The smile slips the instant the woman departs, gone as suddenly as it appeared. You look deflated without it, less shiny somehow, so that I almost feel sorry for you. It’s the last thing I expected to feel this evening and I find myself annoyed. Sympathy is an indulgence men in my line of work can ill afford.
I incline my head, the barest of nods. “If I didn’t know better—and I suppose I don’t—I might almost think the lady unhappy. Which is surprising, considering she’s managed to land one of the most eligible bachelors in all of New York. Oil. Property. Horses. Quite the specimen too. A golden boy, one might say.”
You stiffen, piqued by my tone. And by the fact that I’ve seen through your shiny veneer. “You seem to know quite a lot about my fiancé. Are you a friend of Teddy’s?”
“Not a friend, no. But I know a little about your young man and his family. Interesting collection of friends they’ve managed to surround themselves with. Not all top-shelf but definitely . . . useful.”
A hard little crease appears between your brows. “Useful?”
I respond with a chilly smile. “Everyone needs friends in low places, don’t you think?”
You’re off-balance now. You don’t know what to make of my words. Are they a threat? A request for an introduction? A sexual reference? You raise your glass to your lips, forgetting you’ve already drained it, then lower it again with a huff. “Are you here by invitation?”
“I am, yes. Though I fear my date’s gone missing. She stepped away some time ago to powder her nose and hasn’t returned.”
“And who might your date be? I hate to ask, only it is my party.”
“I’m here with Goldie,” I say simply, because no last name is necessary when talking about Goldie.
Your nostrils flare at the mention of her name. “I would have thought someone who seems so concerned with the quality of my fiancé’s friends would be more careful about his own choice of companions.”
“I take it you don’t approve?”
“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove. I just wasn’t aware that she’d been invited. I’m not accustomed to rubbing elbows with the sort of woman who’d own a string of gossip rags.”
“Only one is a ‘gossip rag,’ as you call it. The rest are legitimate newspapers.”
You toss your head and look away.
“You don’t think a woman belongs in the newspaper business?”
Your eyes snap back to mine, sharp and overbright. “I think a woman belongs in whatever business she chooses, so long as it’s respectable. But that woman . . .” You go quiet as a waiter approaches, exchanging your empty champagne glass for a full one. You take a small sip, waiting until he’s moved away, then lean close. “You should know that there’s nothing remotely respectable about that woman.”
“I take it this is about her stable of young men?”
You blink at me, startled by my bluntness. Or at least pretending to be. You’re the kind who judges on superficialities rather than bothering to learn what might lie beneath. Disappointing, but probably better for me in the long run.
“You knew? And you still came with her? To an event like this?”
“She had an invitation and I wanted to come.”
“Why?”
“To see your sort in their natural habitat. Besides, she makes no secret of it. To me or anyone else.”
“And you’re comfortable being part of a . . . stable?”
I shrug, relishing your outrage. “It’s a matter of symbiosis, an arrangement that works for both of us.”
“I see.”
Your cheeks have gone a deep shade of pink and I’m reminded once again how young you are. Five years my junior, but for a man, those years amount to an eternity. Perhaps you’ve been sheltered from the real world of men and women, from how it all . . . works. Suddenly I find myself wondering exactly what you do know—and how you know it. I fight the urge to step back, to put distance between us. You feel dangerous all of a sudden, the pristine coolness of you at odds with the low flame that’s begun to flicker in my belly. I clear my throat, force my brain to pick up the thread of our conversation.
“It’s sweet of you to worry about my reputation, but I’m a big boy. I will give you a word of advice, though. Sometimes a silk purse is really a sow’s ear—and vice versa.”
You look at me, baffled. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that in my experience, a rough exterior often masks something quite fine, while a sheen of respectability frequently disguises the opposite.”
Your nostrils flare again, as if scenting the enemy. I am the enemy—or will be when you know me better. For now, though, you’re intrigued by our wordplay. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. Closer to your real smile, I think, though held carefully in check.
“Is this your idea of clever party banter? Tortured metaphors?”
“Just a reminder that people aren’t always who they pretend to be.”
You sweep your eyes over me, slow, assessing. “Does that go for you as well?”
It’s my turn to restrain a smile. “Oh, me most of all.”
I nod politely then and step away. I’ve just spotted Goldie, who has reappeared with a fresh coat of shellac in place and a keen light in her eye. I join her at one of the bars, glad for the gin and tonic she presses into my hand. I take a long pull, fighting the urge to glance back at you. You’re a thread I don’t dare pull. Not because I’m afraid you won’t survive the unraveling but because I’m certain—even in this early moment—that I won’t.
Eventually, I do turn, though, and find your eyes still on me, and I realize that even at this distance, I’m not safe. You’re simply dazzling, an icy-cool Eve in your slithery teal silk—the belle of the ball.
Belle.
It’s how I thought of you that night, how I’ll always think of you. Not by the name your family gave you but as my Belle. Because I sense it again as I pretend not to feel your eyes on me, the certainty that there’s another woman hiding behind that chilly facade—one who has nothing to do with the glittering charade playing out around her.
Or perhaps it’s only what I need to believe now—these many years later as I sit at my typewriter, spilling it all out—a delusion I cling to because it’s easier than admitting I could ever have let myself be so thoroughly deceived.
THREE
ASHLYN
Beneath each faded jacket and scarred board is a life, a noble deed, a bruised heart, a lost love, a journey taken.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
September 26, 1984
Portsmouth, New Hampshire
Ashlyn sipped her coffee with closed eyes, fighting a dull headache and a vaguely queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach. It happened sometimes after handling a book with intense echoes. Like a hangover or early symptoms of the flu. She knew better than to spend long stretches of time with a book like Regretting Belle. Dark books, she called them, books with echoes too intense to be shelved with regular stock.
The fact that customers didn’t know about the existence of echoes didn’t mean they couldn’t feel them. She’d seen firsthand the effects a dark book could have on the unsuspecting. Dizziness. Headache. An unexpected rush of tears. Once, a customer had pulled a copy of Vanity Fair from the shelf and been so overcome she had to ask for a glass of water. Poor woman. That was the day Ashlyn decided to purge the shelves.