“He will be, sweetheart. He’ll come back, and he’ll be so proud when he sees what you’ve done. But right now, we need to get you out front. Your public awaits.”
The words sent a flurry of butterflies skittering against Rory’s insides. “I don’t have a public. What if no one shows up? We’ll be eating stuffed cherry tomatoes and roasted red pepper crostini for a week.”
Camilla barked out an uncharacteristic laugh. “Now you’re just being silly. We mailed over two hundred invitations. Both papers covered the opening in their weekend sections, and I’ve told literally everyone I know—twice. My guess is there won’t be a tomato or a crostini to be had by the time you close the doors tonight. Now, march. There’s a party waiting to get started.”
“Where’s Soline?”
“Still upstairs, but she said she’d be right down. I think she’s a little nervous about being around so many people.”
Rory knew exactly how she felt, but she managed to put one foot in front of the other anyway, dimly aware of her mother beside her, shooting a crisp nod to the tall brunette standing behind the bar, another to the redhead manning the food table, and a third to the guitarist, who instantly picked up his guitar. Soft strains of The Beatles’ “Blackbird” filled the air, and the artists scattered to take their places with their collections.
“You’re ready,” Camilla whispered close to her ear. “I’ll man the door. Your job—your only job—is to smile, mingle, and look like a gallery owner. And remember to pace yourself. It’s going to be a long night.”
A draft of crisp autumn air wafted in as Camilla pulled back the door. Within minutes, several clusters of women entered and were exchanging hugs and air kisses. Friends of her mother, she realized with a rush of gratitude.
Camilla really was quite fabulous in action, completely in charge of the moment, pulling invisible levers with a nod or a glance, and making it all look effortless, and Rory found herself wondering if she was capable of developing such skills. She was still mulling the question when her mother and her gaggle of friends began heading in her direction.
“Oh, there she is. My word, what have you done to yourself? You’re simply stunning, Aurora!” It was Laurie Lorenz, treasurer of the art council, running heavily made-up eyes down the length of her. “I barely recognized you without your hair. You look so chic, like you just stepped off a Paris runway.”
Hilly was nodding enthusiastically. “It is divine, isn’t it? Will you look at those cheekbones? Just like her mother’s. And I can’t get over what you’ve done with this place. We bought my daughter’s wedding dress here four years ago, and now look at it. No one would ever guess it nearly burned to the ground.”
“Thank you,” Rory said awkwardly, hoping Soline wasn’t in earshot. “The damage wasn’t as bad as originally thought, and I found a wonderful contractor. We managed to save quite a few of the original fixtures and the staircase, which I’ve fallen in love with.”
The ladies followed Rory’s gaze to the staircase, nodding in unison. As if on cue, Soline appeared at the top of the stairs, magnificent in black silk palazzos and an embroidered silver jacket. She paused briefly, running an eye over the crowd, then began to descend, one black-gloved hand sliding along the railing.
No one spoke. Rory could scarcely blame them. She was breathtaking, and so graceful her feet seemed not to touch the ground. She paused again on the last step, and for a moment, Rory was afraid she might turn and bolt back up the stairs. Instead, she squared her shoulders and looked out over the crowd until her eyes connected with Rory’s.
Rory lifted a hand, aware of the curious stares of her mother’s friends. Camilla was aware of them, too, and appeared poised to rush to Soline’s defense if necessary. But Soline threw them both a reassuring smile as she approached. She looked amazing with her smoky eyes and scarlet lips, her hair swept back on one side with a jeweled comb.
Camilla hooked her arm through Soline’s, drawing her close. “Ladies, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Soline Roussel.”
There was a brief pause, followed by a ripple of polite murmurs. It was Hilly who finally spoke up. “Madame Roussel! This was your shop once. You made my Caroline’s wedding dress. Caroline Walden. I’m sure you don’t remember, but she and her husband have three lovely children now, thanks to you. And people still talk about that dress, the way the bow—”