The Keeper of Happy Endings(79)

The clock on the mantel chimes softly, tugging me away from my memories. But I’m not ready to let them go. I tip back my wineglass and reach for the framed photo at my elbow, taken the day my name was stenciled below Maddy’s on the front window. He’s grinning for the camera, looking especially dapper in navy pinstripes, shoulders back, chest out, proud as punch of his little bird, as he called me.

It had been a happy day with cake and champagne, followed by dinner at Marliave, a swishy French restaurant Maddy claimed to detest, though he seemed to know the name of every waiter in the place. We drank too much wine and danced until dawn, in celebration of Madison’s resurrection from the ashes.

The turnaround had been swift, thanks in part to the addition of a line of women’s evening dresses. Maddy had been shameless, touting me as a couturier from Paris who has created wedding gowns for some of the most discerning women in Europe. I didn’t care that it wasn’t true, because in my heart it was. Finally, I was making the kinds of dresses I always dreamed of.

He referred to himself as my fairy godmother, a private joke between us, but it was true. I learned so much from him, about clothes and business and life. How to merchandise and accessorize, how to charm suppliers and manage cash flow, how to create an illusion of exclusivity that would have clients clamoring for my designs. I soaked up his lessons like a sponge.

And then came the day that changed everything. Mrs. Laureen Appleton came in for a fitting and happened to announce that her granddaughter Catalina had just gotten engaged. Maddy, never missing an opportunity to expand our business, casually suggested that an honest-to-goodness couture gown would make her granddaughter the envy of Boston. He also whispered, just loud enough to be overheard, that word around Paris was that a Roussel gown virtually guaranteed the bride a happy ending.

Once word spread that one of the season’s biggest weddings would feature a Roussel gown, orders began to trickle in. There was no magie in the beginning. We needed the work too badly to turn anyone away. I designed gowns for anyone who could pay and had just enough luck with my brides to perpetuate the rumors Maddy shamelessly continued to spread. Soon, I had a waiting list of brides willing to submit to a reading if it meant going down the aisle in one of my dresses. Like Maman and her rosary, they wished to hedge against malchance. Somehow, without meaning to, I had become la Sorcière de la Robe—the Dress Witch—and I was strangely glad. Perhaps because I’d come to understand just how rare happy endings truly are.

Eventually, Maddy set up a small salon for me on the second floor, along with my very own workroom. A year later, the salon took up the entire second floor, and I had to hire two girls to handle patterns and fittings. In a small way, at least, I was living both my dream and Maman’s.

Then, a few years later, Maddy developed a cough, the result of smoking nearly two packs of cigarettes a day. I had picked up the habit, too, by then. It relaxed me and gave me something to do with my hands when I wasn’t working. Maddy’s cough grew steadily worse, and soon his beautiful suits began to hang on him. I saw Maman when I looked at him, and I knew what was coming. Not that knowing made the truth easier.

I did what I could to keep him comfortable toward the end. I bought him a television, which he claimed to hate, though he watched it incessantly. I read him the paper each night after supper. I even smoked for him now and then, when he would beg me to share a smoke. I would lie beside him in the dark, blowing pillars of blue smoke into the air above his head, so he could enjoy it secondhand. His doctor would have had ten fits, but I didn’t care. I owed him everything, and he deserved some enjoyment in his last days.

He died on a Sunday, leaving me the shop and every cent he had in the world. He also left a note containing a few scribbled words. It’s your nest now, little bird. Time to spread your wings and fly, fly, fly. Two months later, only my name remained on the window, along with the words L’AIGUILLE ENCHANTéE in pretty gold script.

I still miss him terribly.

He was my champion—father, mentor, and a dear, dear friend. I knew his secrets, and he knew mine. I drove him crazy, and he made me laugh. I gave him back his will to fight, and in return he gave me a future.





THIRTY-TWO


RORY

September 7, 1985—Boston

Rory set her purse on the dresser and sagged onto the bed, aware of Hux’s eyes on her as she began to unlace her boots. She reached for the framed photo on the nightstand and laid it in her lap, seized by a pang of loneliness so sharp it nearly took her breath away. Was this all she was to have of him now? An image trapped behind a rectangle of glass?

He’d been missing nearly nine months, without a scrap of news. What was the appropriate length of time for giving up on happy endings? A year? Two? And what then? What shape did her life take when Hux was no longer a part of her hopes and dreams?

She would have the gallery and an ever-changing stable of artists to promote. But could she make a life out of that? Or would she end up like Soline, walled off from the world with her grief? Hux wouldn’t want that. He’d want her to move on—in all aspects of her life. But was that what she wanted? She couldn’t imagine anyone ever filling the empty place Hux’s disappearance had carved in her. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Her heart belonged to Hux and would for a very long time. For now—for a very long now—the gallery would have to fill her days. Like Soline with her shop.