Marian nodded, appearing to accept his answer, then turned back to Ashlyn. “What is your interest, Miss Greer? Why have you gone to so much trouble?”
Ashlyn felt pinned by those large, wide-set eyes, uncomfortably exposed. How could she answer truthfully without mentioning the echoes? “I thought they were beautiful,” she replied earnestly. “And heartbreaking. I kept hoping there would be a different ending. It was like there was a piece of the story missing, like something had been left out.”
“What?”
The one-word response erupted from Marian like a hiccup, involuntary and abrupt. Ashlyn took a sip of her tea, then lingered for a second sip. Had she imagined it? The startled blink? The almost imperceptible stiffening of her shoulders? Without meaning to, she had overstepped.
“I only meant we wish things could have turned out differently.”
“So do I. But never mind about that.” She smiled suddenly, a broad, almost beatific smile that made Ashlyn faintly nervous. “You said we just now. I assume you were referring to yourself and Ethan. Are you and my great-nephew an item, as we used to say in my day? I can’t quite make the two of you out.”
All at once, Ashlyn understood the smile. She had turned the tables, deploying a personal question of her own to throw her opponent off guard. Clever. Effective, too, she realized, since she had absolutely no idea how to respond.
“We’re still trying to make each other out,” Ethan said, jumping in to fill the silence. “We only met a few weeks ago.”
Marian’s smile lost its sharp edges. “Because of the books?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad,” she said quietly, her gaze drifting back to the window. “Glad to know something good has come from all the hurt.” She rose then and flicked on a pair of lamps at the far end of the porch. “It’s getting dark so early now. Will you stay for supper? Nothing fancy. Just some stew I threw together this morning. But I’ve got a good Burgundy to go with it and some fresh bread from the bakery.”
Ethan looked at Ashlyn. “Do you need to get back?”
“Please don’t rush off,” Marian said with a hopeful smile. “Stay awhile and let me look at you. It’s nice to remember Dickey, and there’s so much catching up to do. I promise to answer all your questions if you stay. Or most of them, at any rate.”
SIXTEEN
ASHLYN
Enemies exist in many forms, all of which may affect both longevity and well-being. One must at all times be vigilant against invaders, both seen and unseen.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
Marian hadn’t lied about the Burgundy. Apparently, she’d developed quite a palate during her time in France and maintained a nice cellar. Halfway through the stew, Ethan had opened a second bottle. Now they lingered around the table in Marian’s large, bright kitchen, sipping from enormous balloon glasses while Marian talked about the nonprofit she’d started almost thirty years ago and the work they continued to do around the world.
Eventually, and perhaps predictably, she moved on to her children, bragging about their many accomplishments. Zachary had become one of the world’s most sought-after violinists, performing for heads of state all over the world, and had just rejoined the Chicago Symphony after a five-month European tour. He and his fiancée were planning to marry in the spring. Ilese was currently a professor of women’s studies at Yeshiva University in New York and the mother of three beautiful girls.
It made Ashlyn happy to know that after all the heartache, Marian had enjoyed a full and happy life. “To the proud grandma,” she said, raising her glass to their hostess. “How old are your granddaughters?”
“Lida is six, Dalia is eight, and Mila, who I call my big girl, is eleven. I wish they lived closer. I miss them since they moved away, but Ilese brings them to see me when she can. And I’ll see them next week when I’m in Boston.”
“You’re going to Boston?”
“There’s an awards banquet, a lifetime achievement award. It’s to do with the foundation.” She paused for a sip of wine, then made a face. “That’s how you know you’re getting old. They start giving you lifetime achievement awards. It’s nice of them, but honestly, I’d rather they just mail me the thing. I’m not much on cities these days, but Ilese and the girls are coming to the banquet, which will be nice. They all got new dresses, so they’re very excited.”
Ethan reached across the table to refill their glasses before topping off his own. “You haven’t mentioned your sister.”
Marian’s smile evaporated. “Your grandmother?”
“Corinne, yes. Is she still alive?”
“I assume so. I haven’t heard otherwise, though I doubt I would have been notified. We haven’t spoken since I came home with the children. Almost thirty-five years.”
“And the rest of her kids? I know about Robert’s plane being shot down and that one of the girls passed away a few years back, but I don’t know anything about the others.”
“Anne and Christine.” She shrugged. “I’ve no idea where they are now. I burned all those bridges, I’m happy to say. Zachary and Ilese are my family. And my mother’s people in France. The children grew very attached to their cousins during our visit. They’re still in touch, I’m happy to say.”
Visit? The word came as a surprise to Ashlyn. “I just assumed you adopted Ilese and Zachary while you were in France. You didn’t mention them in the book.”
Marian flashed Ashlyn a look of annoyance. “I didn’t see the need to mention them. They have nothing to do with what happened back then—nothing to do with him.”
“I only meant I wasn’t clear on the timing. I thought you adopted them because of your work with the OSE.”
Marian’s expression softened, as it did anytime she spoke of her children. “It was the other way around, actually. My work with the OSE while I was abroad was because of the children. I saw the toll war took on families long before I ever set foot in France. The European refugees—the ones who came over before we stopped accepting them—told terrible stories about what was happening back home. One of them, an Austrian woman who’d fled the Nazis, became my friend when I lived in California. Johanna Meitner was her name. Wait . . . I have a picture of her.”
She left the kitchen briefly, returning moments later with a photograph in a simple silver frame. She handed it to Ashlyn. “That’s her. Johanna.”
Ashlyn studied the face staring back at her from behind the small rectangle of glass. An angular face with sad, pale eyes and a thick fringe of straw-colored hair. She’d been a beauty once, but something—the war, presumably—had dimmed that beauty, leaving her with a vaguely haunted expression. She also appeared to be supporting a gently rounded belly.
“Was she pregnant when this was taken?”
Marian took back the frame, hugging it to her chest. “She was.” Her eyes glazed over as she continued to speak, her voice flat and almost robotic, as if she were retrieving the story from some dark place in her memory. “Her husband, Janusz, was a violinist with influential connections. When he learned Johanna was pregnant, he used those connections to arrange for her and their son to leave Austria and come to the States. He was supposed to follow a few weeks later, but he was caught with forged papers and arrested. He died a short time later in one of the camps. She never learned which, but it didn’t matter. He was gone and she was alone in a strange country, with a baby on the way.”