The Keeper of Happy Endings(85)

“Aurora tells me you’ve been helping her shop,” Camilla said between bites of bread. “It’s awfully kind of you, though I must say, I was surprised to hear it. My daughter has never been one for fashion. Not that I didn’t try. But she was such a tomboy growing up. Always up a tree or kicking a ball around. I couldn’t keep the child clean.”

“The child is all grown up now,” Rory muttered. “And sitting right next to you, in case you forgot.”

Camilla didn’t miss a beat, addressing Soline as if Rory hadn’t spoken. “The hair is . . . interesting. Was it your idea?”

“Rory thought that with the opening coming, it might be time for a new look.”

“Well then, she succeeded beautifully. I raised her, and I nearly walked right past her. Can you imagine?” She turned to look at Rory then, holding her gaze for an uncomfortable beat. “It’s rather disconcerting to not recognize your own daughter.”

Rory stared back, startled by the brief flash of pain in her mother’s eyes. Not anger. Not jealousy. Pain. And she’d put it there. She’d been so caught up in the magic of the afternoon that she hadn’t given a thought to how her mother would feel about being cast aside for Soline—again. Soline had warned her that this might happen. And now here they were, face-to-face, looking petulant and uncomfortable.

“The haircut was my idea, Mother. I asked—”

Camilla turned back to Soline, cutting Rory off midsentence. “I couldn’t help noticing, you call my daughter Rory.”

“It’s what she calls herself.”

“Her father and I always preferred Aurora.”

“Yes, she told me. Is it a family name?”

“No. Just one we liked. We never cared for the shortened version. It’s so boyish, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know . . .” Soline cocked her head, studying Rory with a little smile. “It’s young and fresh. I think it suits her. ”

It was all Rory could do not to bark out a laugh. Soline was apparently quite capable of holding her own. “Actually,” she said, sliding a slice of flatbread onto her plate, “it was my father who started calling me Rory. He wanted a boy but got me instead.” She paused for a dramatic sigh. “My poor parents. I couldn’t seem to please either one of them.”

Camilla tossed her head with a little laugh. “Really, Aurora. What a thing to say.”

Rory swallowed her response as the waitress appeared with Camilla’s order and place setting, and for a few minutes the table went quiet. Camilla picked up her fork, poking suspiciously at the scoop of lobster meat on her plate. Rory eyed her warily while she nibbled her flatbread, grateful for the cessation of hostilities, if only temporarily.

Soline was extricating bits of red onion from her salad and relegating them to the edge of her plate. When the silence began to grow stale, she turned to Camilla. “Rory tells me you’re president of the Women’s Art Council, Mrs. Grant. It must make you proud to see her dreams for the gallery taking shape.”

“Well, yes,” Camilla said, clearly annoyed by the question. “Of course I’m proud. Aurora was brought up with art. So was I. It’s in her blood. I had hoped that she would finish her degree and then go on to Paris to complete her internship, but she’s young and there’ll be time later.”

“She means there’ll be time after I fail,” Rory threw in caustically. Because that’s what Camilla always meant. Sooner or later, she’d muck things up and realize she was in over her head, forcing her back to a more prudent path. Prudent was her mother’s favorite word. Mustn’t stray outside the lines. Mustn’t be messy. And above all, mustn’t be an embarrassment.

Camilla sighed, offering one of her long-suffering looks. “I did not say that. But we have talked about this, Aurora. There’s no future in the kinds of things you’re talking about. Tomato soup cans and inflatable balloon rabbits. They’re fads—here today and gone tomorrow.” She paused, dabbing daintily at her mouth. “Art is about the preservation of culture, the expression of beauty, not shocking the public. That’s why the masters are still the masters. And why fifty years from now, no one will remember Andy Warhol’s name. Because real art endures. Wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Roussel?”

Rory smothered a groan. “Please don’t drag Soline into our argument, Mother.”

“No one’s arguing, sweetheart. We’re just having a conversation. And the French do know a thing or two about art. They gave us Monet, Degas, Renoir, and Cézanne, to name a few.”

“And there you have it,” Rory said, aiming her reply at Soline. “If it isn’t a Renoir or a Monet or some other thing painted by a dusty old man, it isn’t real art.”

“Go ahead,” Camilla replied curtly. “Make fun. But I happen to know a little something about the subject, Aurora. The art world has a way of culling those who stray too far from good taste.”

“And who decides what constitutes good taste? You?”

“The experts decide. Historians. Collectors. Critics. Their opinions can make or break an artist—or a gallery owner.”

Soline had been silent for some time, pushing her food around her plate. She put down her fork very carefully and looked at Camilla. “During the war, the Nazis labeled art they didn’t like as degenerate. They decided. They claimed it had to do with unsuitable subject matter, but we all knew better. The boche cared nothing about decency. It was to do with the artists themselves: who they loved, what they believed . . . what their last names were.”