The Echo of Old Books(120)

In the foyer, I barely look at him as I peel off my coat. He sets down the suitcase and hatbox, then peers over my shoulder into the parlor.

“There’s no one here,” I tell him and hold out my hand for his coat. “We’re alone.”

He takes a step back, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

In the parlor, he runs his eyes over the artwork, the furniture, the piano with its collection of framed faces. I hold my breath, waiting for him to see it, but he doesn’t.

“Very nice,” he says drily. “Not quite what I expected, but nice.”

He wanders to the windows. The drapes are open, offering a glimpse of the pebble-strewn beach. The sun is going down and the water is a deep shade of pewter. I leave him to admire the view and go to the kitchen for ice. When I return, he’s still at the window, but his coat is off and draped over the arm of the sofa. I pour us both several fingers of gin, then reach for the tonic. He turns when he hears me break the seal on the bottle.

“Your own beach too. I should have known.”

There’s a whiff of reproach in the words, reminding me of those early days, how he used to set my teeth on edge with his criticism of my privileged childhood and posh lifestyle. I’m briefly tempted to remind him of his Back Bay townhouse but decide to let it pass. “It’s shared, actually. But the other family is hardly ever here, so I have it to myself most of the time.”

His eyes hold mine for an uncomfortable moment. “We used to talk about living by the sea.”

We talked about a lot of things, I want to say. But I can’t say it. I can’t even think it. Or I won’t be able to get through what I need to say. I put his drink into his hand. “I know you usually take it with lime, but I’m afraid you’ll have to do without. I wasn’t expecting company.”

He shrugs. “I’ve learned to do without a lot of things.”

“Hemi . . .”

“What should we drink to?”

I look at the floor, at my glass, anywhere but at him. “To your success,” I say dully. “How many books now?”

“Twenty-one at last count.”

“And most of them bestsellers. Congratulations.”

He bunches his shoulders, uncomfortable with my praise. The quiet yawns as we stand staring at each other across the distance of forty-three years. “You’re in all of them,” he says finally.

The remark catches me off guard. His voice has gone deep and raspy, plucking at nerves I haven’t acknowledged in a very long time. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you were every protagonist I ever wrote. No matter what I called them, they were all Belle. All you.”

“Hemi . . .”

“Have you read any of them?”

“No.”

“It started with Regretting Belle. It was the first good thing I ever wrote. Maybe the best thing I’ll ever write.” He takes a pull from his drink, grimacing as it goes down. “Whatever happened to it? Do you know?”

“I have it,” I say quietly. “I have them both.”

This seems to surprise him. And perhaps to please him. “You kept them?”

“No. Dickey did. After he died, his son found them in his study.”

“I’m not sure I knew he had a son.”

“Ethan,” I supply. “Until a week ago, I’d never laid eyes on him, but he looks just like Dickey.”

“Am I to assume he read them?”

“Yes,” I say, dropping my eyes. “He recognized Rose Hollow and figured out the rest.”

“That must have been interesting. Having your love life read by a stranger.”

“Your love life too,” I remind him coolly. “And yes, it was very . . . interesting.”

“They know it was me? That I was Hemi? That we . . .”

There’s a new scar just below his left eye, at the apex of his cheek. I haven’t noticed it until now and I wonder briefly how he got it and when. I fight the urge to touch my fingers to it, to touch him. “They know everything,” I say instead. “Things even you don’t know.”

“Belle . . .” He takes a step toward me, then another, his chilly resolve crumbling as he draws near. “I don’t know where to start. About last night . . . about this afternoon . . . For forty years, I’ve been carrying this pain in my gut, blaming you, believing a lie. And all the time . . . I’m so bloody, bloody sorry. For not trusting you. For not believing you. And most of all, for the business with the damned story. I should have told you what I was working on. If I had, none of this would have happened. It was a stupid and selfish thing to do and I absolutely own that. But I swear to you, Belle, I didn’t have anything to do with it showing up in the Review. That was Goldie and Schwab.”

“Saboteurs,” I say softly.

“What?”

“The life we were supposed to have was derailed by saboteurs. My sister. Goldie. Both had their own agendas and both got what they wanted. What we wanted didn’t matter.”

“Are you happy, Belle? Now, I mean. Are you . . . Is there someone?”

I take a pull from my drink, then set the glass on the bar. “Those are two very different questions. With two very different answers. Yes, I’m happy. I’ve built a life. I have things I’m passionate about. As I’m sure you do. But no, there’s no one.”