The Keeper of Happy Endings(5)

“You never liked him. From day one, you acted like he was some phase I’d grow out of, the way you hoped I’d grow out of liking soccer.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It absolutely is. You didn’t like his looks, or his surfing, or the fact that he left private practice. But the real problem is you don’t like that he’s from a little beach town in North Carolina that no one’s ever heard of. That his parents taught high school instead of organizing card games and dinner parties.”

There it was, her mother’s patented look of indignation—the squared shoulders and tilted chin, the cool glare aimed straight down her perfect patrician nose. “That’s an awful thing to imply.”

“I didn’t imply it. I said it straight out. Most mothers would consider someone like Hux a great catch, but not you. You want someone with the right last name and a Mayflower sticker on their steamer trunk, and now that Hux is missing, you see the chance for a do-over. Though I’m not sure why you think your marital track record qualifies you to choose anyone else’s husband.”

Camilla went still, her face frozen, as if she’d received a slap she hadn’t seen coming.

“I’m sorry,” Rory blurted. “I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you did.”

Rory blew out a breath, angry with herself for striking such a low blow. “I’m sorry. I was just lashing out and you got in the way.”

Camilla’s expression morphed into one of concern. “Has there been . . . news?”

“No. No news. Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then what do you want to talk about? I have no idea what’s happening in your life these days. You don’t return my phone calls. You turn down my invitations for dinner. You’ve skipped brunch two weeks in a row. What have you been up to?”

Rory stared into her glass, her throat suddenly thick. “Waiting, mostly.”

“Sweetheart . . .” Camilla reached across the table, brushing Rory’s bangs out of her eyes.

“Don’t,” Rory snapped, jerking her head away. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“Then what do you want? I’m worried about you. You spend your days with your nose buried in one of those awful books or glued to the television, watching some old black-and-white tearjerker until all hours. We talked about this. It isn’t healthy.”

“I’m fine. I just . . .” She looked away, wanting desperately not to be having this discussion again. “I just need time.”

“Sweetheart, it’s been five months.”

Rory shot her a look. “I wasn’t aware that there was a time limit.”

“That isn’t what I meant. I only mean that whatever has happened to Matthew, whether he’s alive somewhere or—” She broke off, as if weighing her next words carefully. “You’re still here, Aurora. Still alive. You have to go on, no matter what.”

Rory swallowed the sting of tears. She wanted to believe Hux was alive somewhere, that he would come home to her one day, but the dread was always there, like an invisible hand hovering at her shoulder. Would tomorrow be the day she got the news? How would it happen? A letter? A phone call? Would someone knock on her door? She’d never screwed up the courage to ask. Asking would have made it too real, and it was already real enough.

“What if I can’t go on?” she asked quietly.

“Don’t be silly. Of course you can. It’s what the Grants do.”

Rory smothered a sigh, wishing she could make her understand. “I just don’t care. About anything.” She looked at her mother, so cool and well groomed, unflappable. “You have no idea what that’s like, do you? To wake up in the morning and not have the will to put your feet on the floor, to shower and dress and go out into the world where everywhere you look, life is galloping off without you. You’ve never lost someone you cared about. And don’t say Daddy. We both know it’s not the same thing.”

Camilla opened her mouth, then closed it again, as if rethinking her initial response. “You have no idea what I’ve lost, Aurora,” she said finally.

Rory narrowed her eyes, surprised by Camilla’s cryptic tone. There was so much about her mother’s life she didn’t know. So much she’d sealed off or refused to talk about. “Was there someone?” she asked softly. “Someone before Daddy?”

“I was eighteen when I married your father. There wasn’t time for anyone else.”

“Okay, then. Not before. But later . . . during?”

Camilla stared at her, aghast. “Certainly not!”

“Then what? What don’t I know?”

Camilla waved a hand, clearly ready to change the subject. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter now. But for the record, mothers are human too. We’ve had lives and been disappointed. We bleed like everyone else. But we have responsibilities, duties to fulfill and appearances to maintain. And so we keep moving forward.”

“Except I can’t see forward. I can’t see anything. It’s like the future’s just . . . gone.”

“You need to get out, Aurora, to be around people. There’s a cocktail thing happening at Marcos next week. One of Cassandra Maitland’s private dos for some new cellist she’s discovered. Why don’t you come with me? We could go to Rosella for hair and nails in the morning, get those bangs of yours trimmed, then pick up something fun for you to wear. There’s nothing like a good splurge before a party to lift your spirits. And it’ll do you good to see some of the old crowd, to feel normal again.”