The Keeper of Happy Endings(68)

I blink at him, stung. “You think I want to hurt your son?”

“I don’t know you, Miss Roussel. I have no idea what you want.”

“I love your son, Mr. Purcell. I want to be his wife.”

“I’m quite certain of that,” he responds dryly. “Or at least the last part. It’s the why I’m not clear on.”

It strikes me that somehow I have always known this was coming, that one day his suspicion of me would finally spill out. Still, the words chill me. “What is it you’re accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to understand. It isn’t enough that my son decides to run off and join the Red Cross rather than enlisting in the US Navy, where he belongs. He compounds matters by sending me you, a seamstress-turned-nurse’s-aide, whose name I’ve never once heard him mention and can barely pronounce, and writes to inform me there’s going to be a wedding. It all seems a little rushed, don’t you think? Convenient?”

I feel blood flood into my cheeks as my pulse ticks up. “You think sneaking out of Paris with the Nazis on my heels was convenient? Leaving my home? Leaving Anson?”

“It got you to the States, did it not?”

The room sways as a wave of nausea washes over me. I swallow thickly, shoving it down. “I came because this is Anson’s home. Because his family is here, and I want you to be my family, too, when we’re married—you and Thia.”

“And your parents? Where are they?”

“My mother died last year.”

“And your father?”

I touch the locket at my throat and think of Erich Freede, wondering, like Maman, about his fate. “I don’t know,” I say softly. “One of the camps, perhaps. Or dead.”

His eyes narrow sharply. “You’re Jewish?”

I see that the idea displeases him, and I find I’m savagely glad. “My father was Jewish. But it isn’t only Jews they’re sending to the camps. Anyone willing to stand against them is in danger of arrest.”

“None of that is my concern at the moment, Miss Roussel.”

“Yes, I can see that. But it’s Anson’s concern. Which is why he’s still there—to stop it.”

He looks back at me with a blend of contempt and annoyance. “By driving around Paris with a patch on his arm while others do the real fighting?”

His dismissiveness astonishes me. I open my mouth, prepared to defend the work Anson is doing, but catch myself in time. Instead, I lift my chin and meet his gaze head-on. “Do you truly think so little of your son? Because he’s not on a ship somewhere, in danger of being blown to bits? You’re disappointed that he won’t come home with a chest full of medals—or in a box—but I’m not. The war has taught me that there are all sorts of heroes, and that almost none of them will ever have something shiny pinned to their chests.”

He sways as he raises his empty glass in mock salute. “Pretty words. Quite . . . impassioned. But at the end of the day, it’s what we do that counts, Miss Roussel. The mark we leave behind. And the Purcells have always been careful about the kinds of marks we leave. Our name is synonymous with respectability, with honor and service. I have a duty to protect that for the next generation, to preserve our traditions. That includes my son.”

“Why do you never use his name?”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“When you talk about him, you refer to him as your son or Thia’s brother, but never as himself. Never as Anson.”

“I’ll refer to him in whatever way I choose. He’s my son. And I didn’t break my neck grooming him so he could throw his life away on the first woman who caught his fancy. He’s got school to finish, and then I have plans for him.”

“And those plans don’t include a wife?”

He stares into his glass, giving the melting ice a swirl. “I assume they will—at some point. But when that time comes, my son will marry a woman who will know how to help him be successful.”

“How do you know I can’t help him?”

“Our way of life comes with a very specific set of rules, Miss Roussel. And there isn’t room for someone who doesn’t understand them. It’s my job to make you see that.”

A fresh wave of clamminess hits me as his words penetrate. He’s telling me he has no intention of letting the wedding go forward. The roses on the wallpaper spin dizzily. I drop my eyes to the floor and reach for the edge of the bureau to steady myself. There are tears in my eyes, my throat.

“You’ve written to him, haven’t you? To tell him you don’t approve. That’s why you asked if I’d had a letter. Not because you were worried. Because you expect him to write to me and break it off.” He doesn’t say anything, but I see that I’m right. “You’re going to make him choose,” I say quietly. “Between you and me.”

“Life is choosing, Miss Roussel. And I intend to make sure my son chooses wisely.”

“What happens when he chooses me over you?”

He smiles, a thin, unpleasant expression that sends a chill through me. “How long have you known my son? Six months? Seven? I’ve known him all his life. He’s always had a soft spot for strays. He’s like his mother in that way, always taking up for some cause or other. But he’s been raised to know what’s expected of him. He may have forgotten while in France, but he’ll remember soon enough.” The smile vanishes as he sets his empty glass on the bureau and turns to leave. “He won’t choose you.”