The Echo of Old Books(62)

“How do you know?”

Ashlyn looked away, briefly tempted to tell him about the echoes, then realized how strange it would sound. How strange she would sound. Psychometry. The term had the word psycho built in. She couldn’t afford to scare him off. Not when she’d come this far.

“A woman doesn’t forget the man who shatters her whole world, Ethan. Ever.”

“All the more reason to leave it alone. She had her say when she wrote the book. We should let that be it.”

Ashlyn watched as Ethan began to gather assorted papers and notepads and place them back into the carton. She hated to admit it, but he had a point. Reading the books was one thing. She’d stumbled onto those by chance. But tracking down Marian Manning like a bloodhound was something else entirely. Did she really have the right to rummage through someone else’s discarded heartbreak? Would she want someone rummaging through hers?

She stood reluctantly, aware that the evening was winding to a close. “I suppose you’re right. But thanks for showing me the photographs. I’ll at least have some faces to go with names. Can I help you put this stuff back in the closet?”

Ethan glanced around the room, then shook his head. “Nah. Now that I’ve dragged it all out, I might as well go through it. But not tonight. I’m wiped and I’ve got class in the morning.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. It’s time I got them sorted out. I’ll walk you down.”

Downstairs, Ashlyn slipped on her jacket and thanked him for dinner as they walked to the door. “I really didn’t mean to horn in on you. Or cause a scandal with your neighbors. At least Mrs. Warren will have gone by now.”

Ethan pulled back the door and peered toward the road. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find her lurking in the bushes, checking to see if your car’s still in the driveway. I’d be careful pulling out if I were you. I’ll drop Belle’s book off at the shop when I’m through with it.”

“Or I can pick it up so you don’t have to come all the way to Portsmouth.” They were standing in the doorway now, the smell of the sea wafting about them on the damp night air. The moment felt the tiniest bit awkward, like the end of a first date, which it absolutely was not. She fumbled in her pocket for her keys. “I promise not to make a pest of myself and stay all evening.”

“I appreciated the distraction, actually. It was nice to have someone to eat with for a change. I was a bit of a jackass that first night. I’m glad I got a chance to redeem myself.”

Ashlyn shook her head, laughing. “I can’t say I blame you. You didn’t know me from Adam, and the whole thing did sound pretty improbable. Anyway, I better go. I’ve got some reading to do.”

“Let me guess, Hemi’s book?”

“When I left off, things were starting to get a little bumpy. I’m hoping things smooth out between them.”

“Except we know they don’t.”

“Right,” Ashlyn conceded grimly. “We know they don’t. Anyway, good luck with your writing.” She was halfway down the drive when she turned back. “Is it really illegal to open someone’s mailbox?”

“I have no idea. But it sounded good.”

“Would you have actually called the police and had me arrested?”

His laugh drifted down the drive. “No. I can’t speak for Mrs. Warren, though.”

As Ashlyn pulled out of the driveway and headed down Harbor Road, her thoughts were already on Belle and Hemi and the argument they’d had about Belle’s reluctance to stand up to her father. Had it been the beginning of the end for them, the first fraying of their doomed romance? Or had they made up only to separate again later? The only way to know was to keep reading. Only this time she’d have a face to go with the words.





Regretting Belle

(pgs. 66–72)





21 November 1941


New York, New York

I’ve just finished making coffee when I hear your key slide into the lock. I reach for a second cup, set it on the table next to this morning’s paper—and wait.

I must say I was surprised when you called to say you were on your way over. I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to look me in the eye. But then maybe that was the plan all along, a way to tell me without actually telling me. Perhaps you were afraid I’d make a scene, plead and rail that I’d never let you go. You needn’t have worried. I won’t chase after you. If you’re determined to sell yourself to a man who isn’t worthy of you—and it appears you are—then go.

You’re nearly perfect when you finally walk into the kitchen, looking like a fashion plate in your smart tweed suit and new hat. It’s been snowing on and off all morning and a few flakes still cling to your collar, leaving dark flecks of moisture as they melt. As usual, you’re flawless.

For a moment, I regret not putting on a shirt or shoes. What must I look like, standing here in nothing but trousers and an undershirt, my hair still wet from the shower? Then I think—no. It’s fitting that this is how you’ll remember me, proof that you made the right choice after all.

You stop just inside the doorway and stand very still, as if perplexed by my lack of greeting. I’ve been rehearsing my first words to you for more than an hour, but somehow I can’t make myself say them. I’ve been dreading this day for so long, since the first time I kissed you, and now that it’s come, I’m not prepared.