“I am young, but I’m not a child. I’ve seen things no one should see. Countries overrun with evil. Entire families imprisoned and murdered. Men shot to pieces and women who have lost everything they hold dear. There are many tragedies in the world, monsieur. I do not count gossip among them. You boast that you will never be broke, but you are clearly broken—because you choose to be.”
And with that, I tuck my handbag into the crook of my arm and head for the door, eager to be gone. My hand is on the knob when he finally speaks.
“Fine,” he sighs with a pained air. “But if I hire you, you must promise to stop calling me monsieur. I loathe the French.”
My heart gives a little gallop. “What shall I call you, then, instead of monsieur?”
“My friends call me Maddy.”
I make eggs and strong coffee, and we eat together in his small, sunny kitchen. While he smokes, I tell him my story, leaving nothing out. Because I know somehow that I can trust him with my secrets and that nothing I say will ever shock him. I tell him about Maman and Anson and the Resistance. He tells me about Richard, the love of his life. How they fell in love the night they met. How Richard died in his arms after a ravaging bout with cancer. And how Richard’s family barred him from attending the funeral. I tell him about Dorothy Sheridan and Assia, how they took her away to bury without telling me. We cry, holding hands over our empty plates, and we become family, kindred spirits bound by loss and loneliness.
The clock on the mantel chimes softly, tugging me away from my memories. But I’m not ready to let them go. I tip back my wineglass and reach for the framed photo at my elbow, taken the day my name was stenciled below Maddy’s on the front window. He’s grinning for the camera, looking especially dapper in navy pinstripes, shoulders back, chest out, proud as punch of his little bird, as he called me.
It had been a happy day with cake and champagne, followed by dinner at Marliave, a swishy French restaurant Maddy claimed to detest, though he seemed to know the name of every waiter in the place. We drank too much wine and danced until dawn, in celebration of Madison’s resurrection from the ashes.
The turnaround had been swift, thanks in part to the addition of a line of women’s evening dresses. Maddy had been shameless, touting me as a couturier from Paris who has created wedding gowns for some of the most discerning women in Europe. I didn’t care that it wasn’t true, because in my heart it was. Finally, I was making the kinds of dresses I always dreamed of.
He referred to himself as my fairy godmother, a private joke between us, but it was true. I learned so much from him, about clothes and business and life. How to merchandise and accessorize, how to charm suppliers and manage cash flow, how to create an illusion of exclusivity that would have clients clamoring for my designs. I soaked up his lessons like a sponge.
And then came the day that changed everything. Mrs. Laureen Appleton came in for a fitting and happened to announce that her granddaughter Catalina had just gotten engaged. Maddy, never missing an opportunity to expand our business, casually suggested that an honest-to-goodness couture gown would make her granddaughter the envy of Boston. He also whispered, just loud enough to be overheard, that word around Paris was that a Roussel gown virtually guaranteed the bride a happy ending.
Once word spread that one of the season’s biggest weddings would feature a Roussel gown, orders began to trickle in. There was no magie in the beginning. We needed the work too badly to turn anyone away. I designed gowns for anyone who could pay and had just enough luck with my brides to perpetuate the rumors Maddy shamelessly continued to spread. Soon, I had a waiting list of brides willing to submit to a reading if it meant going down the aisle in one of my dresses. Like Maman and her rosary, they wished to hedge against malchance. Somehow, without meaning to, I had become la Sorcière de la Robe—the Dress Witch—and I was strangely glad. Perhaps because I’d come to understand just how rare happy endings truly are.
Eventually, Maddy set up a small salon for me on the second floor, along with my very own workroom. A year later, the salon took up the entire second floor, and I had to hire two girls to handle patterns and fittings. In a small way, at least, I was living both my dream and Maman’s.
Then, a few years later, Maddy developed a cough, the result of smoking nearly two packs of cigarettes a day. I had picked up the habit, too, by then. It relaxed me and gave me something to do with my hands when I wasn’t working. Maddy’s cough grew steadily worse, and soon his beautiful suits began to hang on him. I saw Maman when I looked at him, and I knew what was coming. Not that knowing made the truth easier.