The Echo of Old Books(73)

Ashlyn ran her eyes around the room, in search of a distraction. She didn’t want to talk about Daniel, but it felt impolite to refuse when he’d just shared his own story.

Rather than sit beside him, she opted for the edge of the hassock, positioning herself opposite him. She didn’t have to tell it all, but she owed him something. “We met at UNH. I was in one of his classes and we started seeing each other on the quiet. The next thing I knew, we were married. It went off the rails pretty quickly after that, but I stayed. I wasn’t brave.”

“He was the one to leave?”

“No, I left.”

“What finally did it?”

“Coming home at three in the afternoon to find a woman named Marybeth in my kitchen—in my husband’s bathrobe.”

Ethan winced. “Ouch.”

“I moved out that night. I felt like such a fool. I’d heard the rumors. The entire faculty knew what he was. But I was too enthralled to hear any of it. He was so brilliant, so talented. I couldn’t see how manipulative he was—until I could. And even then, I stayed. Until Marybeth. Even I couldn’t unsee that.”

“He was faculty at UNH?”

She nodded. “He taught my creative writing class.”

“Daniel Strayer . . . was your husband?”

Ashlyn wished she weren’t sitting directly across from him. “Did you know him?”

Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

“No, but I’ve heard the name. He’d been let go the month before I started. Reportedly, after being investigated for some extracurricular activity with a student. Was that your doing?”

“No, it wasn’t me. But he thought it was. He thought everything was my fault. The night he died, we met for a drink to settle some of the property stuff. It didn’t go well. And then when we left . . .” She closed her eyes against the memories, then opened them again when she felt Ethan’s touch.

“And then you got this,” he said softly, taking her hand and turning it palm-up.

Ashlyn swallowed, suddenly off-balance. “Yes.”

“Does it still hurt?”

His voice was unsettlingly soft, the room too warm. “No. Not now.”

“I’m glad.”

What was happening? Her heart felt like it was tap-dancing on her rib cage and she couldn’t seem to make her lungs expand. There hadn’t been anyone since Daniel. And not really anyone before him. Certainly no one who made her feel the way she was feeling now.

“You okay?”

She blinked at him, aware that she’d been silent a long time. “Yeah, just . . .”

Ethan abruptly let go of her hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t. It’s just . . . been a while. I guess I’m out of practice. Not that I was ever in practice. I just meant . . .”

Oh god, stop talking, Ashlyn. He touched your hand. He didn’t invite you to his bedroom.

Ethan’s mouth curved softly. “I get it. I haven’t been . . . practicing much either. The divorce wrecked me. And then my dad got sick. There hasn’t been much time for a social life. And to be honest, I’ve never been very good at this part. The wooing thing, I mean. Picking up on signals, social cues. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

It was Ashlyn’s turn to smile. He was nothing like she’d imagined him when he walked into the shop that night. He was charming and funny and kind. “You’re doing fine,” she told him shyly. “Wooing-wise, I mean.”

“We can go slow.”

Feathery little wings seemed to take flight in her belly as she met his gaze. “Slow is good.”





TWELVE


ASHLYN

Books are rib and spine, blood and ink, the stuff of dreams dreamed and lives lived. One page, one day, one journey at a time.

—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books October 17, 1984

Portsmouth, New Hampshire

Ashlyn ran an eye over the legal pad perched on her knees, pleased with her notes for the shop’s annual holiday newsletter. She was working in bed, writing in longhand with Frank Atwater’s favorite Conklin fountain pen. She’d type it up later so the typesetter could read it, but there was something deliciously old-fashioned about creating with pen and ink, like a direct line forged from head to hand.

Normally, the entire issue would be written by now and already at the printer’s, but between the push to complete Gertrude’s Nancy Drew books and the distraction of Hemi’s and Belle’s books, it had slipped her mind entirely. As it was, she was going to have to scramble to beat the printer’s deadline, then get them addressed and mailed.

She had just put down her pen and was considering a cup of tea when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock. Who on earth would be calling at ten o’clock?

“Hello?”

“Is it too late?”

“Ethan?”

The sound of his voice both surprised and pleased her. He’d called on Monday to let her know he’d left a message with Zachary’s assistant. Neither of them had mentioned the awkward moment from the night before, though the memory had drifted into her head several times over the course of the day, accompanied each time by an unsettling flush of warmth.

“Yeah, it’s me. I didn’t wake you, did I?”