“You mean you and Soline?”
Anson lit up like a boy with his first crush. “It could just be that getting ambushed in the bar of the Fairmont Hotel was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Rory felt herself flush. It had worked out pretty well for her too. And for Camilla. That night at the bar, he’d told her bluntly that there was no chance of a happy ending. He’d been wrong about that, and she was glad. “I’m still not sure how it happened, but I seem to have gone from having no grandparents to having a full set. Do you think I could maybe . . . hug you?”
The request seemed to catch him off guard. He swallowed hard, then nodded. “I’d like that too.”
She stepped into his arms, breathing him in—soap and citrus with a hint of shaving cream underneath. It was subtle yet masculine: the smell of comfort and safety. How had she lived all these years without smelling this smell? Something told her she was going to enjoy having grandparents, though she really was going to have to think of something else to call them.
Moments later, they heard the tap of Soline’s heels as she approached. “Look at you two, already making up for lost time.”
Rory shot Anson a wink. “I’d say we all have a bit of that to look forward to. So did you call her?”
“I did.”
“And you told her everything? Not just about Hux but all of it?”
“Well, most of it.”
“And she was happy?”
Soline answered with a smoky laugh. “What do you think? She was going to call Thia, and then she was coming right over. She says we need to start planning your engagement party. And then the wedding.”
Rory let the words sink in. The wedding. Her wedding. The thought made her want to pinch herself. Hux was coming home, perhaps not unscathed but home—to her. Yes, there would be a wedding, though not right away—he would need time to recover—but she would wait as long as he needed her to wait. And they would figure out the rest together.
The thought filled her with a quiet joy, like ripples spreading across the surface of a pond, slowly widening, until they eventually lapped the shore. She broke into a grin. “I suppose at some point, I’m going to need a dress,” she told Soline, then turned to look up at Anson. “And someone to give me away.”
It still seemed impossible. Such an inexplicable confluence of events. Lives intersected. Hearts reunited. Families mended. Because of a box she’d found under the stairs of a burned-out building. A box full of happy endings—and perhaps a touch of la magie.
EPILOGUE
SOLINE
A new and specific binding charm must be composed for each client bride, conceived for her and her alone. The charm will be hers in perpetuity and may never be reused.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
17 May 1986—Lyman, Massachusetts
At long last, there is to be a wedding.
I stand at the window, gazing out over sloping lawns and perfectly manicured hedges, gardens filled with blushing pink peonies, and a sky so blue it hurts my eyes. I blink away the sting, afraid I’ll muss my makeup. There’s a pretty gazebo out by the lake, dressed in yards of ivy and frothy white tulle, and several rows of folding chairs. It will be a small, intimate affair, limited to family and close friends.
Camilla had hoped for something grander, the ballroom at the Park Plaza with a string quartet and swags of fragrant white lilies, but she was overruled and had to content herself with a garden ceremony on the grounds of a small estate just outside Boston.
I check the clock. There’s still a little time. Rory is with her mother, getting dressed; Hux has taken Anson off somewhere to handle a boutonniere mishap; and I’m alone with my thoughts for what feels like the first time in weeks.
I’ve learned firsthand what a taxing business planning a wedding can be. Doubly so if one also happens to be designing and overseeing the making of the dress. I was nervous about trusting someone else to handle the sketches, but I was pleased with the way they turned out, and I’m even happier with the finished product—a flared A-line in ivory satin, tea length with a wrapped bodice and tulle underskirt. Not a dress fit for a princess, perhaps, but certainly one fit for a happy ending.
I think of the charm I managed to work into the left side seam. Two weeks with my stiff and achy hands, and not nearly as pretty as I would have liked, but it is done. Under the circumstances, I think La Mère will not deduct points for neatness, though I cannot be so sure about Maman.
She has been on my mind these last few days, her voice in my ear, reminding me of all the Roussels stretching back through time. Cursed in love, or so the story went. We were told from an early age what we were allowed to have—and what we weren’t. Told not to long for what others have, because somewhere along the way, one of us had broken someone else’s rules.