“I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry about disturbing you while you were working.”
Ashlyn was waiting for a response when she realized Ethan’s attention had drifted away. She turned, following his gaze, and spotted a plump woman in a lavender tracksuit hovering at the end of the drive with an equally plump springer spaniel. At first glance, it appeared she was having trouble with the dog’s leash, but a closer look suggested her attention was actually trained on them.
“That’s Mrs. Warren,” Ethan said. “Our one-woman neighborhood-watch committee.” He smiled tightly, offering the woman an almost comic wave. “I used to steal pickles from her backyard when I was a kid. Whole jars snatched right off her picnic table. She told my mother I’d end up in prison. She’s been keeping an eye on me since I moved back, waiting for me to slip up. You’d better come in before she pegs you as my accomplice. I’m sure she’s already memorized your license plate.”
Ashlyn was surprised by the invitation but happily followed him inside. At the last minute, she turned in the doorway to throw Mrs. Warren a wave.
Ethan snorted as he closed the door behind them. “That should have tongues wagging by morning.”
“Sorry. Busybodies make me crazy. They love to peek through your blinds, but most of them wouldn’t lift a finger if your house caught fire.”
Ethan’s brows shot up. “Is that the voice of experience speaking?”
“Something like that.”
They were standing in a large foyer with polished parquet floors and an enormous mirror that caught the light from an overhead fixture of bronze and cut glass. Beyond a curved archway, Ashlyn caught a glimpse of a spacious parlor decorated in soft shades of cream and gray.
“What a beautiful room.”
“Care for the full tour?”
She nodded sheepishly. “If you can spare the time.”
Ethan said little as he led her from room to room, pointing out a feature here and there but otherwise leaving the rooms to speak for themselves. The house was a study in sophistication and style but with an unfussy cohesion running throughout. Smartly papered walls, fabrics in cool, sedate hues, furnishings chosen for comfort rather than show.
“It’s all so beautiful,” she said when they arrived back at the kitchen. “Like something out of House & Garden but still warm and welcoming.”
“Thanks. My mother’s doing. When she found out she was sick, she decided to redecorate the place from top to bottom. So everything would be shipshape for my father. And for me when he passed away. That’s how she was, always thinking about everybody else. She drove herself crazy to get it right. She was afraid she wouldn’t finish in time.”
Ashlyn flashed back to the boxes she’d gone through before coming across Regretting Belle and the echoes she’d inadvertently picked up. Echoes belonging to someone who was sick and afraid of running out of time. Echoes she now realized had belonged to Ethan’s mother.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “What was her name?”
“Catherine.”
“She sounds lovely.”
Ethan smiled, but there was sadness there too. “She was. And a real fighter. They gave her a year when she was diagnosed. She hung in for three.”
“And she spent them making sure things would be easier for you and your dad when she was gone.”
“That’s who she was. She made dozens of lists, phone numbers for all the neighbors, who to call to fix this or that, where she kept the important papers. She even made the housekeeper swear to stay on and look after my father. Now she looks after me. Or tries to.”
Ashlyn managed a smile, but she couldn’t help comparing the choices her mother had made in the wake of her diagnosis to those of Catherine Hillard, who had done everything in her power to ensure those she loved were looked after. She had chosen to stay. Chosen to fight.
They had wandered back to the kitchen now. Ethan pointed to the stove, where a large pot sat on the back burner. “Can I interest you in a bowl of seafood chowder?”
“You made chowder?”
“Does that seem so impossible?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that Daniel was hopeless in the kitchen. I doubt he could have found a soupspoon, let alone make actual soup.”
“Daniel’s your ex?”
“Almost ex,” she corrected awkwardly. “He died before our divorce was final.”
“An accident?”
Ashlyn looked away. She hated the question. Mostly because she never knew quite how to answer. “He was hit by a car. A truck, actually. Four years ago.”
“Damn. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
A silence fell, growing weighty as the seconds ticked by. Ethan stepped to the stove and lifted the lid from the soup pot, peering at the contents. “In the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t actually make the chowder. Penny, my inherited housekeeper, brought it by this morning. She’s convinced I’ll starve to death if she doesn’t feed me at least twice a week and I’ve stopped trying to convince her she’s wrong. Her chowder’s practically legendary and there’s always enough for an army.” He paused, lifting his brows. “I’m happy to share.”
“No. Really. I didn’t come to make a pest of myself.” Ashlyn pulled the book from beneath her arm and laid it on the butcher-block counter. “I’ll just leave this if that’s all right. Maybe you can look at the pages I marked and the questions I jotted down.”
Ethan eyed the book with its yellow sticky notes. “What kind of questions?”
“About Goldie Spencer, mostly.”
“Who’s Goldie again?”
“I mentioned her the night you came to the shop, but I only had a nickname then. Her real name was Geraldine Spencer. She inherited her father’s newspaper business when she was just twenty-one and used it to expose corruption. Hemi used to work for her, although it’s starting to look like their relationship went deeper than that. And there’s a new name I’m hoping might be familiar. Steven Schwab. It’s all on the sticky notes, which are attached to the corresponding pages. And there are some photocopies at the back. Pictures I hoped might be familiar.”
Ethan removed the book from its protective sleeve and ran a thumb over the protruding yellow Post-its. “That’s a lot of notes.”
“I know. And I know you don’t really care about the books, but I was hoping you could clarify some of the things I’ve discovered.”
“All right,” Ethan said grudgingly. “I’ll take a look. But chowder first. I’m starving. We can talk while we eat. Can you make a salad? The stuff’s in the crisper. You might want to shuck the jacket, though.”
Ashlyn nodded as she peeled off her jacket, then stepped to the fridge.
Ethan flipped on the stove and pulled a wooden spoon from a nearby drawer. “You said you have questions about some new things you learned. What kind of things are we talking about?”
Ashlyn ran through her mental list of questions. There were so many she hardly knew where to begin. “Marian mentioned writing poetry when she was a girl. I was wondering if any of her poems might still exist. I was also hoping you’d be able to scare up an old photo or two.”