The Echo of Old Books(37)
In the fading light, the scar on her palm gleamed shiny white, a pale, perfect crescent bisecting the life line of her right hand. Appropriate, since her existence now seemed to be divided into two halves—before Daniel and after Daniel. It had been bothering her of late, small flashes of pain that struck out of nowhere, and she wondered if it had to do with the echoes she’d been picking up from Belle’s and Hemi’s books. If somehow, like the vibrations of a tuning fork, they had detected and synced up with her own wound.
Perhaps it was time to step back a bit, to focus on work and let her obsession cool before reading any further. Or at all. She needed to work on the holiday newsletter and get it off to the printer, then focus her energy on finishing Gertrude’s books in time for Christmas.
She pushed out of the chair, preparing to head up front to lock the door. She tidied as she went, reordering messy signage and straightening shelves, and had just begun to ponder options for supper when she heard the telltale jangle of the shop door bells.
She smothered a groan. Not one customer all afternoon and now someone walks in at half past six. “I’m sorry,” she called as she approached the front. “I’m afraid we’re closed. I was just locking up.”
A man in a rain-flecked anorak glanced up from the rack of free handouts near the door. He was thirtysomething, tall and lean, with pale green eyes and close-cropped hair she suspected would have been sandy brown if it weren’t wet. He held up a copy of her newsletter. “The Care & Feeding of Old Books. Clever title. Your idea?”
Ashlyn frowned, perturbed by what felt like a deliberate brush-off. “Yes. Thank you. But I’m afraid—”
“Good photo of you too.”
“Thanks, but as I said, we’re closed. We’ll be open again at nine tomorrow if you’re looking for something special.”
The man returned the newsletter to its slot on the rack, pushed his hands into his pockets, and ran his eyes around the shop. He was younger than she’d first thought. A little uncomfortable in his skin but good-looking in a damp, uncombed way.
She forced a smile and tried again. “If you’re looking for something specific, a particular title or author, I’d be happy to take your name and number and give you a call tomorrow.”
He eyed her blandly. “You already have my number. We spoke a few days ago. I’m Ethan Hillard. I wasn’t sure what time you closed, but I took a chance. I was wondering if it would be possible to see the books.”
Ashlyn blinked at him, more than a little surprised. When they spoke on the phone, he hadn’t seemed the least bit interested. “See them?”
“All right, read them.”
His sudden change of heart set off alarm bells. Had he come to demand she return the books? “If you’re under the impression that the books are valuable, Mr. Hillard—”
“It’s Ethan,” he said, cutting her off. “And this isn’t about money. After we spoke the other night, the name Belle kept popping into my head and I couldn’t think why. And then yesterday I remembered. I have an aunt. She’s a great-aunt, actually. The sister of my paternal grandmother. Her real name is Marian, but I’m almost sure I remember the name Belle coming up in conversation between my parents.”
Ashlyn felt her pulse tick up. “Marian,” she repeated slowly, as if testing the weight of it on her tongue. “You think Belle was your aunt Marian?”
“I have no idea. But the books were in my father’s study when he died, and Belle isn’t exactly a common name, so I came. I thought if I had a look, I might be able to rule her in or out. There might be names I know—family names—or places I’d recognize.”
A surge of adrenaline prickled through Ashlyn’s veins at the thought that she might actually be on the verge of confirming her suspicions that Belle and Hemi were real. Maybe she could save him some time. “Do you recognize the name Goldie?”
Ethan thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No.”
“A woman?” Ashlyn prodded. “Owned a string of newspapers?”
Another shake of the head. “Doesn’t ring any bells. But then, I never knew my aunt, so I’m not likely to recognize the names of her friends.”
“I wouldn’t say Goldie was a friend of Belle’s, but her name appears in both books. Apparently, she was Hemi’s boss.”
Ethan stared at her blankly. “Who’s Hemi?”
Ashlyn’s excitement faded. She was hoping he would recognize the name. “He’s the author of Regretting Belle. That isn’t his real name. It’s just what Belle calls him. Short for Hemingway, because he’s a writer. Goldie appears to be a nickname as well, though I’m hoping to learn her identity soon. Once I do, I might be able to pin down Hemi’s name as well, since he wrote for one of her papers. How about Helene? Does that name jog any memories?”
“None. Who was she?”
“Belle’s mother. At least that’s the name she used. She’d be your great-grandmother, your father’s grandmother. She died when Belle was just a girl . . . by suicide, according to Belle. Apparently, the family did their best to sweep it under the carpet.” She paused, registering Ethan’s blank face. “None of this rings a bell?”
Ethan shook his head. “No, but it certainly sounds like the Mannings.”