The Echo of Old Books(114)

He looks down at his hands, fisted on the edge of the bar. “What is it you want me to say?”

“I want you to say you believe Corinne switched the letters, and to acknowledge what that means.”

“It was a lifetime ago, Marian. At this point, I don’t think it matters.”

The use of my real name—so foreign on his tongue—is like a dash of icy water, but his cavalier response cuts to the bone. I blink at him, stunned. “You came all the way to Boston to crash an awards dinner because you claimed you wanted an explanation. Now it doesn’t matter?”

“I didn’t come all the way to Boston. I live here now. At least part-time.”

This is news. Unsettling news. “You live here?”

“Two years now. I split time between here and London. More here than there lately.”

“You said you read about the awards dinner in the paper. Is that how you knew I’d be here tonight?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t Ashlyn?”

He frowns. “Who’s Ashlyn?”

“Never mind. It isn’t important.”

We fall silent for a time. Hemi nurses his gin and tonic while I stare at my reflection in the bar mirror. I should never have agreed to come. But now that I have, I can’t just leave it like this. “You don’t believe Corinne switched the letters,” I say when I can no longer bear the quiet. “You still believe I meant those words for you.”

“Whether you did or didn’t isn’t the point. Not anymore. Hell, maybe it never was. We were both ready to believe the worst about the other. That doesn’t say much for what we had, does it? Maybe we saved ourselves a lot of heartache.”

“Saved ourselves a lot of heartache?” I echo, incredulous that he could say such a thing, let alone believe it. “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself all these years? That you disappearing from my life saved me a lot of heartache? That I simply . . . moved on? Never wondering where you were or if I’d ever hear from you again? Tell me you don’t actually believe that.”

He looks away, his face so steely, I barely recognize him. “Sometimes it’s easier to see a thing in the rearview mirror. When there’s a bit of distance between it and you.”

No. Whatever happened that day, whatever place we’ve come to now, I won’t let him remember us that way—as a pair of reckless young lovers who had narrowly escaped disaster because I got cold feet and ran back to Teddy. “Come with me to talk to Corinne. We’ll go together. Tomorrow.”

He arches a brow, looking faintly amused. “After more than forty years, you think you’re going to just stroll into her parlor and get her to confess?”

“You don’t know Corinne. She’d love nothing more than to take credit for coming between us and to gloat about it to my face. I’m sure she sees it as one of her crowning achievements.”

“Then why drive all the way to New York to give her the satisfaction?”

“Because I need you to know I’m telling the truth. And because I need her to know I know. If we leave by eight, we can be there by noon.”

He empties his glass and sets it down firmly. “No.”

I see it clearly then, the flinty layer he’s acquired since we parted, an icy detachment he wears like armor. “You’d rather just go on hating me. Is that it?”

He’s silent for a time, as if weighing his next words. When he finally does answer, his voice is flat, almost weary. “I’ve been bitter for a long time, Marian. A very, very long time. I’m not sure I could take knowing I’ve spent the last forty years in purgatory for no damned reason.”

“You’d rather remember it wrong?”

“I’d rather not to remember it at all, thank you. But anger is easy. It’s also familiar. My default position, you might say.”

I blink at him, experiencing an eerie sense of déjà vu. Didn’t I say something similar to Ashlyn last night? And yet the cool response stings. “So I’m still the villain—because it’s easier. How is that fair?”

“It isn’t. I concede that. But tonight was a mistake. I should never have come.”

I wait for him to say more, but I can see by the set of his jaw that he’s said all he means to. “So that’s it? We’re finished?”

He nods, eyes fixed straight ahead. “All finished.”

I signal the bartender, then open my purse and poke through it for some money. I’m desperate to be away from him, but I refuse to let him pay for my wine. Except there’s no cash in my evening bag, only a lipstick, my compact, and my room key.

“Could you please charge the wine to my room?” I ask the bartender when he makes his way over. “Marian Manning. Room 412.”

I’m about to slip off the barstool when Hemi touches me, the merest brush of his fingers against the back of my hand. “For what it’s worth, I had nothing to do with the story. I never gave Goldie my notes. I threw them away like I said I would. But in my haste to empty out my desk, I left an old notebook behind. Goldie found it and handed it off to Schwab. Schwab admitted it to me when I confronted him. I can’t prove it. Both he and Goldie are dead. But it’s the truth.”

I stare at him, wondering if it’s true, wanting so very badly for it to be true. But then I realize he’s right. It won’t change anything. The die was cast more than forty years ago.