The Keeper of Happy Endings(81)

Perhaps her mother had a point. She had let herself go. She’d never been a girlie girl, with drawers full of makeup and a twice-a-day skin-care regimen, but she’d never completely stopped caring about her appearance. Maybe it was time for a change. Nothing elaborate, just enough to signal the start of her new role as gallery owner.

She turned off the shower, padded back to the bedroom, and opened her closet. Her wardrobe was another area she tended to neglect, partly because the thought of shopping for clothes made her break out in hives. Nothing ever seemed to fit her properly, as if every piece of clothing in the world had been made for someone else. She wasn’t petite like her mother. She was tall and long-limbed with broad shoulders and narrow hips. A swimmer’s body.

She peered toward the back, where her good clothes hung. Gifts from her mother, mostly, intended to feminize her boyish daughter. Eggshell, beige, taupe, and ivory, with the occasional pastel thrown in, many still bearing their original tags. And if she agreed to go shopping with her mother next week, she’d have one more beige elephant to add to her collection.

On impulse, she located Soline’s number and dialed.

“Hello?”

“Is this the fairy godmother hotline?”

“Rory? Is something wrong?”

“No, but I need a favor. I need help with an outfit for the opening. My mother wants to take me shopping. She’s planning this whole makeover thing.”

“And this is a problem?”

“I hate shopping. As in, I’d rather have a root canal. Throw in my mother criticizing everything I pick out, and there isn’t enough Novocain in the state of Massachusetts. The thing is, she’s a little bit right. I do need to change my look if I’m going to be at the gallery every day. I was hoping you could give me some pointers.”

“You want me to go shopping with you?”

“No. No, I didn’t mean that. Just . . . tell me what to wear. And how to wear it. And where to buy it. Better yet, help me figure out what I already own that will work, so I don’t have to shop at all.”

“When do you want to do this?”

“The sooner the better. If I can tell my mother I’m set with an outfit and promise to get my bangs trimmed, maybe she’ll let me off the hook. I’m not talking full-scale makeover. I just need help putting a few things together, and you always look so chic. I’ll even cook if that will sweeten the deal.”

“Maybe you should let your mother take you shopping, Rory. It might ease some of the tension between you. Maybe she wants that too.”

“Trust me—what she wants is to make sure I don’t embarrass her in front of her friends.”

“Are you certain you’re being fair? I’m sure she just wants it to be a special night for you.”

“I’m not trying to be unfair. I just don’t want a big fuss. Say you’ll help me.”

“All right, I can come tomorrow. But you don’t need to cook.”

“Oh, you’re wonderful! I’m meeting an artist in Freeport in the morning, but I should be home by three. We’ll order a pizza.”

“All right, pizza. But none of that pineapple nonsense.”



Soline arrived a little after four, looking effortlessly chic in slim-fitting black slacks and a soft gray tunic. As usual, she was flawless, perfectly accessorized with pointy ballet flats and black gauntlet gloves.

Rory eyed the ensemble with a pang of envy. Only Soline Roussel could pull off kid gloves in September. “Thank you for helping me with this. I hated to ask, but I’m clueless when it comes to fashion. And let’s face it, I’m not exactly runway material.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Soline replied briskly. “Show me your closet. So I know what I’m working with. Then we’ll talk a little.”

Rory led her to the bedroom closet and pushed back the bifold doors. “There it is. Everyday stuff here, dressier stuff at the back. My mother bought most of it.”

Soline flicked through the hangers with military efficiency, pausing now and then to study a collar or a sleeve, clucking and tsking as she went. Finally, she pivoted to look at Rory. “A nightmare,” she pronounced flatly.

“Aren’t they hideous?”

“On the contrary. They’re quite lovely. Your mother has exquisite taste.”

“I thought you said they were a nightmare.”

“Oui. For you, they are a nightmare. I see why you haven’t worn most of them. These clothes are meant for une femme menue—a petite woman. You are not petite.”

“Yes,” Rory said, ducking her head. “I’m aware.”

“It’s not meant as a criticism, chérie. Only the truth. And when it comes to clothes, we must always tell ourselves the truth.”

“I’m one of those people who’s just not meant to wear nice clothes.”

“Everyone is meant to wear nice clothes. Most just get it wrong. They chase fashion rather than style.”

“What’s the difference?”

Soline looked crestfallen. “Oh, Rory.”

“What?”

“Look,” Soline said as she began pulling pieces from the closet and tossing them on the bed. “This skirt. Beautiful, but too short for you. And that flounce at the bottom—you’ll look like you’re wearing a lampshade. This jacket with the nipped waist. Cute, as the teenagers say, but not on you. This blouse with the puffy sleeves and little pearl buttons. No. No. No. These are someone else’s clothes—someone else’s style. You must find your own.”