“I have to go,” you say again, as if you haven’t heard me.
“Will you be there tomorrow? At the station?”
I hold my breath, waiting. And then you’re gone.
ELEVEN
ASHLYN
Protracted neglect is both shameful and sad, and will likely result in reduced value, but there is nothing so unsettling, or so unforgivable, as intentionally inflicted damage.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
October 14, 1984
Rye, New Hampshire
Ashlyn rang the bell, then glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see Mrs. Warren and her plump spaniel lurking at the edge of the drive. The last place she’d expected to find herself on this chilly Sunday afternoon was Ethan’s house, but here she was, on his front steps, trying to tamp down her expectations.
She’d been working in the bindery when Ethan called, inviting her over for chili. The invitation had been a pleasant surprise, but it was his hint at some sort of discovery that intrigued her most. He had also asked her to bring Regretting Belle—so they could swap. He wanted to read Hemi’s versions of events too. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who’d become immersed in Belle and Hemi’s story.
Ethan was smiling when he pulled back the door, wearing jeans and a New England Patriots sweatshirt that was badly frayed at the collar. He grinned, noting the direction of her gaze. “No making fun of my lucky sweatshirt. I’ve had it since college.”
Ashlyn eyed him skeptically. “Are you sure it’s lucky? The Pats haven’t exactly been setting the world on fire the last few years.”
The smile morphed into a lopsided grin. “Maybe not, but you watch. One of these days, they’re going to get the right guy under center, and when they do, they’re going to win so many Super Bowls that the entire country will hate them.” He pulled back the door and waved her in. “Come in. It’s wicked cold, as my father would say.”
In the kitchen, Ashlyn stripped off her jacket and scarf. There was a large pot simmering on the stove and the air was fragrant with the mingled aromas of beef and spices.
“Hungry?”
“Starved actually.”
“Me too. I’ve got the game on in the other room, so I can keep up with the score. Are you a football fan?”
“I know the difference between a screen pass and an out route, if that’s what you mean.”
Ethan’s brows shot up. “I’m impressed. Kirsten certainly wasn’t a fan. She found my mild sports addiction enormously aggravating. Your ex was a lucky guy.”
Lucky wasn’t quite how she thought of Daniel, but she decided to let that part of the remark pass. “Actually, Daniel wasn’t a sports fan. I read up on football as a kid because I thought it would get my father’s attention.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“My dad pulled for the Pats, but he was never a huge football fan. He was crazy for baseball, though. Loved the Sox. He used to take me to Fenway when I was a kid. I loved those afternoons. When he was diagnosed and the doctors told us . . .” He looked away briefly. “I wanted to make sure we got back while he could still enjoy it.”
“It’s nice that you made those memories.”
“Yeah. They were good days. Is your dad still alive?”
Ashlyn shifted uncomfortably. “He died when I was sixteen. Not long after my mother.”
Ethan’s face softened. “Sorry. That’s young to lose both parents. Do you have other family? Siblings? Aunts or uncles?”
“Nope. It’s just my books and me.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
The moment seemed to expand, awkward and unfillable, as they stood looking at each other across the counter. It was Ethan who finally looked away. He moved to the stove and gave the pot a stir. “I’m just reheating this, and then we can dish it up. Can I get you a beer? Wine? Soda?”
“A beer would be great, thanks. Can I do anything?”
“You can keep an eye on the chili. Make sure it doesn’t stick.”
Ashlyn lifted the lid from the pot, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam, then picked up the wooden spoon. “You really made this? From scratch?”
“Yup. Chopped all the veggies myself. The beans were canned, though. I didn’t start it till ten, so I had to take the shortcut.”
“It smells delicious. I haven’t had chili in—” She broke off, abruptly letting go of the spoon.
Ethan looked around the refrigerator door. “What happened? Did you just burn yourself?”
“No. It’s just . . .” She paused, flexing her fingers. “I’m fine.”
“Let me see.” He was beside her now, reaching for her hand.
“It’s okay, really. It’s just an old scar. It acts up sometimes. Like pins and needles.”
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.”