I grab a pen and pad from the drawer and scribble down the number, though I have absolutely no intention of using it. But after I hang up the phone, I stare at it, wondering what Camilla Grant could possibly want with me.
I arrive at Camilla’s, already regretting my decision. Coming was probably a mistake, but when I finally broke down and phoned Rory’s mother, I found myself unable to decline her invitation to brunch. She asked for a do-over, which is American for second chance. When I hesitated, she asked me to come for Rory’s sake. I couldn’t say no to that. Now, two days later, part of me wishes I’d said no. The other part of me is wondering what all this is about.
There’s a knot in my stomach as I ring the bell, like I used to get when I was learning the craft at Maman’s knee, an echo I can’t interpret. I want to turn and go back down the walk. But before I can step away from the door, it opens, and she’s there, creamy perfection in gauzy linen and long strands of coral beads that reach nearly to her waist. She tries to smile, but it quickly falters.
“Ms. Roussel, thank you so much for coming. Please come in.”
She steps back from the door, allowing me to enter, and for a moment my eyes are drawn to her wrist, to a bracelet studded with gold charms. The sound it makes reminds me of the day at Seasons, the way it jangled when she shook out her napkin.
“Shall we go out to the terrace?”
She closes the door with another metallic jangle and sweeps me through a series of pale, meticulous rooms. It’s just as Rory described, immaculate and unlived in—sterile. For a moment, I’m that other Soline, the one just off the train with the scuffed shoes and mussy clothes, painfully out of place.
The kitchen looks like something from a magazine, stainless and stone with a collection of pretty pitchers above the stove that I sense are just for show. She offers me coffee. I nod my thanks, awkward and not at all sure what I’m doing here.
She fills two cups and puts them on a tray, along with cream and sugar.
“This way,” she says with another attempt at a smile. She feels awkward, too, I realize, surprised that this cool, elegant woman should feel awkward in my presence.
She nods toward an open set of french doors. I follow her out onto a slate-paved terrace. There is no sign of Rory, but a pretty little table has been set for three. The view from the terrace is breathtaking, with a lovely glimpse of the river and a wide swath of greenway.
I feel Camilla’s eyes on my back and turn to find her standing behind me, studying me. She shifts her gaze when she realizes I’m looking at her and points to a chair.
“Please, won’t you sit down?”
She attempts another smile as she settles into her own chair. I choose the one farthest away and take my cup from the tray, conscious of my gloves and still not sure what all this is about.
“Thank you for coming.” It’s the second time she’s said it, and I find myself feeling sorry for her. She looks almost frightened, vulnerable and anxious. “I asked you to come early because I wanted to talk to you before Aurora arrived. She told me the two of you haven’t spoken since that day at lunch, and I’m afraid that’s my fault. We got off to a bad start.” She pauses, shaking her head. “No, that’s not right. I got off to a bad start. I was so awful to you that day, and I wanted to explain, to . . . apologize.”
I can tell by the way she struggles with the last part that she isn’t used to apologizing. This is difficult for her, and because it is, I feel myself softening. I sip my coffee, waiting.
“I don’t know what came over me. I could hear the words coming out, but I couldn’t seem to stop them. It was like my mother was talking instead of me.”
Her eyes dart from mine, as if she’s said more than she intended. “I’m sorry I blurted out that bit about my mother. It’s just that I sometimes find myself channeling her when it comes to Aurora. We don’t always . . . We see things differently. Almost everything, really. And then when Matthew . . . Hux,” she corrects. “When Hux entered the picture, I handled it badly. I didn’t know anything about him, and I worried that he wasn’t . . .” She sighs and goes quiet again. “I swore I’d never be like her. That when I had a daughter of my own, I would be different, and it turns out I’m just like her.”
“You’re speaking of your mother again.”
She nods, the corners of her mouth turned down like a child’s. “I was never the daughter she wanted, and she made sure I knew it.” She pressed a hand to her lips. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t come here to listen to this, but there’s not really anyone I can talk to about it, and you’re . . . you and Rory have grown so close.”