Each letter seemed more fantastic than the last. And each credited her astonishing good fortune to Soline Roussel’s special skills as a dressmaker. It seemed reasonable to assume those written in French contained similar stories. Eighteen brides. Eighteen letters. Eighteen happy endings kept in an old dress box.
Rory gathered the letters together, retying them before returning them to the box. A stack of letters spanning decades, a bridal gown worthy of a princess, and a man’s shaving kit. The whole thing had the feel of an unfinished story. A sad, unfinished story.
TEN
RORY
June 20, 1985—Boston
Rory was used to waking with a book beside her, but this morning it was a letter she found lying open amid the rumpled sheets. She folded it carefully and placed it on the nightstand with the others. She’d read them all again last night. Or at least those written in English. They were all variations of the same story: health recovered, fortunes repaired, careers saved, feuds mended, lost things found. And all as a result of a Roussel gown. Or so the grateful brides believed.
Her eyes slid to the dress box on the chest beneath the window. The easy thing would have been to put it back under the stairs, where it wouldn’t make her think about weddings that never happened. Instead, she’d taken it home, uncomfortable with relegating it to the dark again. It was silly, she knew, but she couldn’t get past something her mother had said.
A custom-made good-luck charm for each and every bride.
She crossed to the box and lifted the lid, trailing a hand along one sheer sleeve. So lovely, and clearly not off-the-rack, since Mademoiselle Roussel didn’t do off-the-rack. It had been created for someone, belonged to someone. But to whom? And how was the shaving kit connected? There was always a chance that it wasn’t, but it didn’t seem likely.
And where did the letters fit in? They’d obviously been important at some point, and yet they’d been shut up under the stairs along with the other things, abandoned when the shop closed. Unless . . . Was it possible Soline Roussel didn’t know they’d survived the fire?
Rory started a pot of coffee, then dialed Daniel Ballantine’s number. She was surprised when his receptionist put her straight through.
“Ms. Grant. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. I hope there isn’t a problem.”
“No. Not exactly. But I need to get in touch with Ms. Roussel. I know you said she doesn’t like to be bothered, but it’s rather important. I was hoping I could persuade you to give me her number.”
“I’m afraid not. As I’ve said, all her business goes through me.”
“It’s Rory, please. And this isn’t business. It’s a personal matter. I promise not to pester her. I just need to speak to her this once.”
“Concerning what, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Rory wasn’t sure how much to reveal and how much to keep to herself. “I’d prefer not to share that with anyone but Ms. Roussel, if you don’t mind. It’s rather . . . delicate.”
“The best I can do is pass along your number,” he said finally. “Though I doubt it will get you anywhere. Ms. Roussel isn’t a fan of the telephone. She barely talks to me.”
“All right, then. Tell her I found something that might belong to her—a box.”
“What kind of box?”
Once again, Rory was reluctant to reveal too much. “Just tell her I found a box. If it’s important, she’ll know.”
“All right. I’ll pass it along. But don’t be surprised if you don’t hear back.”
Two hours later, the phone rang. Rory abandoned the to-do list she’d been working on and grabbed the handset. “Hello?”
There was a stretch of silence, then finally a woman’s voice. “I’m calling for Miss Grant.”
Rory’s pulse ticked up. “This is Aurora.”
“My name is Soline Roussel. I’ve had a call from my attorney, Daniel Ballantine. He said you . . . found something. A box.”
“In the space under the stairs, yes. I don’t know how it ended up there, but I thought you might like to have it back.”
Another pause, briefer this time, and then the words came tumbling out. “I didn’t know . . . I thought . . . Yes. Yes, I’d like to have it back.”
“I’d be happy to bring it to you if you’ll give me your address.”
“No. I couldn’t . . . I don’t receive guests.”
Rory swallowed her disappointment. She’d been hoping to finally meet the elusive mademoiselle. Apparently that wasn’t going to happen. “I could deliver it to Mr. Ballantine’s office if you’d like, and he could get it to you.”