The Keeper of Happy Endings by Davis Barbara

Author:Davis, Barbara
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2021-09-30T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SIX

SOLINE

A bride must remember that in being bound to her lover, she is also bound to his family, and that we make no claims with regard to the success of those relationships. Such is not our work.

—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

5 October 1943—Newport

Two weeks after stepping off the train, things with Anson’s father are no better. He’s civil when he has to be but rarely bothers to speak, even at meals when I’m seated directly across from him. He’s gone most of the time, which is some small mercy, either working late, attending meetings, or dining with clients at his club. And when he does happen to be at home, he’s in his study with the door closed.

The days stretch emptily, with nothing but the radio for company while Thia is in school. I listen to the news with clenched insides, wondering where Anson is, praying he’s safe and will be home soon. I wrote several times along the journey and again when I got to Newport, letting him know I arrived safely. Weeks later, I still haven’t received a letter, and the waiting is making me restless.

I haven’t left the house since I arrived, except to sit out by the pool or walk the small stretch of beach beyond the patio gate. The fresh sea air is good for my headaches and makes me feel less claustrophobic. I’m uncomfortable moving about the house, as if I’m somewhere I don’t belong—a trespasser. But I’m not entirely alone. There’s Belinda, who sees to meals, and a cleaning woman named Clara who comes in twice a week, but they treat me like a piece of furniture when they see me. And so I keep to my room with its hideous wallpaper and heavy gloom.

Thia is my one pleasure. She’s such a delight, so hungry for attention and for love. She receives neither from her father. He isn’t intentionally cruel; that would require more energy than he’s willing to spend. He simply doesn’t see her, which is a cruelty all its own. Perhaps that’s why she’s made me her special friend—her sister-to-be, as she calls me. I confess, it’s a title I like very much.

She finds me each day when she arrives home from school, eager for her lessons. She has asked me to teach her French so she’ll be fluent when she moves to Paris and becomes a famous painter. But today, she has come to my room with one of her sketchbooks under her arm. She drops down on the bed and waits for me to join her, then opens the book and slides it into my lap.

My throat catches as I look down and see Anson’s face captured in three-quarter profile. “This is wonderful,” I whisper, tracing the outline of his face with my finger.

“I miss him.”

“Me too.”

She tips her face up, trying to smile. “He’s brave, isn’t he?”

“Oui, chérie. He’s very brave. The bravest man I know.”

She blinks several times, her lashes spiked with tears. “I hope he comes home soon.

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