The Keeper of Happy Endings(86)

She paused, closing her eyes briefly. “Artists were arrested and questioned. Some—Jews, mostly—were even killed. One night, they built a bonfire in the gardens of the Galerie Nationale, burning entire collections to ash. Picasso. Dalí. Miró. All lost. Works by your Renoir and Monet survived because they were snapped up—stolen—by Nazi officers, while the rest burned. Because they were the ones to decide.”

Camilla’s cheeks had gone a mottled shade of pink, as if they’d just been slapped. “Are you comparing me to the Nazis, Ms. Roussel?”

“I’m merely pointing out that letting one group decide what is and isn’t worthy can have terrible consequences. Art, like all things, should be left to the beholder, n’est-ce pas?”

Camilla squared her shoulders, like a bird fluffing its plumage to appear more threatening. “It’s a lovely sentiment, Miss Roussel, but I think it wise to stay in one’s own lane, particularly here in Boston, where the lanes tend to be narrow. We may look like a great big city, but underneath it all we’re frightfully conventional, and tend to distrust anything flashy or foreign.”

Rory stared at Camilla in horror. She’d seen her mother take people down before, coolly and surgically and without batting an eye, but on those occasions it had been deserved. This was something else entirely. The dismissive tone and thinly veiled antagonism, the stilted body language that only served to amplify her disdain. And the look on Soline’s face, ashen and dazed, as if she’d just been ambushed. She needed to step in, say something to deflect her mother’s hostility, but what? Defending Soline would only make things worse.

She was almost relieved when Soline grabbed her handbag and pushed back from the table. “I just remembered, I left my lipstick in the ladies’ room. Please excuse me.”

Rory waited until she was sure Soline was out of earshot before rounding on Camilla. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Camilla stared at her with wide eyes. “Doing?”

“Don’t give me that look. You know perfectly well what I mean. You were angry with me, and you took it out on Soline. Didn’t you see her face? You hurt her feelings.”

Camilla blinked at her stonily. “I hurt her feelings.”

“Yes. And you . . .” Rory went still, her words falling away as she caught sight of Soline, heading not for the ladies’ room but for the patio exit. “Damn it.” She shot to her feet, nearly toppling her chair. “Soline! Wait!”

Soline gave no indication that she’d heard. Rory scrambled after her, winding through the maze of tables and out onto the sidewalk. She’d gone half a block when she finally spotted her at the curb, ducking into a bright-yellow taxi.

Fuming, Rory returned to the restaurant to find Camilla calmly sipping her wine. “I suppose you’re pleased with yourself.”

Camilla managed to look stunned. “What did I do? We were having a conversation, and the next thing I know she’s off in a huff, without so much as a good afternoon. It’s downright rude, if you ask me.”

“I’ll tell you what’s rude. Horning in on a lunch you weren’t invited to. Referring to Soline—my friend—as the landlady. The nonsense about staying in her lane and then slipping in the word foreign, as if she wasn’t supposed to know exactly what you meant? Why?”

“For heaven’s sake, Aurora, lower your voice. Why must you always be so dramatic?”

“I’ll be as dramatic as I like. It’s my table. And you’ve got a lot of nerve calling me dramatic after the show you just put on. You hate my hair. I get it. But it was my decision, not Soline’s.”

Camilla drained her glass, then set it down very carefully. “You think that’s why I’m upset? Because you cut your hair?”

Rory blew out a breath, both annoyed and stung by her mother’s petulance. She knew it wasn’t her hair, but she was too angry to concede the point.

Camilla removed her napkin from her lap, folding it with great care before laying it aside. “I asked you to let me do this for you, Aurora, to go shopping and get your hair done, but you said you were too busy. You’re always too busy.”

“Because I am. The gallery—”

“You weren’t too busy for her. I suppose you already had this little outing planned when I called.”

“I didn’t.”

“I see. You liked the idea; you just didn’t want to go with me.”

“That isn’t it.”

“Then what is it? Explain it to me.”

“I just didn’t want a big ordeal, and it would have been, because it always is. You hating everything I pick out and me eventually giving in because I’m tired of arguing. I wanted to do it myself, to just pick something out and be done with it, but I’m clueless when it comes to clothes, so I asked Soline for some tips. She took one look at my closet and decided she’d better go with me.”

“Did she?” Camilla reached for her handbag, fishing about blindly until she located a lipstick. After a quick touch-up, she snapped the tube closed and dropped it back into her bag. “How very kind of her.”

“It was kind,” Rory shot back. “Because that’s who she is. A kind woman who wanted to help me. Why does she make you so crazy?”

“She doesn’t make me crazy. I just don’t understand your fascination with her. An old woman, and a recluse to boot. And those silly gloves, as if she’s just come from a wedding or a parade. And now you’re taking fashion advice from her, because once upon a time she used to make wedding dresses. It’s odd, that’s all.”