Ashlyn peered more closely at his face, taking in the toothy smile, the sideways cut of his eyes as they sought Goldie’s, as if they’d just enjoyed some private joke. Was this the man Marian Manning had loved so desperately, the man who had deceived her and broken her heart? And if so, where did Goldie fit in? Perhaps she’d loved him first and had seen Marian Manning as the interloper. If all was fair in love and war—and Hemi and Steven Schwab were in fact the same person—Goldie had clearly been the victor.
According to Ruth, he’d been with her till the end. And the next article—Newspaper Heiress Goldie Spencer Dead at 80—seemed to bear that out, mentioning that Goldie’s Park Avenue apartment as well as a sizable portion of her fortune had gone to longtime companion Steven Schwab. In accordance with her will, the remainder of her estate had been divided among various charities championing women’s issues, which fit perfectly with the final item from the packet, a multipage spread that had appeared in The New Yorker the day of Goldie’s memorial service. Goldie Spencer: A Feminist Legacy.
Returning to the gala photo and the dashing Steven Schwab, Ashlyn looked for some detail that might confirm that he’d been the love of Marian Manning’s life. With the parade of men constantly moving in and out of Goldie’s orbit, Hemi could have been anyone. Still, the pieces fit remarkably well. Particularly the part about him being an aspiring novelist. What if Mr. Schwab had done more than just aspire? What if he’d actually written a book—an anonymous book—about a doomed love affair with the daughter of a powerful man?
Hemi . . . is that you?
And even if it was, how could she verify it? He was long past answering questions. As was Goldie. And the deeper she waded into Belle and Hemi’s story, the more questions she had. What had become of Marian Manning’s poetry? When had she broken her engagement to Teddy, and why, if not to marry Hemi? Might there be photos squirreled away somewhere that included both Steven Schwab and Marian Manning, snapped inadvertently during some party or gala? If so, it would be proof. Or near proof.
None of these things were her business, of course, nor would knowing them change the unhappy outcome. But the need to know was like an itch she couldn’t reach. At this point, there was only one person who might be able to help, though ability and willingness were two different things. Ethan seemed reluctant to wade any further into his aunt’s past, though she suspected he knew more than he realized. Perhaps the names Steven Schwab and Geraldine Spencer would jog his memory.
This time, she thought the call through before dialing. At this time of day, she was likely to get his answering machine, and she wanted to have her ducks in a row. When she was finally clear about what she wanted to say, she rehearsed her pitch once more, then dialed. As expected, Ethan’s machine picked up.
“Hey, it’s Ashlyn from the bookstore. I know you said you were crazy busy right now, but something’s come up. Some names I was hoping to run by you. And a few questions I forgot to ask the other night. Could you maybe call me back?”
By closing time, Ethan still hadn’t returned her call and she’d added six new questions to her list. She told herself that didn’t necessarily mean he was blowing her off. Maybe he wasn’t home yet or he’d forgotten to check his machine. She dialed again, hoping to catch him in person.
“I’m not here. Leave me a message.”
Damn.
“Hey, it’s me again. I was wondering if you’d gotten my message from this afternoon. A friend of mine did a little digging and came up with a name—Steven Schwab. I was hoping it might ring a bell. I think he might be Hemi. I’m about to close up, but you can reach me at my home number. Anyway . . . thanks.”
After a hot shower and a haphazard supper of salad and leftover chicken, Ashlyn spread the contents of the manila envelope out on the kitchen counter and read through them again.
She’d been almost giddy as she combed through it the first time, but her excitement had deflated a little since. Other than the fact that a man named Steven Schwab may or may not have had a romantic relationship with the infamous Goldie, what had she really learned? That he might have worked for one of the Spencer papers. That he might have been a novelist. Nothing that connected Steven Schwab to Marian Manning.
She eyed the phone, keenly aware that it hadn’t rung. It was Sunday. Maybe Ethan had gone away for the weekend. Or maybe he had a date. At least she hoped it was something like that and not a deliberate decision to ignore her. She didn’t dare call again. Not yet. She’d wait a few days. And in the meantime, she’d keep reading and hope either Belle or Hemi got careless with a detail or two.
Forever, and Other Lies
(pgs. 37–44)
November 4, 1941
New York, New York
I watch as my sister takes you off on her arm and note that you make no move to untangle yourself from her. She has always reminded me of a spider, infinitely patient, waiting for events to shape themselves to her satisfaction. And then she strikes, swiftly and without mercy. The consummate opportunist.
I’m not sure what her plans for you are yet; perhaps her intent is only to annoy me, to remind me, yet again, that she is in charge. As if any of us could forget it. At any rate, you seem quite comfortable being steered about.
How clever you think yourself, a chameleon making your way around the room, chatting and laughing with my father’s guests. No one watching would ever guess you weren’t one of them or that you had initially balked at my invitation. You play your part flawlessly, so flawlessly that I find myself wondering if your reluctance to come tonight was feigned.
You smile and nod over your gin and tonic, discussing labor disputes and monetary policy like you’re a visiting diplomat at a dinner given in your honor. And not so much as a glance in my direction as you mill about. Not even when I nearly burn a hole in your jacket with my eyes, willing you to turn and look at me. It’s to spite me, I realize, to pay me back for our argument this afternoon at the lake. I turn away and leave you to Cee-Cee.
Later, when we’re called in to dinner, I notice she’s had the place cards changed. You’re now seated at the far end of the table, as far from me as possible, and I’m forced to watch you fawn over Mrs. Viola Wheeler, smiling that easy smile of yours, charming her Montana-bred ears with your smooth British tongue.