The Keeper of Happy Endings(91)
“I don’t want you to do anything that would get you in trouble at work, but I’d love to be able to do this for her. Do you think you can help me?”
“What’s the name?”
“Purcell,” Rory blurted before he could change his mind. “Anson Purcell. Middle initial W. He was a driver with the AFS, if that helps.”
“It might. Anything else that could help me narrow it down? Date of birth? Relatives?”
“No to the date of birth, but his father’s name was Owen, and he had a sister named Cynthia.”
“Owen and Cynthia Purcell of Newport, Rhode Island. Okay. I’ll see what I can do. There might be an old yearbook photo somewhere or a graduation photo. Give me a few days to do some digging. I’ll be in touch when I know something.”
Rory left her number, thanking him profusely before hanging up. She would do what Daniel said. She would give Soline space while she concentrated on the opening, and then in a few weeks, she’d write a letter and send it with the photo of Anson. As a token of friendship—or a parting gift if she preferred.
THIRTY-SIX
RORY
September 23, 1985—Boston
Rory walked through the door of her apartment, exhausted but happy. She’d taken the early ferry to P-town to meet with Helen Blum, a modernist bronze artist recommended by Kendra Paterson. It was one of the things she loved most about budding artists, their unfailing generosity toward other members of their community. Without it, she’d still be trying to scrape together enough artists to open her doors next month.
She kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for the phone. It had been three days since her conversation with Doug, and she was beginning to worry that no news might be bad news—as in no photo. The message light was flashing. She pushed “Play.” The first message was from her mother, another invitation to dinner, and still no mention of the lunch. Apparently, she was still trying to pretend it never happened.
The second message was from Doug. Call me. I think I’ve got what you’re looking for.
She dialed his number at the paper, then punched in his extension, hoping he hadn’t already left for the day. She hated the idea of bothering him at home, but she wasn’t sure she could wait until tomorrow.
“Doug Glennon.”
“Hey, it’s Rory. I got your message.”
“It took a little doing, but I finally hit the jackpot. I’ve got two headshots. One’s a college yearbook photo; the other is him in uniform, taken by the local paper right before he shipped out. Clean-cut, all-American type. You want the current stuff too?”
“Current stuff?” Rory repeated with a sinking feeling. He’d found the wrong guy. “The Anson Purcell I’m talking about died in World War II, probably somewhere near Paris. He was an ambulance driver for the AFS.”
“Yeah. That’s the guy. But he didn’t die in France. Or anyplace else, for that matter. He’s alive and well, and quite the philanthropist, apparently.”
“No. That’s impossible.”
“Impossible or not, I’m looking at an article that says he made a sizable donation to the ADL in March. Sounds like he’s loaded, and a hero to boot. Captured, it says. Badly wounded. The dates fit; I can fax it over if you want, but I’m telling you, it’s the guy.”
Rory sagged onto the bed, her head suddenly full of white noise. There’d been some kind of mix-up. Perhaps Thia had a son and had named him after her brother. But the dates . . . “I don’t have a fax machine,” she replied finally. “How long will you be there?”
“I should already be gone. We’re having dinner with Kelly’s folks, and I can’t be late again. I could put it all in an envelope, though, and leave it at the front desk on my way out. Would that work?”
“I’ll be by within the hour to pick it up.”
Rory sat staring at the phone after she hung up. It couldn’t be true. But what if it was? How would Soline take the news? Not well, if her current seclusion was any indication. The only thing more agonizing than a lost love was one that had been purposely thrown away.
Forty-five minutes later, she was sitting in the parking lot of the Globe building in Dorchester, staring at a manila envelope with her name penned in heavy black marker across the front. It had taken every ounce of willpower she possessed not to open it right there in the lobby, but she’d managed to make it back in the car.
She clicked on the dome light, then fumbled with the string clasp and slid the contents out into her lap. There were several Xeroxed newspaper articles. The first was the piece Doug had mentioned, praising the Purcell Foundation for its history of philanthropic endeavors, including a recent seven-figure donation to the Anti-Defamation League. The next article had to do with being given a Lifetime Service Award by the New England Leadership Council, and offered a bit more background:
Since ending his tenure as the director of financial resources for the International Federation of the Red Cross (IFRC), Mr. Purcell continues to serve the organization as a policy consultant and negotiation specialist, is associated with numerous humanitarian organizations, and sits on the boards of several NGOs and charitable trusts. He is also currently a member of the board of directors for Purcell Industries Ltd., where he serves along with his sister in an advisory capacity. In 1941, prior to the United States joining the war, Mr. Purcell left Yale for France, where he volunteered with the American Field Service (AFS), driving an ambulance and working at the American Hospital in Paris, until he was gravely wounded during the successful extraction of a downed RAF pilot. He was captured and held in a German prison camp for nearly five months, where he struggled to recover from his injuries. When the war ended, Purcell spent two years with specialists in Switzerland, learning to walk again. As an only son and heir to a sizable fortune, he could hardly have been blamed had he opted to step into his father’s shoes as CEO of the family business, along with all the perks the position entailed. Instead, he chose a life of service and philanthropy, earning the gratitude of the Leadership Council of New England and of this publication.