The Keeper of Happy Endings(7)
Finally, the signal changed, and the crowd at the curb began to shuffle forward. She was preparing to step into the crosswalk when an old row house on the opposite corner caught her eye and she halted.
As row houses went, it was nothing special—three stories of weathered red brick with a rounded corner tower and a witch-hat turret overlooking the road. Newbury Street was lined with dozens just like it. For that matter, so were half the streets in Boston. But there was something about this one that felt different enough to stop her in her tracks.
Curtainless windows filmed with grit. An overgrown strip of grass out front. Bits of trash blown up around the cracked front stoop. It was vacant; she was sure of it. And yet, she had the strangest feeling that she was being watched from one of the upper windows.
She was contemplating a closer look when a passing police car reminded her that six blocks away, the meter was running. She didn’t have time to indulge her curiosity. But as she continued down Newbury Street, she found herself glancing over her shoulder with a pang of regret. It was a peculiar sensation, like leaving a party just as things were getting interesting. Something told her the row house wasn’t finished with her yet.
It was nearly four by the time Rory finally returned home. She had narrowly avoided a parking ticket, which she decided to take as a good omen. These days, she had to take her wins where she found them. She took off her makeup, then stripped out of her brunch clothes, swapping them for sweats and a T-shirt. The bedroom TV was on, as it always was, but with the sound turned way down. Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. Bringing Up Baby. It was another quirk she’d developed, leaving the television on day and night. It gave the illusion of company and helped buffer the silence, which was too easily filled with dark thoughts.
I think you’re having trouble coping with what’s happened.
Her mother’s words echoed annoyingly. Of course she was having trouble coping. Her fiancé had vanished without a trace. And pouring out her troubles to a stranger who mumbled, “Yes, I see,” at regular intervals wasn’t going to change that.
In the kitchen, she worked around discarded takeout containers and a sink full of dirty dishes as she popped a bowl of canned minestrone into the microwave. Was this her life now? Living on canned soup and takeout while the dishes piled up? Stacks of romance novels and weekly skirmishes with her mother?
If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up like one of those women whose entire life revolved around the care and feeding of her eighteen cats. Hyperbole? Maybe. But it certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. She’d need to get some cats, though. And a few floral-print housedresses. Maybe a pair of fuzzy slippers.
She closed her eyes, shutting out the depressing images. She’d grown up privileged, the quintessential trust-fund baby. Cars, clothes, designer everything. Elite summer camps and the very best schools. She’d wanted for nothing—except a life of her own. Growing up, she had dreamed about escaping her mother’s gravitational pull to chart a course of her own. And she’d been on the verge of making it happen. Then Hux disappeared, and it all fell apart.
Where would she be today—this very minute—if she’d followed through on Hux’s advice to chase her dream? A gallery of her own, for up-and-coming artists. Unheard Of, she was going to call it. Hux had been the impetus behind the name. In fact, the whole idea had been his.
They’d gone to hear a new band at one of the local pubs and ended up staying till last call. The streets were quiet, and they’d opted to walk rather than hail a cab. Hux had curled an arm about her shoulder, his warmth welcome against the chilly autumn night. She’d slowed as they passed a small gallery, pausing to admire one of the pieces in the window.
“You like art,” Hux had observed, sounding unusually serious. “You study art. Your degree is in art. How is it you don’t make art?”
She grinned up at him mischievously. “Who says I don’t?”
“Wait. You paint?”
“Paint? No. I’ve experimented a little with textiles, but just as a hobby. Just as well. Art can be a messy business, and my mother could never abide a mess in the house. If she has her way, I’ll follow in her footsteps and become a historian or conservator. Respectable and tidy.”
“And if you had your way?”
She blinked at him, dismayed to realize he was waiting for an answer, and even more dismayed to realize she didn’t have one. No one had ever asked what she wanted. She’d been given options, from her mother mostly, like a menu for Chinese takeout. Choose one from column A and one from column B. Column A being marriage to a suitable man, children, and a tasteful home, and Column B having to do with her career. Strictly speaking, none of the Grants had to work, but in families with old names and even older money, not making oneself useful in some conspicuous way was considered vulgar. They weren’t from Palm Beach, after all.
“I really don’t know,” she’d answered at last. “I suppose I’d have a little studio somewhere. A real one overlooking the sea, and I’d make beautiful seascapes out of all kinds of fabrics.”
“That’s an actual thing?”
“It’s called textile art. Think of a combination of sculpture and painting, done with bits of fabric. I started playing around with it when I was a kid. I loved the beach, but my parents never had time to take me. So I made my own beaches—out of fabric scraps. I still play around with it sometimes, but with school, it’s hard to find the time.”