point. “Girls reach an age where they start comparing themselves to their friends. How they look. What they wear. They worry about fitting in. Cynthia is at that age now.”

“There is nothing wrong with my daughter’s clothes.”

“Not wrong, no. They’re just a bit . . . plain. And they don’t fit her as well as they could.”

“We’ve all had to do without a great deal since the war started. Gasoline. Cooking oil. Even paper. With the men off fighting, there’s no one to cut down the trees. It’s easy to take things for granted until you suddenly have to do without. It’s a matter of sacrificing for one’s country.”

I stare at him, piqued by his platitudes. From where I stand, there is precious little the Purcells have gone without compared to the people of France and England. No bombs have landed on American soil, no businesses looted or seized, no oafish soldiers plundering their store shelves. It’s true that their men are across the sea, fighting the Nazis, and that it’s a great sacrifice indeed, but it isn’t the same.

“We’re well acquainted with sacrifice where I come from, Monsieur Purcell. We learned about it the day the Germans marched into Paris and hung their swastikas all over the city.”

He eyes me coldly, but there’s a glint of surprise in the look too. He isn’t used to anyone talking back to him, and certainly not a twenty-year-old seamstress without a sou to her name. “How fortunate that my son came to your rescue when he did.”

I smile meekly, pretending not to register the dig. “I was fortunate. Not only because Anson and I met and fell in love, but also that you’ve been kind enough to open your home to me. In fact, I’ve been thinking about how I might repay that kindness. I thought perhaps I could make a few new dresses for Cynthia. She’s such a pretty girl, and a new dress or two would mean so much to her.”

His eyes narrow, as if sensing some trap in the offer. “She put you up to this, did she?”

“No. It was my idea. She doesn’t even know I was planning to ask. I wanted to be sure I had your approval before saying anything.”