Kevin’s warning continued to echo as Ashlyn dialed Richard Hillard’s number. As it turned out, getting the number had taken one phone call and exactly two minutes. The tricky part would be broaching the subject with a total stranger without sounding creepy or deranged—or as Kevin put it, all stalky. She was still pondering what to say when she began to dial. After four rings, there was an abrupt click.
“I’m not here. Leave a message.”
No name. No greeting to speak of. And no indication that whatever message she left would ever reach anyone named Hillard. For a moment, she considered hanging up. She hated answering machines. She was never quite prepared, never sure she’d have enough time to say what she needed to. But at the moment, it was the only lead she had.
“Hi,” she blurted too cheerfully, too breathlessly. “My name is Ashlyn Greer. I’m the owner of a rare bookstore in downtown Portsmouth. I’m trying to reach a Mr. Hillard regarding a book of his, which I recently acquired. Well, two books actually. I just have a few questions. I won’t take up a lot of your time. If you could call me back, I’d appreciate it.”
She was so flustered she nearly hung up without leaving her number, and ended up blurting it out clumsily, twice, then followed it up with another rather pitiful plea for a return call. So much for not sounding creepy.
Ashlyn had just flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED when the shop phone began to jangle. She rushed back to the counter and made a grab for the receiver. “An Unlikely Story.”
“Yes, I’m returning a call from a Ms. Greer.”
Ashlyn’s pulse ticked up a notch. “Who’s calling?”
“Ethan Hillard. Someone left a message on my father’s machine this afternoon.”
“Yes!” she blurted. “This is Miss Greer. Thank you so much for returning my call. I wasn’t sure I’d actually hear back.”
“Your message said you’re in Portsmouth.”
“Yes. On Market Street. I hated to call out of the blue, but I had a few questions about some books I recently acquired. I was hoping you could answer them.”
“Sure. I guess. What can I help you with?”
Ashlyn’s mind raced. Why hadn’t she made a list of questions? Now that she had him on the phone, she didn’t know where to start. “I guess my first question is about how old they are. Do you know when they were published?”
“Do I know . . .” There was a lengthy pause. “Which books are we talking about?”
“Oh, sorry. Of course. You have no idea which books I mean. I was asking about Regretting Belle and Forever, and Other Lies.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy. Come to think of it, how did you get my number?”
“The owner of Going Twice—the boutique where you left the books—found an envelope in one of the boxes with your father’s address on it. I called directory assistance and got the number. Normally I wouldn’t bother you, but under the circumstances . . . Well, these are very special books.”
There was another long breath. Annoyance or impatience. “They may well be, Ms. Greer. But I’m afraid I didn’t write either one of them.”
“No, I didn’t think you had. I was just hoping you might be able to tell me who did—or anything about them, really.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say you own a bookstore?”
“Yes. In Portsmouth.”
“I guess I’m confused. You’re calling about a pair of books I’ve never heard of and you want me to tell you who wrote them?”
“I’m so sorry.” She needed to slow down and start at the beginning. “I should have been more clear. I own a rare bookshop called An Unlikely Story. A few weeks ago, you brought several boxes of books to a vintage boutique. The owner is a friend of mine. He calls me when he gets books in that he thinks might be of interest to my shop.”
“Excuse me. I was under the impression that you were calling about my books. Books I’d written.”
Books he’d written? Finally, Ashlyn understood. “Right. I can see now why you were confused. I didn’t realize you were a writer. What kinds of books do you write?”
“Sleep aids, mostly. Nonfiction. Political history. Very . . . academic.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“I assure you, it’s not. But I think I understand. You’re talking about the boxes I donated a few weeks ago. Those books belonged to my father.”
Finally, they were getting somewhere. “Yes. Your father’s books. I’m sorry, by the way. About your father’s passing, I mean.”
“Thank you. He was a bit of a pack rat where books were concerned, where everything was concerned, actually. I needed to clear shelf space for my own books. A neighbor gave me the name of the shop in Portsmouth.”
“Do you happen to remember a pair of books with blue marbled boards? Three-quarter bound in Moroccan leather? Gold embossing?”
“I can’t say I recall any of them specifically. There were so many. I assume you think they might be worth something?”
“No,” Ashlyn replied carefully. “Not worth something. Not exactly. But they’re . . . intriguing.”
“Intriguing how?”
“There’s no author name on either one of them. No copyright pages either. But the stories are unusual too. Out of the mainstream, you might say.”
“So we’re talking about fiction?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Memoir, then? Or autobiography?”
“That’s the thing. I can’t tell. They may be both. Or neither. I’ve made a few calls, but so far I haven’t found anyone who’s heard of either title, though it’s hard to research a book when you don’t know the author’s name. That’s why I called you. I was hoping you might shed some light on the mystery.”
“Sorry. As I said, the books belonged to my father. A few may have been my mother’s. All I did was take them off the shelves and pack them into boxes. Beyond that, I really can’t help you. You do seem awfully interested, though, for books that aren’t worth anything.”
Ashlyn hesitated. He suspected her of withholding something. And wasn’t she? But how could she explain what she had experienced the first time she opened Regretting Belle, that her touch had unleashed someone else’s emotional storm? Ethan Hillard was the only lead she had. She couldn’t afford to scare him off with a lot of woo-woo talk. And she would if she opened that particular door.
“I am interested,” she answered at last. “But not because they might be valuable. I’ve never run across anything like them. Their stories are sort of woven together, like an argument taking place across the pages. But they’re so completely anonymous. Purposely anonymous, it seems. I can’t imagine why anyone would go to the trouble of writing a book, then leave their name off it.”
“Writers have been doing it for hundreds of years.”
“Yes, but they generally use a pseudonym, like Ben Franklin and Silence Dogood. But these books have no author. Literally no name of any kind, anywhere. I get not wanting the details of your love life splashed all over the place, but then why write them down at all?”