“For starters, we know nothing about her.”
“Correction. You know nothing about her. I know quite a lot about her, and I like her.”
“That much is obvious. Honestly, the way you went on in there. Like she’s the patron saint of unknown artists or something.”
“I didn’t go on about her. I was asked about her—by your friends. I didn’t come here to talk about her or to have cake. I came . . . Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“What doesn’t matter? What were you going to say?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t going to say anything. I’m just having a bad day. I didn’t expect anyone to be here. I thought . . . we could talk.”
“We can. I’ll get rid of them, and we’ll talk all you want. You can stay for dinner. We’ll cook like we used to. Or we can go out. You name the place.”
But it was too late for talk. Somewhere between kicking off her shoes and sitting down for cake, the need to pour out her troubles to her mother had evaporated. “I’m all right now.”
“But something’s wrong. I can tell.”
“Something was wrong when I got here. I told you that, but I had to have cake with your friends and smile and make polite conversation, so you could play hostess.”
“It isn’t Matthew, is it? You haven’t had news.”
She shook her head wearily. “No. No news.”
“Then what?”
“Go back to your guests, Mother. With any luck, they’ll forget about Soline.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did. I saw your face. You hated that her name even came up. I don’t know why, but you did. Or maybe it was me talking about the gallery that set you off. You twist my arm until you get me to stay. Then, when I commit the unpardonable sin of going off script, you get all huffy. You expect everyone to dance to your tune. Even me.”
“That isn’t true.”
“But it is. It was true when I was eight, and it’s true now.”
“When you were . . . Aurora, what are you talking about?”
“Forget it. And don’t worry—I won’t mention your precious council to Soline. I don’t see her fitting in, though not for the reasons you think.”
Camilla blinked at her. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I don’t see her wanting to be part of your court.” Rory paused, jerking her chin in the direction of the dining room. “She isn’t like them. And she certainly isn’t like you. She sees me. Not the way she thinks I should be but the way I am. Maybe that’s why I like her so much.”
And with that, she turned and stepped into the foyer, trying not to think of an eight-year-old in a party dress, perched on a piano bench and frozen with fear.
TWENTY-FOUR
RORY
An hour later, Rory found herself standing on Soline’s front step, a bag of takeout from Gerardo’s in her arms. She had knocked four times and was about to knock again when the door opened a crack.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
“It’s me,” Rory blurted. “I’m sorry. I should have called.”
A waft of coffee drifted out onto the stoop as the door swung back. “Rory?”
She was barefoot and simply dressed: a plain white tee, jeans rolled up at the ankles. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, her skin devoid of makeup. What was it about French women—even the middle-aged ones—that allowed them to roll out of bed, throw on the first thing they pulled out of the closet, and be ready for a photo shoot?
Her eyes narrowed perceptively, lingering on Rory’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Or maybe everything. Are you hungry?”
Soline eyed the bag and stepped aside. “Come through.”
The kitchen was at the back of the house and much larger than she expected, with a high ceiling and tall windows that let in the afternoon sun. Here, too, was a room meant to be used, with ropes of onions and garlic on the wall, bottled vinegars lined up on a shelf above the stove, tomatoes ripening on the sill.
“Whatever it is smells delicious,” Soline said as she began extracting the food from the bag. There was a container of pasta tossed with mushrooms, zucchini, and eggplant; another of salad; and a bag filled with fragrant knots of garlic bread. “Where did you get it?”
“There’s a place near my apartment—Gerardo’s. I order from there a couple times a week. Everything’s delicious, and they deliver. Can I set the table?”