“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.
I’ve tried to find the photo album she kept, the one she used to tell her stories—I would like to at least have something of her to take with me—but Cee-Cee claims to have thrown it away. Perhaps it’s best I travel light. There’s so little about this part of my life I wish to remember.
I’ve been back to Rose Hollow too. I don’t know why I went. It’s closed up now for the season, the horses and trainers all gone to Saratoga. The house and barns all shut up until spring. I unlocked the stable and went inside, stood where we stood the first time you kissed me, and tried to remember what you’d said or done to blind me so completely. Not that I’m likely to ever be so foolish again. You’ve taught me a great deal.
The follow-up stories have finally slowed to a drip and the press has at long last decamped, gone away to pick the bones of some other family. This will make my defection easier to achieve, as there are no more reporters loitering on the sidewalks, no uncomfortable questions to slow me down. Time is of the essence now.
I must make a future for myself, carve out a life without you. It will not be the life I imagined for myself, but one way or another, it will be the life I’ll have chosen.
Forever, and Other Lies
（pgs. 86–99）
June 14, 1955
Marblehead, Massachusetts
At long last, I have settled down to write this final chapter. I admit I had to wrestle myself into the chair. The urge to abandon the thing has been pressing on me. It felt pointless when I began it, turning over such settled ground, rattling the bones of ghosts best left quiet. Yet here I sit with the sun streaming in and nothing left to do but place the headstone as it were.
I’ve taken no pleasure in it—words are your realm, not mine—but I felt compelled to correct the many inaccuracies in your version of our unfortunate entanglement. You will, I hope, forgive its technical faults. It’s been some time since I attempted to put feelings to paper, but I have done my best and will send it along to you the moment I’ve had it bound to match yours—via our usual messenger, of course. I will also be returning the sadly warped version you sent me. I certainly don’t want it.
I do hope this will be the last favor my nephew will be asked to perform concerning us. Poor Dickey. He hardly knew what to make of your mysterious package when it arrived. In fact, he nearly tossed it in the trash. How I wish he had. Until it arrived, I had forgotten you. Or was at least content to believe I had.
And now, I, too, will finish with a bit of housekeeping. Not that you deserve a word from me, but I will take some small satisfaction in you knowing that I’ve managed to make a life for myself. A good life, for the most part, once I put myself back together.