“Thank you, no. Daniel’s sweet, but he can be a bit of a nag, and I prefer not to have to answer a lot of questions. The contents of the box are . . . well, they’re rather personal, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.”
“Is there somewhere else, then? The gallery . . . I’m sorry . . . the row house?”
“There’s a patisserie on the next street over, called Bisous Sucrés. Do you know it? I could meet you there at one thirty.”
“Sugar Kisses,” Rory translated. “Yes, of course. I’ll be there.”
She felt a ripple of excitement as she hung up the phone. She was finally going to meet Soline Roussel.
Rory seesawed her Audi into a cramped parking space along Boylston Street, dropped several quarters in the meter, and set off down the sidewalk with the dress box in her arms.
After a few minutes, the patisserie’s familiar black-and-white awning came into view. Its proper name, Bisous Sucrés, was splashed across the canvas in loopy gold script, with its lowercase English translation bracketed beneath in hot pink. As usual, business was booming.
Rory navigated the crowded bistro tables in the courtyard, scanning faces until she realized she had no idea who she was looking for. In her excitement, she’d forgotten to ask Ms. Roussel how to recognize her. Then she remembered her mother’s mention of burns. Presumably, there would be scars.
The heady aromas of chocolate, cherries, and rich dark coffee greeted her as she pushed through the front door. The line at the counter snaked nearly to the door. Rory sidled past, peering around the dress box. Families. Tourists. Students bent over textbooks. But no one who fit her invented image of Soline Roussel, who she now pictured as a fragile octogenarian with burn scars and an uncomfortable gaze.
Her eyes suddenly connected with those of a woman sitting alone near the back of the shop. Her dark hair was swept up in a glossy chignon, and she wore a smart suit of crimson knit, with black velvet cuffs and shiny gold toggles running down the front. At her throat, a checked scarf of red, white, and black was arranged cravat-style and fastened with a pearl stickpin. She looked startled as their eyes met, as if briefly struck by a wave of panic. After a moment, she seemed to compose herself and inclined her head ever so slightly.
Rory shifted the box to her hip and made her way to the table, not noticing until the last moment that there was a mug and plate in front of the empty chair. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I thought—”
“Miss Grant?”
Rory recognized the voice from the phone, smoky and low. French. But she was so young—late fifties, perhaps older, but not much. And absolutely beautiful with porcelain-pale skin and a perfect red bow of a mouth. Not a scar to be seen. “You’re . . . Ms. Roussel?”
“I am.” She gestured with her chin toward the empty chair.
Rory set the box on the corner of the table and took a seat. She couldn’t stop staring.
“I took the liberty of ordering you a little something—as a thank-you.”
Rory glanced at the table, where a mille feuille and a café au lait sat waiting for her. “Thank you. I love their pastries. But you really didn’t have to, Ms. Roussel. I was happy to come.”
“Soline, please. You have questions, I’m sure.”
Rory blinked at her, caught off guard by the matter-of-fact invitation. She had no idea how to begin.
Soline seemed to sense her awkwardness. “Your name is Aurora. A beautiful name. In France we say Aurore. It means goddess of the dawn.”
Rory couldn’t help smiling. It sounded so lovely when she said it. Not matronly at all. “I go by Rory,” she said sheepishly. “My mother hates it.”
Soline’s lips twitched, the flicker of a smile. “Mothers like the names they give us.” Her smile faded as her gaze settled on the dress box. “You opened the box, yes?”
Rory ducked her head. “I did. I’m sorry. I was just so surprised to find it. I couldn’t imagine why . . .”
“Ask what you want to ask,” Soline prompted when Rory went quiet.
Rory was surprised by her abrupt tone and by the fact that she hadn’t so much as touched the box. Instead, she sat stiffly, her hands folded primly beneath the table, as if braced for an interrogation.
“The dress,” Rory began tentatively. “It’s one of yours?”
“Yes.”
“And the other . . . things?”
“They belong to me as well.”
“The dress is so beautiful, like something from a fairy tale.” She paused, not sure how to proceed. “It looks . . . brand-new.”