Rory understood that kind of pain, the ache that waited for you every night when you closed your eyes and was still there in the morning when you woke. The empty place where your heart should be. Before she could check herself, her eyes had filled with tears.
Soline narrowed her gaze, clearly alarmed. “Chérie, what is it? Are you unwell?”
“No. I’m fine. But I should go.”
“Something’s wrong.”
“No. Really. I shouldn’t have pestered you.” She nearly tripped over the dress box as she sidled past Soline toward the door. “You don’t need to show me out. I can find my way.”
“Aurore . . .”
Rory kept moving, desperate to reach the front door before she was reduced to a pathetic puddle. She’d gotten what she wanted. She’d been determined to learn Soline Roussel’s story, and she had. Now, as she beat a hasty retreat, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d been given a glimpse of her own in the bargain.
TWELVE
SOLINE
We traffic in the promise of happily-ever-after, but not all are destined for such fairy-tale endings. Some are unable, others unwilling, and still more have been taught they are undeserving. It is up to the Spell Weaver to discern which is which.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
20 June 1985—Boston
I close my eyes as the first sip of wine goes down. Louis Jadot Gevrey-Chambertin. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine. Chocolate and ripe cherry, chalky on the tongue, velvety on the way down. Plush and pricey. It’s funny, I had to come all the way to America to learn to appreciate French wines—Maman never had wine in the house—but I have learned to appreciate them. Perhaps a little more than is good for me. But it helps with my hands. With the pain. And with . . . other things. Or at least, I pretend it does.
Today’s events have shaken me. For reasons I understand too well and for others I do not understand at all. I don’t often have guests in my home. In fact, I never have guests in my home. No dinners, or cocktail parties, or lunches with friends. No friends. Oui, I know how awful that sounds. How sad and pathetic. But I don’t want pity. It’s a choice I made years ago. After the fire. It seems my whole life is marked as either before the fire or after the fire. Not that there’s been much of a life since that terrible night. Again, my choice.
I can’t remember when I last had company. A year? No, longer than that. And then it was only Daniel and his wife the Christmas before last. I’m comfortable alone—or at least used to it. Still, I was surprised by the pang of regret I felt when I heard the front door close behind that girl. But then, so much about today has surprised me. A phone call from a stranger. A packet of old letters. The dress. Mon dieu . . . the dress. Memories I’ve been hiding from for more years than I care to admit. And now they’ve found me. Because Aurora Grant found me.
Rory—the girl who has resurrected my past.
When she entered the patisserie, for the tiniest moment I thought I knew her. One of my clients perhaps. Or a bride I’d turned down. There was something familiar about her, a connection I sensed the instant our eyes met. And yet, as she drew closer, I saw that I was wrong. I didn’t know her.
Except I did recognize her. She was me. Or a shadow of me when I was her age. Lost. Grieving. Desperate for a glint of light at the end of a very dark tunnel. She was lovely. A sharp, pretty face and a pink-and-cream complexion. Eyes the color of the sky when a storm approaches, neither blue nor gray, and a mane of honey-hued waves forever falling across her face—a clever way to hide from the world.
I understand that part, not wanting the world to see your sadness. You think you’re the only one, singled out by fate to suffer. You’re not, of course, but it feels that way. The rest of the world is moving forward, living their lives and dreaming their dreams, while you’re frozen, forever suspended in that terrible moment when your world stopped turning and the ground suddenly fell away. You exist in a void, where everything’s empty and endlessly dark, until little by little the light becomes unbearable.
She wanted to know my story, wanted me to open the box then and there, and was disappointed when she saw that I wouldn’t. Still, she’d gone out of her way to do me a good turn. I felt obliged to satisfy at least part of her curiosity.
She was delicate with her questions, careful of my feelings. There’s a particular brand of sympathy that comes with shared sorrow. An invisible thread that connects us, wound to wound. Why else would I have let her drive me home? And then that awful business with the gloves—when I invited her to look at my hands.