“Thank you for that,” Rory murmured, grateful for the words of comfort. “It’s hard to hold on when there hasn’t been a shred of news, not knowing how long is too long to hold out hope. I can’t imagine living this way for forty years. I guess I hoped . . .”
“That after forty years apart, Soline and I would ride off into the sunset while the credits rolled?” He settled back in his chair, as if needing to put distance between them. “That we’d all become one big family, with birthday parties and Sunday dinners? I’m afraid it’s a little late for that.”
Rory felt her cheeks go hot. In some tiny corner of her heart, it was exactly what she’d hoped. And for a moment, she’d glimpsed a side of him that might have made it possible. The man who had offered his handkerchief to a woman in distress. But that Anson had vanished the moment they returned to the subject of Soline.
“You don’t believe in happy endings?” she asked quietly.
“Not for a very long time.”
“Is that why you never married?”
He stiffened. “I fail to see how that’s relevant—or, for that matter, any of your business. But if it helps, let’s just say I’m privy to certain facts that you’re not.”
Rory folded the handkerchief and handed it back. “I don’t know what that means, but if you’d just come to Boston—”
“There is no chance of a happy ending here, Miss Grant. Sometimes things are just too far gone to be saved.” He stood then with a cool nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an early day tomorrow.” He tossed a handful of bills on the table. “I’m sorry about Matthew. I hope it turns out well for you both.”
Rory’s heart sank as she watched him go. She hadn’t let herself believe the years could have hardened him enough to turn his back on the woman he’d loved so deeply all those years ago, or slam the door on a possible relationship with his daughter, but they clearly had.
She dropped the photos into her tote, then picked up the ledger and pushed to her feet. He hadn’t even bothered to look at it. If he had, he might . . .
Yes . . . he might.
Heads turned as Rory slung her tote up onto her shoulder, narrowly missing her wineglass, and scurried out of the bar. She paused when she reached the hotel lobby, glancing frantically in both directions. She saw him finally, disappearing around the corner toward the elevators. She quickened her pace, nearly running now, desperate to reach him before he stepped into the elevator and was whisked away.
“Anson!” Her voice ricocheted appallingly in the empty corridor. “Wait! Please!”
He had just stepped into the elevator when he saw her. He stiffened briefly, then began to jab at the control panel in an attempt to close the door. Rory threw out an arm as the door began to close. It bucked, as if confused, then slid open.
Anson stared at her, too astonished to react as she shoved the ledger against his chest and stepped back out of the elevator. He would probably throw it in the trash as soon as he reached his room, but she had done all she could do. The rest was up to him.
FORTY
RORY
September 26, 1985—Boston
Rory flipped the wipers to high, wishing she had stayed home and climbed into the bathtub as planned. But when she’d returned home from the airport, there was a message from her mother on the machine. It was another invitation to brunch on Sunday—which she had no intention of accepting—but she’d also mentioned having theater tickets for this evening, which meant if she hurried, she could slip in and return the borrowed photo before her mother realized she’d taken it.
She was exhausted after a night of no sleep. She’d been naive enough to hope Anson would go back to his room, take one look at the ledger, and suddenly change his mind. He hadn’t. She tried his room while waiting for her breakfast to arrive, to make one final plea, only to be told by the front desk that Mr. Purcell had already checked out. She’d called Thia with the news before leaving for the airport and had agreed to give her a few more weeks to work on her brother. In the meantime, she’d say nothing to her mother and do what she could to repair the rift between herself and Soline.
The house was dark as she swung into the drive, with only the foyer light showing through the sidelight curtains. There was no sign of her mother’s car either. She located her old house key, grabbed her tote from the passenger seat, and headed up the walk.
She felt like a burglar as she let herself in, groping about with just the light from the foyer, but she would only be a minute. Then she could sink to her neck in a tub full of bubbles with a snack and Heather Graham’s latest release. Or maybe she’d just skip the bath and go straight to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a full day.