Out of nowhere, the row house on Newbury Street sprang to mind. It had been such a peculiar moment—as if she’d felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find an old friend standing there. It was nothing like the cold, angular places she’d looked at last year, but suddenly she knew it would be perfect for the gallery, brimming with history and old Boston charm and, once filled with the kind of pieces she envisioned, the perfect marriage of old and new.
Unheard Of.
The name, like a whisper, seemed to stir to life, like a thing coming awake after a heavy sleep. Was she actually considering this? Moving forward with plans she’d laid to rest months ago? And what about Hux? Was it selfish to contemplate such a thing while his life—their lives together—still hung in the balance? But she could feel it, the plans she believed long dead, slowly coming to life.
This dream has your name all over it.
Before she could check the impulse, she opened the desk drawer, shuffling through the contents until she found a business card for Brett Gleason, the real estate agent she’d hired last year to scout properties. She stared at it, wrestling with the urge to pick up the phone. What harm could there be in checking it out? It wasn’t like it would amount to anything; there wasn’t even a sign up. It was simply a matter of satisfying her curiosity, she told herself as she picked up the phone and punched in the number.
Two days later, Brett called back with information. Rory was carrying a plate of scrambled eggs to the living room when the phone rang. She froze, as she did any time the phone rang now. Was this it? Was there news? She set down the plate, ran her eyes around the room, looking for the cordless. Her heart was pounding by the time she found it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Brett.”
The breath went out of her at the sound of his voice. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this soon. Were you able to find out anything?”
“I did, as a matter of fact. According to city records, the property is owned by one Soline Roussel. Apparently, she operated a bridal shop there until it burned a few years back. They gutted it after the fire, right down to the lath, started renovations but never finished. It’s been empty ever since. No recent MLS listings, though, which means she probably isn’t looking to unload it. It’s odd that she’d let it sit empty rather than leasing it. With a little work, the place could be a real cash cow.”
Rory sagged onto the couch, grappling with possible responses. Just how far did she want to take this?
“Rory? You still there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Are you really thinking about doing this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well then, this is great news. I always thought it was a great idea. But after all the places we looked at last summer, why this one?”
“I don’t know. I saw it and I just knew. It was like it was sitting there, waiting for me.”
“One of those women’s intuition things?”
“Yeah, I guess. Would you be willing to contact her about a possible lease?”
There was a brief stretch of silence, the sound of a phone ringing in the background. “I can certainly do that,” Brett replied finally. “But I’ve got to be straight with you. We scouted at least twenty properties, and you passed on every one of them. If I’m going to go sleuthing around and lean on this woman, I need to know you’re actually ready to move.”
It was a fair statement and absolutely true. She had turned down every property he’d shown her. Not because she couldn’t have made them work or because she was squeamish about committing but because none of them had felt right. But this one—a building she’d never noticed until yesterday and had never set foot in—did.
“Rory?”
“I’m ready to move.”
FOUR
SOLINE
We may forsake The Work, but The Work will never forsake us. It will fight to keep us, throwing itself into our path, again and again, until at long last, we pay attention. This is what it means to be chosen.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
29 May 1985—Boston
I’m startled when my phone rings at precisely 8:00 a.m. I don’t get calls anymore, or at least not many, and when I do, they seldom come before I’ve finished my coffee. I let the phone ring as I fill the carafe and push down the plunger of the press, hoping whoever it is will hang up. There’s no one I want to talk to.
The phone keeps ringing. I lift up the receiver and immediately hang it up. Seconds later, it rings again. I hang up again, without a word, hoping whoever it is will get the message and leave me alone. When it begins to ring a third time, I snatch the receiver from its cradle.