The words spilled out like poison—the story of us. Alas, dear Belle, it is a story without a happy ending, with no ending at all really, only these few bitter lines. And so, as the old year dies and a new one begins, I will bring this bloody tale of ours to a close. I’ll have it bound, I think, and make a present of it to you. A souvenir or a trophy. I shall leave that for you to decide.
By the by, it might surprise you to know that every now and then, I find myself thinking about that suitcase, wondering if anyone ever made use of it or if it’s shut up in some attic or basement somewhere, still full of your things. It doesn’t matter—how could it after all these years?
Still, I do wonder.
—H
THIRTEEN
ASHLYN
We develop a particular fondness for our favorite books, the way they feel and smell and sound, the memories they invoke, until they begin to exist for us as living, breathing things.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
October 21, 1984
Rye, New Hampshire
Ashlyn wrapped her arms tight about her body, warding off the breeze pushing in from the harbor. She couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment as Ethan closed the copy of Regretting Belle and set it on the table between their chairs. It felt like the end of a movie, when the credits start to roll and you realize no one’s going to ride off into the sunset. She had known, of course, but it still felt wrong somehow, unfinished.
“I can’t believe that’s really it.”
“For Hemi, at least,” Ethan replied. “There’s still the last of Belle’s book to get through if you want.”
Ashlyn shook her head. “No. Not just now. It’s not like we don’t know how that one ends too.”
Ethan frowned. “You sound sad.”
“I am, a little. I guess I’m used to books where all the loose ends are tied up in a pretty bow. I knew this one wouldn’t end with soaring violins, but it feels unfinished and I’m not sure why. After everything, he never stopped loving her.”
“Or hating her, apparently.”
“He didn’t hate her, Ethan.”
“What would you call it?”
“Despair,” Ashlyn said quietly. “He was heartbroken. Grieving for someone he’d lost. So was Belle. They only pretended to hate one another. Because it felt safer, stronger.”
Ethan shrugged. “Maybe. But to just no-show like that was pretty harsh. She could have let him know she wasn’t coming. Instead, she bailed. Just left him hanging.”
The response should have surprised Ashlyn but didn’t. She’d noticed it several times this week, the faint but palpable friction that had started creeping into their conversation, as if they’d each unconsciously stepped into the story and assumed their respective gender roles. Without meaning to, they had chosen sides.
“She didn’t leave him hanging, Ethan. She sent him a letter, presumably to tell him she was coming. If anyone bailed, it was Hemi. Can you imagine what it must have felt like to walk into that empty apartment?”
“About the same as finding yourself alone on a train platform, I imagine. And we don’t know what the letter said. We only know what Belle implies. What we do know is how Hemi reacted after reading it. He went straight for the gin, and it clearly wasn’t to pour himself a celebratory shot. I’m not sure I blame him for disappearing. She’d been dragging her feet for weeks. How many times was he supposed to give her the benefit of the doubt? At some point, you have to call it, don’t you?”
“Maybe. But something doesn’t add up. You said it yourself; we don’t know what the letter said. You’re assuming from Hemi’s reaction that it was a Dear John letter, but why would Belle show up at his apartment if she’d just given him the boot? She expected him to be there, waiting for her.”
“That argument goes both ways. If Hemi honestly believed she was coming and all was forgiven, why disappear? The only logical explanation is that the letter was a polite kiss-off.”
“And to get even, he went ahead and published the story?”
Ethan blew out a breath. “I’m not saying it was right, but at that point, what did he have to lose?”
“He denies having anything to do with it.”
Ethan nodded, though not convincingly. “He does. But both things can’t be true, can they? People rewrite history, Ashlyn. They clean up their messes, often by dumping them over someone else’s fence. I’m pretty sure that’s what we’ve been reading. Two people trying to tidy up an ugly breakup.”
Ashlyn tipped her head back, watching the clouds overhead shred in the wind. Perhaps Ethan was right. Perhaps they were both to blame and hoped to exonerate themselves by rewriting the narrative. Over time, they may even have come to believe their own version of events. A lie, repeated often enough, eventually became the truth. Daniel taught her that. And yet the discrepancies between Belle’s and Hemi’s versions continued to niggle.
She looked at Ethan squarely, not ready to concede his point. “Does Hemi strike you as the kind of guy who’d go back on his word out of spite?”
Ethan propped his elbows on the railing and looked out over the harbor. “Under normal circumstances, no. But Goldie waved a fistful of cash at precisely the right moment, and Hemi—a.k.a. Steven Schwab—appears to have accepted her offer.”
It was true, though Ashlyn hated to admit it. Hemi had both means and motive, and the evidence suggesting he and Steven Schwab were one and the same was hard to deny. “I called Ruth a few days ago and asked her to try to find the actual story. Unfortunately, there isn’t much out there from the Review. The paper shut down in 1946, but maybe the piece is still floating around on microfilm somewhere.”
“And then what? Say we find the story. What have we proven? Come to that, why do we need to prove anything? The truth is we’re never going to know for sure who did what to whom, and it doesn’t matter. Whether we learn the truth or not, nothing changes. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think it’s time to admit we’re running out of road.”
Ashlyn answered with a grudging nod. “I just can’t help feeling we’ve missed something. They loved each other. Enough to throw away everything in order to be together. And then something went wrong. Something that shouldn’t have. You don’t find it strange that they’re both so bitter, both convinced that they were the real victim?”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “Have you ever known a couple who split up where both parties didn’t think they were the real victim? If you ask me, it’s a whitewash job on both their parts.”
“I don’t believe that,” Ashlyn shot back. “I don’t believe they were trying to create an alternate version of history. They believed every word they wrote.”
“Just wanting something to be true doesn’t make it true, Ashlyn.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. But this isn’t me just wanting it to be true, Ethan. It is true. I’m certain of it.”
Ethan cocked an eye at her. “You’re certain?”
Ashlyn bit her lip, checking an impulse to blurt out that yes, she was certain. And why she was certain. He didn’t understand. But then, how could he? Unless she told him everything.