The Echo of Old Books(23)

Ashlyn nearly threw her arms around him. “Thank you! And yes, I still want to get in touch with him. This is fabulous!”

“So what’s the deal? Are they long-lost works of Fitzgerald or somebody? Please tell me I didn’t let a fortune slip through my fingers.”

Ashlyn shot him a grin. “I seriously doubt it. Finds like that are fairly rare, though the books are pretty unusual, so I suppose they might be of academic interest to someone. I’m just hoping to find out who wrote them. It’s only a hunch at this point, but my gut tells me they’re not fiction. I’m hoping Mr. Hillard will be able to at least verify that.”

“Just leave my name out of it if you plan on getting all stalky, okay?”

“I’m not going to get stalky. I promise. I just want to ask a few questions.” She held up the envelope, looking more closely, and felt her hopes fall. “This is postmarked April 4, 1976. Eight years ago. And it’s from AARP. How old was the guy who brought the boxes in?”

“He looked to be about my age, but he said the books belonged to his dad. I’m guessing Richard Hillard was the dad. Worth checking out anyway. Dial 411 and ask for a number for a Richard Hillard in Rye. If you get a number, call it and see who answers. But don’t get your hopes up. The son didn’t seem like much of a talker. I got the impression he just wanted to be done with the whole clearing-out business.”



Kevin’s warning continued to echo as Ashlyn dialed Richard Hillard’s number. As it turned out, getting the number had taken one phone call and exactly two minutes. The tricky part would be broaching the subject with a total stranger without sounding creepy or deranged—or as Kevin put it, all stalky. She was still pondering what to say when she began to dial. After four rings, there was an abrupt click.

“I’m not here. Leave a message.”

No name. No greeting to speak of. And no indication that whatever message she left would ever reach anyone named Hillard. For a moment, she considered hanging up. She hated answering machines. She was never quite prepared, never sure she’d have enough time to say what she needed to. But at the moment, it was the only lead she had.

“Hi,” she blurted too cheerfully, too breathlessly. “My name is Ashlyn Greer. I’m the owner of a rare bookstore in downtown Portsmouth. I’m trying to reach a Mr. Hillard regarding a book of his, which I recently acquired. Well, two books actually. I just have a few questions. I won’t take up a lot of your time. If you could call me back, I’d appreciate it.”

She was so flustered she nearly hung up without leaving her number, and ended up blurting it out clumsily, twice, then followed it up with another rather pitiful plea for a return call. So much for not sounding creepy.



Ashlyn had just flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED when the shop phone began to jangle. She rushed back to the counter and made a grab for the receiver. “An Unlikely Story.”

“Yes, I’m returning a call from a Ms. Greer.”

Ashlyn’s pulse ticked up a notch. “Who’s calling?”

“Ethan Hillard. Someone left a message on my father’s machine this afternoon.”

“Yes!” she blurted. “This is Miss Greer. Thank you so much for returning my call. I wasn’t sure I’d actually hear back.”

“Your message said you’re in Portsmouth.”

“Yes. On Market Street. I hated to call out of the blue, but I had a few questions about some books I recently acquired. I was hoping you could answer them.”

“Sure. I guess. What can I help you with?”

Ashlyn’s mind raced. Why hadn’t she made a list of questions? Now that she had him on the phone, she didn’t know where to start. “I guess my first question is about how old they are. Do you know when they were published?”

“Do I know . . .” There was a lengthy pause. “Which books are we talking about?”

“Oh, sorry. Of course. You have no idea which books I mean. I was asking about Regretting Belle and Forever, and Other Lies.”

“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy. Come to think of it, how did you get my number?”

“The owner of Going Twice—the boutique where you left the books—found an envelope in one of the boxes with your father’s address on it. I called directory assistance and got the number. Normally I wouldn’t bother you, but under the circumstances . . . Well, these are very special books.”

There was another long breath. Annoyance or impatience. “They may well be, Ms. Greer. But I’m afraid I didn’t write either one of them.”

“No, I didn’t think you had. I was just hoping you might be able to tell me who did—or anything about them, really.”

“I’m sorry. Did you say you own a bookstore?”

“Yes. In Portsmouth.”

“I guess I’m confused. You’re calling about a pair of books I’ve never heard of and you want me to tell you who wrote them?”

“I’m so sorry.” She needed to slow down and start at the beginning. “I should have been more clear. I own a rare bookshop called An Unlikely Story. A few weeks ago, you brought several boxes of books to a vintage boutique. The owner is a friend of mine. He calls me when he gets books in that he thinks might be of interest to my shop.”