The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Barbara Davis

Still, I find myself drawn to those scars, a map of wounds that takes me neither forward nor back.

I step to the mirror, and for an instant she looks back at me, the girl I was before Hitler came to Paris, full of hope and naive dreams. But an instant later, she’s gone. In her place is the woman I’ve become. Worn and alone. Dreamless.

A blend of seawater and the peel of fresh limes. Anson.

Dr. Matthew Edward Huxley—Hux to everyone who knew him.

She had always leaned toward the introverted end of the spectrum, doing her best to avoid dinner parties and other social events, not to mention the attention that came with being the daughter of one of Boston’s most prominent social and philanthropic elites.

There had been a moment while she was talking about Hux, about what it was like to lose someone, when her mother had closed her eyes and gone perfectly still, as if warding off an unwelcome memory. A rare moment of vulnerability from a woman who was never vulnerable.

But there was something about this one that felt different

And yet, she had the strangest feeling that she was being watched from one of the upper windows.

Something told her the row house wasn’t finished with her yet.

But she could feel it, the plans she believed long dead, slowly coming to life.

the property is owned by one Soline Roussel. Apparently, she operated a bridal shop there until it burned a few years back.

“Daniel Ballantine—is that you?”

People will never forget the name Roussel and what it stood for.

And over the years, the Roussels have learned much about consequences.

We possess certain skills, talents with things like charms and herbs, cards and stones—or in our case, needle and thread.

The bride who wears a Roussel gown on her wedding day is guaranteed a happy ending.

we are taught from a tender age that happy endings are for other people.

Every soul creates an echo.

And so each echo is constantly seeking its other half, to complete itself. That is what we look for in a reading, a sign that the lovers’ echoes are a match.

It felt like a sign, as if fate had in fact sent a wave with her name on it.

A subtle vibration coursing through her fingers and up her arm, like the hum of a tuning fork running through her bones. Stranger still were the quicksilver flashes she’d experienced as she squeezed her eyes shut, like heat lightning, imprinting the backs of her lids with a strange jumble of images.

Camilla’s smile faded. “You’ve always been so much braver than me.” It was a strange admission. Not a confession—her mother didn’t believe in confessions—but an unexpected compliment.

She traced a finger over what remained of the monogram—A.W.P.

The whole thing had the feel of an unfinished story. A sad, unfinished story.

“I’m saying people have ways of clinging to ideas that make the world seem nicer than it is.

“Life has a way of letting us know when something’s over. It’s not always pleasant, but it’s always obvious if we’re paying attention.

“There are times for holding on in this life, So-So, and times for letting go. You must learn to know the difference—and trust your heart enough to let it break. It’s a hard thing, this holding on. But that’s where the faith comes in.

“We’re kindred spirits, you and I. Strangers who share a common past.”

“It’s just so hard to get my head around. The way we met, the way your story feels so . . . familiar.”

And hope costs us nothing.”

I’m also worried that there might be something wrong with me. I feel so tired all the time, weak and sick and unable to sleep, and with no word from Anson, the days drag on, empty and exhausting.

dated 19 October after failing to return from a transport mission.