Ethan frowned. “No, but I’d hardly be shocked. Are we talking about white-collar stuff?”
“More like running liquor during Prohibition. Hemi mentioned it to Belle and I got the impression that Marian already knew. I don’t think he was ever arrested for it, but it sounds like your great-grandfather had a pretty colorful past. There were other things, too, things about the war.”
“Like?”
“Like maybe he was rooting for the wrong side.”
Ethan scowled. “I certainly never heard that or anything about illegal liquor. But I wouldn’t be surprised. I know there was some big scandal at one point. Essentially ruined him. I have no idea what it was about—my father was pretty tight-lipped about that stuff. My mother was a little freer with her opinions. I once heard her say Martin was so crooked, they’d have to screw him in the ground when he died.”
“Sounds like there was no love lost there.”
“None. And with good reason. Martin was dead set against my parents getting married. Corinne took his side, of course, and they ganged up on my father. They told him he’d have to choose. My mother or the family. So he chose.”
“That’s why you know so little about them.”
He nodded. “By the time I was old enough to understand any of it, my father and Marian had already fallen out. My mother tried to make peace. She was fond of my aunt, and apparently the feeling was mutual. In fact, Marian told my father to run off and marry her the first time they met.” He shook his head, grinning. “Mom swore it was just to get back at Martin and Corinne.”
“She might have had a point. Belle was given a similar choice. Though in her case, I’m not sure it was ever really a choice. Martin appears to have been quite the bully.”
“That’s always been the general consensus.”
“There was a son too—Ernest. Did you know?”
“The boy who drowned,” Ethan said grimly. “Yeah, I knew. Sad.”
“His mother—Marian’s mother—never recovered from the loss. She blamed herself and eventually wound up in an asylum. She died there while Marian was still a girl.”
“You mentioned that, but I don’t think I ever heard it from my parents. All I knew was that she died before my father was born.” Ethan paused, scrubbing a hand across his chin. “You know, it’s funny. I would have bet my last dollar that I knew almost nothing about the history of either the Hillards or the Mannings, but I’m starting to realize I know a lot more than I thought. Growing up, it was just my parents and me. The rest of them were . . . ghosts. I hate to admit it, but I’m actually curious about what else I don’t know.”
Ashlyn couldn’t help ginning. Curious was good. “Then you should read the books. At least Belle’s. But I’d love your take on Hemi’s side of things too—a man’s take.”
Ethan stood and began clearing away the bowls. “Is there a man’s take versus a woman’s take? Or is it just about taking sides based on gender?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Ashlyn slid off the stool and followed him to the sink with their silverware. “I just meant I’d like an objective opinion, someone to tell me if I’m reading things into the story that aren’t actually there. When it comes to romance, I’m not the most objective person on the planet. Trust issues, you might say.”
Ethan turned off the kitchen tap and reached for a towel to dry his hands. “Your ex cheated?”
Ashlyn nodded.
“Mine too.”
It had never occurred to her that he might once have had a wife. “You were married?”
“Not for long. Just long enough.”
“Sorry.”
Ethan shrugged, managing something like a grin. “Just ‘Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong’ song, right? And here I was thinking we had nothing in common.”
Ashlyn smiled awkwardly, seeing the moment as an opportunity to press him again. “Will you read them?”
Ethan sighed. “You’re not going to give up, are you? All right.” He finished drying his hands and reached for the copy of Forever, and Other Lies with its protruding bits of yellow. “I’ll read Belle’s book. And I’ll try to answer your questions. What haven’t we covered?”
Ashlyn ran through her list again. They’d already covered quite a lot. But there were still things she was curious about, and she might never catch him in such an obliging mood again. “I’d like to know more about Marian’s children. Where they are now. What they’re doing.”
Ethan sank back down on his stool and reached for his wineglass. “I can’t help you there. I only met them once, when I was a kid. Marian had to go to some conference in Boston and they spent the weekend with us. I’m not sure how the subject came up, but the boy—I don’t remember his name—was talking about his Bar Mitzvah, going on and on about all the presents he got. I told my mother I wanted a Bar Mitzvah, too, but she explained that Catholics don’t have Bar Mitzvahs. I was quite put out.”
Ashlyn registered this with some surprise. “I didn’t realize Marian was Jewish.”
“She wasn’t. But her children were, so she converted. I know the papers made a big deal out of it.” He went still suddenly. “Come to think of it . . .” He pushed back from the counter abruptly and stood. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To my father’s study.”
Ashlyn followed him up a carpeted staircase to the second floor, then down a long open gallery hung with softly hued watercolors. The last door on the left was open. She hesitated when Ethan entered, opting to linger in the doorway. It was a gentleman’s room with dark carpeting, heavy furniture, and crowded bookshelves. At the center of the room, facing a large bay window, was an ornately carved desk littered with legal pads and several crumpled pages. An old IBM Selectric had been pushed to one side, a blank sheet of foolscap wilting over the keyboard.
“This is where you write?”
“Where I attempt to write, yes. It’s also where my father wrote.”
“Your father was a writer too?” Like Hemi and his father. “How wonderful.”
He was rooting around in a closet now, hauling out a series of white office boxes. “He was a professor, actually, but his real gift was words. He had a way of shining a light on the things people didn’t want to look at. How our government had sold its soul in the name of profit. How our humanity was slipping away. How prevalent bigotry still is in modern America and the need to guard against it.”
“Sounds like he and Goldie Spencer would have been fast friends.”
Ethan glanced up from the boxes and smiled. “Maybe.”
Ashlyn ventured a little farther into the room. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing, probably. But my father was an incurable pack rat—to my mother’s dismay. I’ve purged a lot of it, but I haven’t had a chance to go through this closet. I’ve been dreading it, actually. But maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Why good?”