The Echo of Old Books(89)

“The fire sounds nice.”

“Good. You grab the beers and some napkins. I’ll bring the food.”

He was sliding the Styrofoam containers from the counter when the phone rang. They both went still, looked at the phone, then each other. Ashlyn held her breath as Ethan lifted the receiver, waiting for some sign that the call was what they hoped it was.

“Yes. Thank you. This is Ethan.”

He was quiet a moment, listening, then slid his eyes to Ashlyn’s, nodding. After another moment, he clicked the speakerphone button and laid the handset on the counter. Ashlyn covered her mouth with both hands, smothering a gasp as a women’s voice suddenly filled the kitchen, low and smoky, just the way Hemi had described it.

“My son said you have some letters and cards. Things I sent your father over the years.”

“Yes,” Ethan replied. “I also came across a few photos while clearing out his study. I thought you might like to have them back.”

“Yes,” Marian said without hesitation. “I would, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see your father before he . . . before he died. I was very fond of him.” There was a stretch of silence and then: “Did you happen to find anything else?”

Ethan and Ashlyn exchanged looks.

“The books, you mean?”

“Yes.”

The single word, after such a lengthy pause, felt like a confession somehow. Reluctant. Guilty. “Yes,” Ethan answered. “They were in my father’s study too.”

“Both?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve . . . read them, I take it?”

Ethan hesitated, sliding his eyes back to Ashlyn’s. She nodded. It seemed pointless to lie. “We did, yes. We weren’t sure what they were.”

“Who is we?” Marian asked, sounding strangely wary. “Is there a wife?”

“No. There’s no wife. It’s . . . She’s a friend. She’s the one who actually found the books. We’ve been reading them together.”

“Well, then. I suppose you’d better come up.”

“Up?”

“To Marblehead. You have questions, I’m sure. Can you come on Saturday, you and your . . . friend?”

Ethan looked at Ashlyn, brows raised.

Ashlyn nodded vigorously. It would mean closing for half a day, but there was no way she was passing up an opportunity like this. “In the afternoon,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Ethan said. “We can come. In the afternoon.”

“Come at three and bring the letters. The address is 11 Hathaway Road. It’s at the very end of the earth, so be sure you have a good map and give yourself plenty of time.”

There was a click, followed by empty silence. Ethan hung up the handset and for a moment they stared at each other. “Holy crap,” he said finally. “She actually called. Zachary had me convinced she wouldn’t.”

“She sounds . . . formidable.”

He nodded gravely. “She did. Can you blame her, though? I doubt she ever imagined she’d be dealing with this after forty years.”

“No. Probably not. I notice she didn’t tell you to bring the books. She said bring the letters, but she didn’t include the books.”

“Maybe after all this time, she doesn’t want them back. I’m not sure I would.”

“We’ll bring them, though,” Ashlyn said. “They’re hers.”

Ethan nodded as he went to the fridge for another beer. “Can you really make the trip on Saturday? What about the shop?”

“I’ll close at one and hang a sign on the door. My customers can do without me for half a day.”

“Okay, then. Road trip the day after tomorrow. You know what that means, right?”

“You’re going to need a good map?”

“Yeah, that too. But actually, I was talking about the books. If we’re bringing them back on Saturday, this is probably the last chance we’ll have to read the final pages of Belle’s book. What do you say? Are you up for a little after-dinner reading?”





Forever, and Other Lies

(pgs. 84–85)

December 19, 1941

New York, New York

I’ve made my plans. No one knows what they are yet, though I doubt anyone would try to dissuade me if they did. I’m a pariah now, the architect of my family’s downfall and a glaring example of what happens when a woman follows her passions instead of the rules.

I’ve settled on California after all, a tiny harbor town on the northern coast called Half Moon Bay. No one’s ever heard of the place, but during Prohibition, its craggy, fog-drenched coast made it a favorite of Canadian bootleggers. I must admit, I like the irony. It’s as far away from my family as it’s possible to get just now and as good a place as any to wait out the war. I leave the day after tomorrow. No one will miss me. And I will miss no one. Except you. But then, you were only ever a figment of my imagination.

Still, I owe you one debt. Were it not for you and your precious Goldie, I would never have learned about my mother’s heritage—my heritage now. So for that—and only that—I am grateful.

I have made a trip to Craig House in Beacon, to see the place where she died. I didn’t go in. I meant to, but I couldn’t in the end. Still, I had to see it for myself, to walk its grounds and feel her there. It looked just like the picture in the Review, a gloomy place for all its antiquated grandeur. I’ve decided not to remember her there but to instead hold fast to the memories we made in her room, where we spent so many afternoons, singing and telling stories.