Marian stepped back from the doorway, nodding with what felt like resignation. “Come in, then, and take off your coats. I suspect you’ll be staying awhile.”
The smell of lemon oil and beeswax greeted them as they stepped inside. The entry hall was long and low with a beamed ceiling and gleaming dark-paneled walls. There was a wide staircase with a heavy banister leading to the second floor, and the collection of heavily framed artwork ascending up the wall gave the space a slightly museum-like feel.
Marian hung up their coats, then led them through a parlor furnished with an impressive collection of eighteenth-century antiques, all polished to a high sheen. It was a beautiful room, spacious and surprisingly bright despite the mostly dark furniture, but the real showpiece was a stunning baby grand that took up one full corner of the room.
Ashlyn squinted to read the lettering stenciled in gold above the keys. SAUTER. She wasn’t familiar with the name, but it was clearly an expensive instrument. “What a beautiful piano.”
“Zachary’s,” Marian said, her face softening ever so slightly. “I bought it when he was ten. He discovered the violin the following year. It’s been gathering dust ever since, but I can’t bear to get rid of it. I keep telling myself I’ll learn to play one day, but I never do anything about it. It’s handy for displaying pictures, though.” She pointed to the small collection of framed photos reflected in the piano’s glossy black surface. “That’s him in the black frame, taken three or four years ago now.”
Ashlyn studied the face in the photograph, lean and undeniably handsome. Piercing blue eyes; a thin, straight nose; a heavy wave of dark hair pushed back off his forehead. But it was his mouth, full and faintly sensual, that held her attention. Perhaps it had to do with the smile he seemed to be suppressing. It reminded her of his boyhood photos. Even then, he’d had an infectious smile.
“He’s very handsome,” Ashlyn said. “Beautiful eyes.”
“He was always a charmer. That’s Ilese in the red frame. His sister.”
The photo was reminiscent of those she had seen of Ilese as a child, the same light eyes and strawberry-blonde mane, the same sober expression. Her head was tipped to one side, but her gaze as she faced the camera was clear and unflinching, almost brash.
“Such a serious girl,” Marian said fondly. “But a fierce heart.”
“I can see that,” Ashlyn said, smiling.
Marian stepped to the doorway, waving them through. “I was about to brew a pot of tea when you arrived. I thought we’d go out to the sunporch to talk.”
They passed through a formal dining room with deep-red walls, a long table with seating for ten, and an antique sideboard lined with colorful plates and pitchers. It was like something from a magazine, everything polished and picture-perfect.
The kitchen was large and almost startlingly bright, with a bank of windows looking out over a pebbled beach and a small placid cove. Beyond the cove, a blue-gray sea stretched toward the horizon, flat and shimmery under the autumn sun. A farm table of scrubbed pine sat in front of the windows, adorned with a simple vase of sunflowers. On the opposite wall, a hutch lined with stoneware pitchers gave the room a French country feel, in stark contrast to the more formal living and dining rooms.
“So you’re Ethan,” Marian said, running her amber eyes over him with a peculiar intensity.
“I am.”
“You look like your father. He was always a good-looking boy. You’re taller, though. Zachary says you’re teaching at the University of New Hampshire and that you’ve written several books. Dickey must have been so proud of you, following in his footsteps. A teacher and a writer.”
Ethan frowned. “I don’t remember us talking about my work.”
“You didn’t. Zachary did a little checking after he spoke to you, to make sure you were . . . aboveboard. A pretty basic guy was how he described you. Thirty-two. Professor. Writer. Divorced. No children.”
“What, no credit report?”
Marian’s lips curled faintly. “Don’t bristle. Zachary’s just protective. And it seems only fair, with you knowing all my secrets, that I know at least a little about you—to level the playing field, as it were.” She looked at Ashlyn then, assessing her coolly. “You’re the friend. The one who found the books.”
“Yes,” Ashlyn said awkwardly. “I’m Ashlyn. Ashlyn Greer.” She remembered the books suddenly and, after a bit of fumbling, extracted them from her tote.
Marian eyed them almost warily, her hands pinned to her sides, as if she were afraid to even touch them. “Put them over there,” she said finally. “On the hutch.”
Ashlyn did as she was told, placing the books beside a blue-and-white spatterware bowl, then pulled out the packet of cards and letters and laid them on top. She exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Ethan as Marian proceeded to prepare the tea, equipping a lacquered tray with cups and saucers, and a plate of sugar-dusted cookies. The tension was palpable as the minutes spun out, marked only by the steady ticktock of the clock above the stove.
When the tea was finally ready, Marian lifted the tray and nodded toward a pair of french doors. “Get that, will one of you? It’s too cold to go out on the deck, but the view’s almost as nice on the porch, and it’s much warmer.”
The porch was fashioned entirely of glass, like a greenhouse, and ran nearly the full length of the house. Ashlyn went still as she took in the view, a stunning vista of sea and sky. She hadn’t realized the back of the house hovered out over the water. The realization left her a little dizzy. “It’s like standing at the edge of the world,” she said with undisguised awe. “It’s breathtaking.”
Marian’s face softened into a near smile. “It’s why I bought the place. I glassed in the porch so I could enjoy it all year round.”
They settled at a white wicker table with chairs covered in floral chintz. Marian filled three pretty china cups and handed them around. “Help yourself to cream and sugar, and the cookies are fresh from the bakery downtown.”
Another awkward silence fell, this one marked by the clinking of spoons as they quietly doctored their tea. Ashlyn had just reached for a cookie when Marian set down her spoon and turned her gaze on Ethan.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t at either of your parents’ funerals. Dickey and I had fallen out by the time your mother got sick, but I would have been there for him if I had known. And then he got sick. I was out of the country when he died. I didn’t find out until I got back and a friend mentioned seeing it in the paper. If I hadn’t been so pigheaded . . . I didn’t know you at all, but I felt so badly. I should have at least called.”
“It was as much my fault as yours,” Ethan said. “It honestly never crossed my mind to get in touch with you. Growing up, you were just a name. But I knew you and my father were close for a while.”
“We were.” She sighed, as if the memory pained her. “We were very close. He was always better than the rest of us. Even as a boy. And dependable. That’s why we ended up reconnecting after I came back from France. I needed a favor, so I looked him up.”