“I never said—”
“Yes, you did. Maybe not in so many words, but it’s what you’ve always meant. You have a spine of steel, Mother, and you’re terribly proud of it. But a mother is supposed to have a heart, and I sometimes wonder if you do.”
Rory gathered her shopping bags and her purse, then reached into her wallet and counted out several bills. There was nothing left to say, nothing that would ever make her understand. “That should cover the check.”
“Aurora, sit down. We’re not finished.”
“Yes, we are. In fact, I’ll save you a call. I won’t be there for brunch tomorrow. After twenty-three years, I think it’s time we admit we just don’t like each other very much.”
THIRTY-FOUR
SOLINE
There are times for holding on in this life and times for letting go. You must learn to know the difference.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
My hands are still shaking as I pour a large glass of wine. I should have come straight home after Bella Mia rather than going to lunch. Not that what happened at Seasons was Rory’s fault. Her mother turning up was an unwelcome surprise for us both.
The instant our eyes caught, the ripple of . . . what was it? Wariness? Distaste? Yes, both of those, but something else too. To her, I’m a rival, her daughter a prize to be won or lost. I’ve been encroaching on her territory, and she wants me to know that she isn’t going to stand for it.
And there was my own reaction, the immediate wave of recognition I felt as I took in the carefully coiffed gold hair, the high cheeks and wide mouth. The resemblance to her daughter was inescapable, a reminder that I am an outsider—that Rory is not mine.
And yet I’ve grown so close to her in such a short time. Me, who prefers to keep the entire world at a distance. But she’s become a part of my life now. A surrogate, I suppose, for the daughter I lost. From that very first day, when she walked into Bisous Sucrés, hugging my battered dress box to her chest, I’ve felt the connection, as if fate were somehow winking at the two of us.
She seemed to me a kind of angel that day, the gift I never knew I wanted—or needed. And perhaps I’ve been that for her too. She calls me her fairy godmother, and I’m glad to have had a hand in making her dream come true. My contribution was leasing her the row house, and I’ve already made arrangements with Daniel to gift it to her, as Maddy once gifted it to me.
She has asked me to be at the opening, and I would like very much to be there, but I see now that it would be a mistake to go. I would happily play second to Camilla were I welcome. Clearly, I am not, and I will not embarrass myself by pushing in where I don’t belong. I’ve had my little run, as they say. Any tragédienne worth her salt knows when it’s time to exit the stage. As does any decent fairy godmother. She’ll have this last gift from me, the row house for her gallery, and that will be the end. I will have done my bit of good and will back away quietly.
I tell myself I’m fine with it all, but it’s a lie. What was I thinking? To let a stranger into my life, after so many years of self-protection, to feel again after the blissful numbness. Like my hands after the fire, when the nerves began to regenerate. The pain was so excruciating that all I wanted was to be numb again.
Today felt like that.
I saw it the instant Camilla’s eyes locked with mine. She’d taken her measure of me and found me wanting. The flared nostrils and tilted chin, the thin smile that made me go cold all over. It was the way Anson’s father used to look at me, like an interloper who had overstepped her bounds. I didn’t belong in his son’s life, and I don’t belong in Rory’s either.
I look at my fingers as they close around the stem of my wineglass, curling and shiny pink, and recall Camilla’s casual mention of the fire—as if I need help remembering. For as long as I’m alive, I will always remember.
22 July 1981—Boston
I haven’t had a moment’s peace since word leaked that L’Aiguille Enchantée has been chosen to create a gown for one of the Kennedy cousins. The phone rings all day—brides who read the society pages and are suddenly desperate for a Roussel gown. And then there are the curiosity seekers who wander in off the street or stand gawking on the sidewalk, as if expecting to see the bride-to-be having her hem pinned in my front window.
I understand why everyone is très agité. The Kennedys are the nearest thing to royalty Americans are ever likely to have, which means even a distant cousin is treated like a fairy-tale princess. And if I have my way, her gown will be worthy of a fairy tale. It’s a stunning thing, perhaps my best work ever. Ivory shantung embellished at the hem with silver embroidery and pale-pink crystals. But there is still the bow to attach and the beading on the sash to finish, and time is growing short. I’ve been working day and night to complete the dress on time, but I cannot work without sleep. Not even for Boston royalty.