“Not for a while yet. Thia is still hoping to bring Anson around, so I promised to wait. It won’t do any good, but I’ll need time anyway, to smooth things over with Soline.”
“How will she take it, do you think?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. Losing him again—this way—might shatter her. Throw in the fact that the daughter she’s grieved for forty years is also alive but wants nothing to do with her, and I’d say you’ve got the makings of a perfect nervous breakdown.”
“Aurora . . .”
“I’m tired, Mother. I’m going home.”
Camilla looked stricken. “You can’t just leave. We have to talk.”
“I’m done talking tonight. I’m exhausted, and I need some sleep.”
“Will you come to brunch on Sunday? Please don’t say you’re busy.”
Rory had been about to say just that. Instead, she searched Camilla’s face. She looked tired, too, or maybe shaken was a better word. It was a lot to process. An entire family had suddenly been dropped in her lap, along with some pretty messy baggage. And tonight, she’d been given a glimpse into just how much baggage her mother was already carrying. Perhaps like Anson, she was simply unwilling—or unable—to carry more.
“I don’t know,” Rory replied finally. “I think right now we both need time to digest all of this.”
“Please don’t leave angry, Aurora.”
“I’m not angry, Mother. I’m disappointed. Soline isn’t just my friend now. She’s my grandmother. I shouldn’t have to choose between you, but after lunch the other day, I realize you expect me to. Part of me wanted to believe this news might change that—that we’d have a chance at a do-over. Not just for my sake but for yours and Soline’s. You have no idea how much losing you cost her, but I do. All I could think about was she’d finally have her daughter in her life, and you would finally have the kind of mother you deserved—the kind who never stopped loving and wanting you. And I would have you both, like a real family. But I guess Anson was right. There isn’t going to be a happy ending here.”
She turned then and headed for the foyer before glancing back over her shoulder. “If you’re still curious about what your father looks like, I have a fairly recent photograph.”
Camilla folded her arms close to her body, as if suddenly vulnerable. “Maybe you could bring it with you on Sunday.”
“Maybe.”
FORTY-ONE
SOLINE
La Mère has a plan for each of her chosen, a unique path carved out especially for us. We must therefore be wary of the echoes of past generations and guard against making their echoes our own. Ours is not to repeat the past but to learn from it.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
27 September 1985—Boston
The phone begins to jangle at eight o’clock sharp. I sip my coffee and let it ring, cursing myself for forgetting to leave it off the hook after calling the grocer. I snatch it from the cradle. At this time of morning, I already know who it is. “Yes. What?”
“Good morning. This is the Daniel Ballantine answering service calling for Ms. Soline Roussel.”
“Very funny. What do you want?”
“I just had a call from Camilla Grant—Rory’s mother.”
The name catches me off guard. “I know who she is. What did she want with you?”
“To get to you, apparently. Rory obviously mentioned my name at some point, because she tracked me down. She wanted your number. I offered to pass hers along to you instead. She didn’t say what it was about, but she was pretty determined, kind of agitated.”
“I’m not calling her.”
“Have you spoken to Rory yet?”
“No. Why? Did she say something was wrong?”
“No, but Camilla sounded kind of emotional. She said it was important that she speak to you. Maybe you should give her a call just in case.”
In case . . . what? What could she want with me? I’ve backed away as she wanted me to, retreated to the solitude of my lair, and here I shall stay. I will not lay myself open to another scene.
“I’m not talking to that woman,” I inform him icily.
“What the hell happened at that lunch anyway?”
“Never mind.”
“Fine, just take down her number so I can get back to work. But maybe you want to just check in. Like I said, she sounded a little wound up.”
“Give me the number.”