The Echo of Old Books(69)
“That isn’t fair.”
“I agree.”
“Belle, please . . .”
“I have to go.”
You retrieve your handbag from the arm of the sofa and walk to the door, then look back at me before reaching for the knob. I hold my breath, waiting for you to say something, but you just stand there, staring.
“You can’t leave like this, Belle. We need to talk it through.”
“I have to go,” you say again, as if you haven’t heard me.
“Will you be there tomorrow? At the station?”
I hold my breath, waiting. And then you’re gone.
ELEVEN
ASHLYN
Protracted neglect is both shameful and sad, and will likely result in reduced value, but there is nothing so unsettling, or so unforgivable, as intentionally inflicted damage.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
October 14, 1984
Rye, New Hampshire
Ashlyn rang the bell, then glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see Mrs. Warren and her plump spaniel lurking at the edge of the drive. The last place she’d expected to find herself on this chilly Sunday afternoon was Ethan’s house, but here she was, on his front steps, trying to tamp down her expectations.
She’d been working in the bindery when Ethan called, inviting her over for chili. The invitation had been a pleasant surprise, but it was his hint at some sort of discovery that intrigued her most. He had also asked her to bring Regretting Belle—so they could swap. He wanted to read Hemi’s versions of events too. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who’d become immersed in Belle and Hemi’s story.
Ethan was smiling when he pulled back the door, wearing jeans and a New England Patriots sweatshirt that was badly frayed at the collar. He grinned, noting the direction of her gaze. “No making fun of my lucky sweatshirt. I’ve had it since college.”
Ashlyn eyed him skeptically. “Are you sure it’s lucky? The Pats haven’t exactly been setting the world on fire the last few years.”
The smile morphed into a lopsided grin. “Maybe not, but you watch. One of these days, they’re going to get the right guy under center, and when they do, they’re going to win so many Super Bowls that the entire country will hate them.” He pulled back the door and waved her in. “Come in. It’s wicked cold, as my father would say.”
In the kitchen, Ashlyn stripped off her jacket and scarf. There was a large pot simmering on the stove and the air was fragrant with the mingled aromas of beef and spices.
“Hungry?”
“Starved actually.”
“Me too. I’ve got the game on in the other room, so I can keep up with the score. Are you a football fan?”
“I know the difference between a screen pass and an out route, if that’s what you mean.”
Ethan’s brows shot up. “I’m impressed. Kirsten certainly wasn’t a fan. She found my mild sports addiction enormously aggravating. Your ex was a lucky guy.”
Lucky wasn’t quite how she thought of Daniel, but she decided to let that part of the remark pass. “Actually, Daniel wasn’t a sports fan. I read up on football as a kid because I thought it would get my father’s attention.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“My dad pulled for the Pats, but he was never a huge football fan. He was crazy for baseball, though. Loved the Sox. He used to take me to Fenway when I was a kid. I loved those afternoons. When he was diagnosed and the doctors told us . . .” He looked away briefly. “I wanted to make sure we got back while he could still enjoy it.”
“It’s nice that you made those memories.”
“Yeah. They were good days. Is your dad still alive?”
Ashlyn shifted uncomfortably. “He died when I was sixteen. Not long after my mother.”
Ethan’s face softened. “Sorry. That’s young to lose both parents. Do you have other family? Siblings? Aunts or uncles?”
“Nope. It’s just my books and me.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
The moment seemed to expand, awkward and unfillable, as they stood looking at each other across the counter. It was Ethan who finally looked away. He moved to the stove and gave the pot a stir. “I’m just reheating this, and then we can dish it up. Can I get you a beer? Wine? Soda?”
“A beer would be great, thanks. Can I do anything?”
“You can keep an eye on the chili. Make sure it doesn’t stick.”
Ashlyn lifted the lid from the pot, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam, then picked up the wooden spoon. “You really made this? From scratch?”
“Yup. Chopped all the veggies myself. The beans were canned, though. I didn’t start it till ten, so I had to take the shortcut.”
“It smells delicious. I haven’t had chili in—” She broke off, abruptly letting go of the spoon.
Ethan looked around the refrigerator door. “What happened? Did you just burn yourself?”
“No. It’s just . . .” She paused, flexing her fingers. “I’m fine.”
“Let me see.” He was beside her now, reaching for her hand.
“It’s okay, really. It’s just an old scar. It acts up sometimes. Like pins and needles.”