The Keeper of Happy Endings(78)

He rakes a hand through his hair, exasperated by my response. “Do you know the word? What it means? What I am?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know what people do to men like me when they find out? They ruin us. With lies and accusations. Until we’ve lost everything. And I have, my dear. I’ve lost everything. My clients. My reputation. Everything I’ve worked for, gone. That’s why my assistants left. No one will even work for me.”

“I will.”

“Didn’t you hear me? There is no work. Maybe it’s different where you come from, but here, men like me are pariahs.”

I tip up my chin, eyeing him squarely. “Where I come from, monsieur, men like you are rounded up and put in camps, where they are beaten and starved and murdered. No one has arrested you. No one has killed you. If you’re alive, you can start again.”

“How?” He shakes his head slowly, his pale eyes vacant. “There’s nothing left.”

I make a show of glancing about the elegantly appointed room, mentally comparing it with my last glimpse of Maman’s shop the morning I left Paris, and suddenly I’m furious.

“You have no idea what nothing is,” I reply coldly. “But I do. In two weeks, my money will run out, and I’ll be on the street. Do you have a job for me, yes or no?”

He glares at me, his face flushed with annoyance. “There is no job—for you or anyone—because there is no business. Do you want to know why?”

I don’t, but I see that he’s going to tell me.

“The day after our chance meeting, Mr. Tate came to the shop claiming to need a pair of trousers altered. I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I’d been wondering how long it would take him to call on some pretext or other, to explain away his presence at the Statler. I had no idea it was that kind of place when I went in. I feel so silly; I was there to meet a friend. How could I know? I brought him to the back, to one of the fitting rooms, and asked him what it was he wanted done. He answered by pushing me against the wall and shoving his tongue down my throat.”

My mouth drops open. There isn’t a woman alive who hasn’t been on the receiving end of an unwanted advance, but I’ve never thought of a man being accosted in that way.

He barks out a laugh. “So you can be shocked after all.”

“I’m not shocked. I just expected the story to end differently.”

He waggles his brows wolfishly. “So did he, my dear. He had an arrangement in mind. Very discreet, of course, and lucrative if I played my cards right. When I declined, he went home and told his wife I’d made an advance. Me! As if I could ever be interested in such a parasite. Word spread like a brushfire. That woman he married, blabbing to anyone who’d listen. Myles Madison is a lecherous old queen who can’t keep his hands off his customers.”

He pauses, running his fingers over his mustache. “Mark me, one day the joke will be on that mouthy old cow. Men like her husband invariably embarrass themselves in some public way. And then we’ll see who the pariah is. This puritanical town will turn on him like a pack of dogs.”

He’s swaying slightly, and his words have become slurred. I run a chilly eye over him. “Cold comfort, I should think, if you’re broke when it happens.”

“I’ll never be broke. Money may be the only thing I have, but I have plenty of it.”

“How very lucky for you,” I reply coolly and start for the door. “Good day, monsieur.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to look for a job. Because, unlike you, I do not have plenty of money.”

“Is it your habit to knock on a man’s door at the crack of dawn, start an argument, then simply depart?”

“It is not the crack of dawn, which you would know if you were not already half-drunk. And I did not come to start an argument. I came because I need to work, but not here.” I glare at him openly. “Claire said not to take no for an answer, but I think I will. Self-pity is a luxury I cannot afford, and I’m afraid yours might rub off on me. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“You’re a child,” he growls. “What do you know?”

“I am young, but I’m not a child. I’ve seen things no one should see. Countries overrun with evil. Entire families imprisoned and murdered. Men shot to pieces and women who have lost everything they hold dear. There are many tragedies in the world, monsieur. I do not count gossip among them. You boast that you will never be broke, but you are clearly broken—because you choose to be.”

And with that, I tuck my handbag into the crook of my arm and head for the door, eager to be gone. My hand is on the knob when he finally speaks.

“Fine,” he sighs with a pained air. “But if I hire you, you must promise to stop calling me monsieur. I loathe the French.”

My heart gives a little gallop. “What shall I call you, then, instead of monsieur?”

“My friends call me Maddy.”

I make eggs and strong coffee, and we eat together in his small, sunny kitchen. While he smokes, I tell him my story, leaving nothing out. Because I know somehow that I can trust him with my secrets and that nothing I say will ever shock him. I tell him about Maman and Anson and the Resistance. He tells me about Richard, the love of his life. How they fell in love the night they met. How Richard died in his arms after a ravaging bout with cancer. And how Richard’s family barred him from attending the funeral. I tell him about Dorothy Sheridan and Assia, how they took her away to bury without telling me. We cry, holding hands over our empty plates, and we become family, kindred spirits bound by loss and loneliness.