The Echo of Old Books(70)
Ethan caught her hand and gently unfurled her fingers. He frowned as he peered at her palm. “That’s one hell of a scar. What happened?”
Ashlyn squirmed under his regard. She didn’t want to talk about the scar. Or the day she’d gotten it. The memories were still too raw. And always too close to the surface.
After weeks of dodging phone calls, she had agreed to meet Daniel for a drink. He’d pressed for dinner, thinking he could charm her out of going through with the divorce, but her objective for the meeting had been to decide who got the couch and which albums belonged to whom. It hadn’t gone well and she’d ended up walking out.
She had just crossed the street to head back to the shop when she heard her name and turned. Daniel stood on the opposite side of the street, wearing his this-isn’t-over expression. Time seemed to slow as he stepped off the curb. There was a white panel van and the sickening skid of tires, then a jarring thump as Daniel’s body somersaulted up onto the hood, then landed back on the pavement. Suddenly the air was full of shattered glass, shiny shards catching the light as they rained down into the street.
She’d barely noticed the cut, too numb to feel anything as she registered the slick of dark blood already pooling beneath Daniel’s head, the impossible angles of his arms and legs. Killed instantly, the coroner’s report said. A small mercy, but the sound of shattering glass still woke her now and then, along with Daniel’s last words to her. Words she’d never repeated to anyone. Not even her therapist.
“It happened the night Daniel died,” she replied finally, uncomfortably aware that Ethan had yet to let go of her hand. “There was a van carrying a huge sheet of glass. When it struck him, glass went everywhere. At some point, I cut myself. I didn’t know until one of the medics noticed the blood dripping from my hand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She withdrew her hand, tucking it out of sight. “Let’s eat. You can tell me how far you’ve gotten with Belle’s book and I’ll bring you up to speed on Hemi’s. There have been some pretty significant developments since we talked. Plus, there are some things about your family—about Martin specifically—that I should warn you about before you start reading. It’s . . . not nice.”
Ethan nodded somberly. “To be honest, I’d be shocked if it was nice, but I think I’d prefer to read it for myself. It’s not like I’m emotionally vested in any of it. They’re basically strangers.”
Ashlyn wondered. It was one thing to grow up knowing your great-grandfather was a bully. It was another to learn he might have been complicit in the death of his wife.
“Are you sure? We’re talking about some pretty disturbing stuff.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Let’s eat. When we’re finished, I’ve got something to show you.”
It felt like Christmas morning as Ashlyn followed Ethan upstairs to the study. She’d done her best while they ate not to grill him about what he’d found, though it hadn’t been easy. Instead, they had discussed the ins and outs of bookbinding and the curriculum Ethan was developing for a class he hoped to teach next year. Now, finally, her patience was about to be rewarded.
Ethan flipped on the light as they entered. “Sorry about the mess. I thought I’d be through it all in a couple of hours, but I got sidetracked.”
Ashlyn stood at the center of the room, surveying the chaos. Eight cartons of assorted files and office paraphernalia scattered in a messy semicircle with several half-full trash bags stationed nearby. “You weren’t kidding when you said your father was a pack rat.”
Ethan bent down and plucked something off the carpet. It was a paperweight, a clear glass sphere with a deep-blue teardrop at its heart. He stared at it as he rolled it around in his palm. “The man could come up with a reason for hanging on to anything. Didn’t matter what it was, he’d find a reason. It drove my mother nuts, but in this case, it was a good thing.”
He waved her over to the desk. The old typewriter was still there, with the same blank sheet of paper wilting over the carriage, but the crumpled pages that had littered the floor were gone. Reaching around her, he opened the middle drawer and extracted a small bundle of papers. “I found these in one of the boxes. The last box, as luck would have it, tied with a piece of ribbon.”
“What are they?”
“Letters. Cards. Photos. From Marian to my father.”
Ashlyn felt a little thrill as she dropped into the chair Ethan had pulled out for her and accepted the stack of correspondence. Unfortunately, the envelopes all seemed to be missing, which meant there were no return addresses. She lifted the first item from the stack, a birthday card with a set of golf clubs on the front. Happy Birthday, Nephew. It was dated 1956, signed simply, Marian. But there was a brief note jotted in cursive on the opposite side. Thinking of you and Catherine. Kids are fine. We send our love.
There were several more cards. Birthday mostly, but there was also a blue-and-silver Hanukkah card with a menorah on the front. Wishing You Peace and Light. Each card included a brief note, mentions of the children mostly, but there was nothing earth-shattering about any of them.
Next came a handful of letters, newsy but bland. Talk about the weather, about trips she’d recently taken, the work she continued to do on behalf of displaced children around the world. One included a pair of photos. She peered at the backs of both. Ilese, age 11. Zachary, 13.