She’d hung a CLOSED FOR INVENTORY sign on the door and over the course of the next three days had gone shelf by shelf, touching every book in the store, culling those with echoes she deemed too dark to be handled by the unsuspecting. There had been twenty-eight in all, some quite valuable. They were all safely out of reach now, quarantined in a glass-front cabinet in the shop’s storeroom. Regretting Belle would almost certainly end up there when she finished it.
She eyed the book, lying beside her tote now on the kitchen counter. After three readings, the opening chapter had imprinted itself on her brain. An incendiary first meeting between lovers—at an engagement party, no less. Hardly an auspicious beginning. But then, the title made it clear that there would be no happy ending for the lovers.
Which probably explained why she hadn’t been able to bring herself to move on to chapter two. The truth was she still hadn’t decided what it was she’d been reading. Was it a memoir? The first chapter of a novel? A beautifully bound Dear Jane letter? She had no idea. What she did know was that allowing herself to become immersed in a doomed romance—even one in a book—wasn’t a particularly good idea. Not when she’d fought so hard to pull herself back from the brink after her own marriage had imploded in such spectacular fashion.
A series of affairs, a divorce not quite finalized, and a death she hadn’t seen coming. And yet it hadn’t seemed right to call herself a widow after Daniel died—nor could she accurately call herself divorced, though their marriage had effectively ended months before. And so she’d found herself in a kind of limbo, with a brand-new therapist and no idea what came next. Once again, she had retreated to her safe place. But safety had come at a price.
She was painfully aware of the contraction her life had undergone over the last four years. Her lack of a social life or any serious professional circle. Her strict avoidance of anything that might lead to romantic involvement. It made for a narrow existence, a blur of sameness with little to distinguish one day from the next. On the other hand, there were no disasters, which made the sameness worth it. Most of the time.
Perhaps that explained why she found Regretting Belle so compelling. Because it offered an escape from the sameness, a journey that didn’t require leaving the relative safety of shore.
But it was more than that and she had known it the moment she opened the book in Kevin’s back room. There was a connection she couldn’t quite identify, something prickly and familiar lurking beneath all the bitterness and betrayal—a sense of things left unfinished. It was how her own life felt, as if she’d been placed in a state of suspension, waiting, breath held, for some unseen shoe to drop. Like an interrupted story or an unresolved chord.
The realization was an uncomfortable one. And not easily set aside now that she was aware of it. All because a guy from Rye had dropped off a couple of cartons of books at Kevin’s shop.
Not that it was the first time she’d been caught off guard by a book’s echoes. It happened quite often, actually. Secrets so scandalous, they singed the tips of her fingers. Sadness that felt like a stone lodged in her throat. Joy so fierce, it made her scalp prickle. There wasn’t much she hadn’t come across. But she’d never experienced anything close to what she felt while holding Regretting Belle.
Her eyes slid to the book. Even closed, she could feel the pull of it, the allure of its anonymity, its careful, inscrutable prose, beckoning to be read after who knew how long.
And the echoes.
Over the years, she’d come to think of them the way a perfumer described the notes of a scent. Some were simple, others more complex—subtle layers of emotion combined to create the whole. Top, heart, and base.
With Regretting Belle, the echoes were complex, heavy, and slow to lift. Against her better judgment, she placed a hand on its cover. It was bitterness that came through first, hot and sharp against the pads of her fingers. That was the top note, the initial impression. Next came the deeper and rounder heart note, betrayal, which carved a hollow place beneath her ribs. And finally, there was the base note, the most resonant of all the layers—grief. But whose grief?
How, Belle?
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that the beautiful and mysterious Belle had been more than a product of the author’s imagination. He’d made it clear that Belle was a nickname he’d given her. Her real name had been carefully omitted, as had his own. In fact, none of the characters had been given actual names. Was it because their real names would have been easily recognized?
Frowning, she fanned through the pages, as if the answers might be pressed in between, like an old love letter or prom corsage. They weren’t, of course. If she wanted answers, she was going to have to work for them. Surely there was someone in her Rolodex, a professor or librarian, who might be able to shed some light on the mystery. Or maybe there was an easier way. If Kevin knew the name of the man who’d brought in the boxes, she might be able to contact him.
Downstairs, in the shop, she flipped to the Gs in her Rolodex, locating Kevin’s number. After two rings, a woman answered. Ashlyn recognized the voice. It was Cassie, the gum-cracking Madonna wannabe who worked at the boutique when her band was between gigs.
“Hey, Cassie, it’s Ashlyn from An Unlikely Story. Is Kevin around?”
“Oh, hey. Nope. He and Greg left this morning for a week in the Bahamas. I’m wicked jealous.”
“So who’s running the show?”
“Me, I guess. Something I can help you with?”
“I was hoping to talk to him about some books that came in last week. I bought one of them and I have some questions about it. I was hoping he might have a contact number for the guy who brought them in.”
“Ooh-kay . . . definitely don’t know anything about that.”
Ashlyn pictured her smacking her gum into the phone and tried not to be annoyed. “Do you know if Kevin keeps information on the people who come in to sell things?”
“Sorry. That’s all him. He’ll be back in the store next Wednesday, though.”
“Thanks. I’ll give him a call then.”
Ashlyn hung up and returned to her Rolodex. A week was too long to wait.
By the time Ashlyn turned the CLOSED sign around that evening, she’d spent a collective hour and a half on hold and had left seven messages, including one for Clifford Westin, an old friend of Daniel’s and the current head of UNH’s English department; another for George Bartholomew, a professor at UMASS who happened to be a customer; a pair for two rival rare-book dealers; and three for librarians.
Unfortunately, she’d come up empty. No one had ever heard of Regretting Belle. She was going to have to expand her search. The local chapter of the Antiquarian Booksellers’ Association might be able to help. Or the International League of Antiquarian Booksellers. There was always the copyright office at the Library of Congress, but the prospect of navigating all that red tape was daunting. Still, it might be where she ended up.
Now, as she tallied the day’s receipts, her eyes slid to the book again, more determined than ever to ferret out its secrets. The possibility of making some earth-shattering academic discovery, of stumbling upon a previously unknown work and seeing that discovery written up in a refereed journal like The Review of English Studies or New Literary History, was the unspoken dream of every rare-book dealer. But her interest wasn’t academic. It was visceral, personal in a way she couldn’t explain.