Belle had accused him of wheedling things out of her, of coaxing her with his practiced smile. But he’d as good as admitted to all of that, hinting at ulterior motives, even suggesting they might have to do with the infamous Goldie. Yet he’d sounded conflicted at times, as if he were a reluctant player in someone else’s treachery. Had that treachery been what ultimately split them up? And if so, how could Hemi insist the betrayal had been Belle’s?
The questions continued to reverberate as Ashlyn pushed to her feet. She was surprised when she glanced up at the old depot clock and saw that it was after six. No wonder her back and neck were stiff. She’d been perched on the same stool since lunch and had lost all track of time.
It happened sometimes. An entire afternoon would pass without a single customer coming in, particularly when the weather was bad, as it was today. A cold rain had been falling all day, driving shoppers to the mall and other indoor venues. Normally, she would have used the downtime to get caught up in the bindery, but after staying late last night to resew the signatures for The Secret of the Old Clock, she’d felt justified in parking herself behind the counter with Forever, and Other Lies laid open on her lap.
Regretting Belle lay within arm’s reach, never far from its mate. It was how she thought of them now, as a pair—a couple. It was a strange thought, even for her, but in her mind, the books were inextricably linked. Like Hemi and Belle. Each a part of the other.
And yet the more she read, the more questions she seemed to have. She was certain Hemi had been deeply and hopelessly in love and that Belle had returned his love. How had they ended up hurting one another so deeply?
But then, given her own disastrous marriage, did she really have to ask? When it came to love, there was always an imbalance, wasn’t there? Regardless of the relationship—parents, children, siblings, lovers—one party was always more invested than the other, more willing to hand over their power, to make themselves small, as the price for being loved. She’d always been the more willing one. With her parents and her husband.
Daniel.
They’d met at UNH. She was a lit major, he a TA for one of her classes. An aspiring writer working on his PhD, he was always happy to mentor a promising young talent—so long as that talent was female and pretty. He was the complete package, athletically built with a ridiculously sexy smile and eyes the color of a stormy sky, all wrapped up in a glossy academic veneer.
They started meeting for coffee after class, ostensibly to discuss her writing. Coffee progressed to wine, and wine progressed to bed. Six weeks later, she moved out of her grandmother’s house and into Daniel’s swanky loft apartment. Six weeks after that, they were married and, at Daniel’s urging, she quit school and went to work for Frank full-time so he could focus on his writing. He was working on a book, a novel he claimed would take the literary world by storm and finally allow him to give up teaching.
She was fine with putting her own degree on hold while Daniel finished the book, but when he did finally finish and the months began to drag on with no sign of him resuming his full class load, she’d started dropping hints about returning to school herself. Daniel had been firm in his refusal. Until the manuscript sold, he needed her picking up as many hours as she could at the shop so he could focus on querying.
Except the manuscript didn’t sell. And every time another rejection letter arrived, he invented a reason to blame her. It was never about the book, never about his failure. It was always about her.
And then there were the late nights with the nubile Marybeth, whose work was entirely fresh but needed direction. His direction. When she’d asked him point-blank if he was lining up her replacement, he had accused her of being hysterical. But that was part of his pattern too. Deny everything, no matter what the evidence said. Gaslight. Manipulate. Turn the tables. He’d been a master of deflection.
There was talk, of course, whispers about other students. One had supposedly threatened to drown herself when he broke it off. Another had an abortion and left school with a hefty check for her silence. She had written it off at the time, chalking it up to campus gossip. Until she came home early one afternoon and found Marybeth and Daniel in the kitchen, making eggs together. Daniel was in his pajama bottoms. Marybeth was wearing the Brooks Brothers robe Ashlyn had given Daniel for Christmas, her hair still wet from the shower.
True to form, Daniel had blamed her. For not being supportive enough, talented enough, woman enough. And suddenly, horrifyingly, in the middle of all that hurled blame, she realized she’d become her mother. A doormat and a victim. An emotional whipping post for a failed and angry man.
She left that night with nothing but her tote. She just wanted it to be over. But it hadn’t been over for Daniel—not nearly over. She should have known he’d find a way to punish her, to have the last word. She’d been too late in recognizing who he truly was, a cruel and calculating man willing to destroy them both if he couldn’t have what he wanted.
He’d come close too.
In the fading light, the scar on her palm gleamed shiny white, a pale, perfect crescent bisecting the life line of her right hand. Appropriate, since her existence now seemed to be divided into two halves—before Daniel and after Daniel. It had been bothering her of late, small flashes of pain that struck out of nowhere, and she wondered if it had to do with the echoes she’d been picking up from Belle’s and Hemi’s books. If somehow, like the vibrations of a tuning fork, they had detected and synced up with her own wound.
Perhaps it was time to step back a bit, to focus on work and let her obsession cool before reading any further. Or at all. She needed to work on the holiday newsletter and get it off to the printer, then focus her energy on finishing Gertrude’s books in time for Christmas.
She pushed out of the chair, preparing to head up front to lock the door. She tidied as she went, reordering messy signage and straightening shelves, and had just begun to ponder options for supper when she heard the telltale jangle of the shop door bells.
She smothered a groan. Not one customer all afternoon and now someone walks in at half past six. “I’m sorry,” she called as she approached the front. “I’m afraid we’re closed. I was just locking up.”
A man in a rain-flecked anorak glanced up from the rack of free handouts near the door. He was thirtysomething, tall and lean, with pale green eyes and close-cropped hair she suspected would have been sandy brown if it weren’t wet. He held up a copy of her newsletter. “The Care & Feeding of Old Books. Clever title. Your idea?”
Ashlyn frowned, perturbed by what felt like a deliberate brush-off. “Yes. Thank you. But I’m afraid—”
“Good photo of you too.”
“Thanks, but as I said, we’re closed. We’ll be open again at nine tomorrow if you’re looking for something special.”