“Your Mr. Churchill seems determined to drag the entire world into his war,” she observes drily, then tsks in mock disapproval. “Is it really wise to leave at a time like this? When your country needs every able-bodied man on the battlefield?”
I reach for my oiliest smile and throw in a wink. “Can you think of a better time to leave?”
Her face lights up, as if she’s just recognized a friend. “I take it you’re not a fan of war, then?”
“I am of the opinion that war is always to be avoided.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all evening and it seems to please her.
“I see. Are you political, then?”
“Alas,” I say, choosing my next words with special care, “it has been pointed out to me, quite recently in fact, that as a visitor in your country, I am not entitled to be political. At least not on this side of the pond. Though in certain matters, I admit to holding very particular opinions.”
Cee-Cee is clearly intrigued, but before she can ask what those opinions are, I feel your arm wind through mine. “We should keep circulating and give you a chance to meet everyone before we go in to dinner.”
But Cee-Cee quickly checks you, claiming my other arm. Her eyes flash in your direction as she pulls me to her side with a saccharine smile. “Don’t you dare take him away just when we’ve found something in common. Why not make yourself useful and go circulate with the wives? They’re all green to the gills over that dress. And don’t worry about your friend, darling. I’ll see that he gets to the dining room when it’s time.”
You puff up a little, as if you’re about to protest, but in the end, you nod coolly and turn away, clearly annoyed that your sister has stolen your mouse.
SEVEN
ASHLYN
Books may be likened to the people who come into our lives. Some will become precious to us; others will be set aside. The key is to discern which is which.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
September 29, 1984
Portsmouth, New Hampshire
“It was her,” Ethan said, closing Forever, and Other Lies and setting it on the table between them. “It was Marian.”
Ashlyn looked up from Regretting Belle, its cast of guests and white-coated waiters dissolving like a fade shot in a movie. “You’re sure?”
“My father used to talk about spending summers in the Hamptons at a farm called Rose Hollow. And the sister—the woman referred to as Cee-Cee—was almost certainly Corinne Manning, my grandmother. I’ve never laid eyes on the woman, but it all fits.”
Ashlyn’s stomach did a little somersault. Marian. Corinne. Both real. “Belle mentions Cee-Cee a lot, how she practically raised her after their mother died, but there’s not much about her father, except that he was a bit of a tyrant. She doesn’t even give him a name.”
Ethan grimaced at the mention of his great-grandfather. “His name was Martin Manning. Filthy rich according to my father—and a total bastard. He died not long after I was born. A stroke, I think.”
Ashlyn sat a moment with the new information, laying it all out like pieces from a jigsaw puzzle. “I can’t believe it,” she breathed finally. “We actually found her.”
“You found her,” Ethan corrected. “All I did was confirm her identity.”
“And Hemi? Any idea who he might have been?”
“None. And before you ask, I can’t help with Teddy either. Neither name is familiar.”
“I was hoping you could tell me if she ever married him.”
“She never married anyone, as far as I know.”
Ashlyn frowned. “I thought you said you met her kids.”
“Her adopted kids. A boy and a girl. War orphans.”
“She adopted two war orphans? From where?”
“I don’t remember. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever knew. I know she traveled after the war, but I have no idea where. Like I said, the little I do know is from overhearing my parents’ conversations.”
Ashlyn nodded gloomily. “So what happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, where do we go from here?”
Ethan stood and dragged his anorak from the back of the chair. “We don’t go anywhere. Belle was my great-aunt Marian. Mystery solved.”
Ashlyn looked at him in disbelief. “But that’s only a piece of the mystery. Aren’t you curious about the rest of it?”
“Not in the least.”
He was pulling on his jacket now, preparing to leave. Ashlyn pushed to her feet, trailing after him. “Don’t you want to know the rest of the story?”
“I know all I care to about the Manning clan.”
“You’re not curious about who Hemi was and what split them apart?”
“I’m not, actually. But I’m guessing it’s in the books if you keep reading.” They had reached the front of the store. Ethan plucked a copy of the newsletter from the rack near the door and folded it into quarters before stuffing it into his pocket. “I need to run. I’ve got an early class tomorrow. History of American Thought.”
“You’re in school?”
“I’m an adjunct at UNH. Political science.”
Like Daniel, Ashlyn thought, curling her fist around the scar on her palm. But Ethan wasn’t Daniel. He was the great-nephew of Marian Manning—of Belle—and he was about to leave. “Could I . . . If I run across something . . . would it be all right if I called you? I promise not to be a pest. I’d only call if I needed to verify something.”
Ethan shrugged uncomfortably. “I doubt there’d be much I could add, and I’m in the early stages of a new book. I can’t really afford distractions.”
A soft no, but a no nonetheless. Ashlyn stepped around him, flipping the dead bolt to let him out, then decided to try one more time. “I get why you’re not interested in Cee-Cee and Martin, but Hemi—whoever he was—was mad about your aunt, and she was clearly mad about him. Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“We know what happened, don’t we? Somebody done somebody wrong. Because that’s what always happens. Hell, somebody even wrote a song about it.”
“B. J. Thomas. 1975.”
Ethan frowned, then surprised her by breaking into a grin. “Do I want to know how you happen to have that bit of information on the tip of your tongue?”
“I happen to love that song.”
“Okay, never admit that to anyone. Seriously. Never.” He ducked his head sheepishly and nodded toward the window. “Looks like it’s stopped raining.”
“Right.” Ashlyn stepped aside, clearing the path to the door. “Thanks for your help. At least I know Belle’s name now. It’s a place to start.”
A gust of chilly air sailed in as he pulled back the door. He lingered a moment, then turned to look at her. “You don’t know me, so my advice probably isn’t worth much, but I wouldn’t hope too hard for a happy ending if I were you. They don’t run in the Manning side of the family. Or the Hillard side, for that matter. Unless you count my parents, and they were clearly outliers. Anyway, good luck with your sleuthing.”