He arches a brow, looking faintly amused. “After more than forty years, you think you’re going to just stroll into her parlor and get her to confess?”
“You don’t know Corinne. She’d love nothing more than to take credit for coming between us and to gloat about it to my face. I’m sure she sees it as one of her crowning achievements.”
“Then why drive all the way to New York to give her the satisfaction?”
“Because I need you to know I’m telling the truth. And because I need her to know I know. If we leave by eight, we can be there by noon.”
He empties his glass and sets it down firmly. “No.”
I see it clearly then, the flinty layer he’s acquired since we parted, an icy detachment he wears like armor. “You’d rather just go on hating me. Is that it?”
He’s silent for a time, as if weighing his next words. When he finally does answer, his voice is flat, almost weary. “I’ve been bitter for a long time, Marian. A very, very long time. I’m not sure I could take knowing I’ve spent the last forty years in purgatory for no damned reason.”
“You’d rather remember it wrong?”
“I’d rather not to remember it at all, thank you. But anger is easy. It’s also familiar. My default position, you might say.”
I blink at him, experiencing an eerie sense of déjà vu. Didn’t I say something similar to Ashlyn last night? And yet the cool response stings. “So I’m still the villain—because it’s easier. How is that fair?”
“It isn’t. I concede that. But tonight was a mistake. I should never have come.”
I wait for him to say more, but I can see by the set of his jaw that he’s said all he means to. “So that’s it? We’re finished?”
He nods, eyes fixed straight ahead. “All finished.”
I signal the bartender, then open my purse and poke through it for some money. I’m desperate to be away from him, but I refuse to let him pay for my wine. Except there’s no cash in my evening bag, only a lipstick, my compact, and my room key.
“Could you please charge the wine to my room?” I ask the bartender when he makes his way over. “Marian Manning. Room 412.”
I’m about to slip off the barstool when Hemi touches me, the merest brush of his fingers against the back of my hand. “For what it’s worth, I had nothing to do with the story. I never gave Goldie my notes. I threw them away like I said I would. But in my haste to empty out my desk, I left an old notebook behind. Goldie found it and handed it off to Schwab. Schwab admitted it to me when I confronted him. I can’t prove it. Both he and Goldie are dead. But it’s the truth.”
I stare at him, wondering if it’s true, wanting so very badly for it to be true. But then I realize he’s right. It won’t change anything. The die was cast more than forty years ago.
“You’re right,” I say, turning away. “None of it matters now.”
I expect him to call after me, to stop me from walking away. It’s only when he doesn’t that I realize just how badly I want him to.
TWENTY-ONE
MARIAN
Environment must always be considered. Books, like people, absorb what they’re around.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
November 3, 1984
Boston, Massachusetts
It’s nearly eight and my things are packed. My train case, a small suitcase, and a nylon garment bag are on the bed, waiting for the bellman to carry them down. I’ve called Ilese to let her know that something’s come up and I need to get back early. The girls will be disappointed, but I’ll see them in a few weeks for Thanksgiving.
I’ve had little sleep and dread the drive ahead of me. Not home to Marblehead but to New York and Corinne. Strange now that after forty years, this day feels somehow inevitable, as if my sister and I have always been on a collision course. Despite lying awake most of the night, caught between grief and rage, I still haven’t decided what to say to her, but I’ll have time in the car to choose my words.
I’ve just swallowed the last of my orange juice when there’s a knock at the door. I set the empty glass on the breakfast tray and go to let the bellman in. Instead, I find Hemi standing in the hall, cradling my award in the crook of his arm. “What are you doing here?”
He hands me the glass globe. “Good morning to you too. You left this at the bar last night.”
I stand stiffly in the doorway. I’m not prepared to do battle again. At least not with him. “I was just on my way out,” I say brusquely. “In fact, I thought you were the bellman.”
“The bellman isn’t coming. I told him I’d take your bags down.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m driving you to New York.”
I stiffen, caught off guard by his change of heart. “I have my car here.”
“I’ll bring you back when we’re through. If you’re actually going to have this conversation, I’m damn sure going to be there to hear it.”
In the car, Hemi and I barely speak. Perhaps because I’m preoccupied with what I’m going to say when I finally have Corinne in front of me. I haven’t laid eyes on my sister in thirty-five years, nor have I set foot in my father’s house in all that time. I have missed neither. Aside from the memories of my mother, there is nothing I remember fondly from that part of my life. And certainly nothing I look forward to revisiting today. Thankfully, what I have to say won’t take long.
The silence is numbing, heavy with unsaid things, so that I’m almost relieved when the house finally comes into view, smaller somehow than I remember it, despite its imposing granite facade. My stomach knots as Hemi pulls into the service alley behind the house and cuts the engine. I get out of the car and go around to the front, holding my breath as I ring the bell.
It isn’t Corinne who finally answers but a doughy middle-aged woman in nursing whites. She runs an eye over us, already preparing to close the door in our faces. “I’m sorry, there’s no soliciting here.”
“We’re not soliciting,” Hemi explains, turning on the special smile he reserves for members of the opposite sex. “This is Mrs. Hillard’s sister. We’ve come all the way from Boston—as a surprise.”
He says it with such conviction that I feel a bubble of laughter catch in my throat. I imagine Corinne will be very surprised to see me again.
Her posture is still rigid, but some of the wariness has left her eyes. “Mrs. Hillard isn’t well. She’s waiting for the doctor and can’t be disturbed.”
I register this news with some surprise. I’ve never known Corinne to succumb to so much as a cold. Always indomitable. Always in control. “We won’t stay long,” I assure the nurse. “But there’s a rather pressing family matter I feel she’d want resolved immediately. In light of her health, you understand.” I feel Hemi’s eyes skim my way and sense what feels like admiration. “If you’ll just tell her Marian is here, I’m sure she’ll want to see me.”
The nurse nods grudgingly and ushers us into the foyer. “I’ll just go up and check. Please wait here.”