“Before, when I was telling you about Marian’s son, I remembered my parents standing in the kitchen, talking about a newspaper article she’d sent them, and how Corinne had been chapped at learning from a newspaper that her sister had adopted two Jewish kids.”
Ashlyn’s pulse ticked up. “You think you might have the actual article?”
“Probably not.” He lifted the lid off one box, closed it, and set it aside. “My mother probably tossed it during the remodel—she threw out a ton of stuff—but it’s worth a look. She obviously let him keep some of his hoard.”
Ashlyn eyed the stack of boxes dubiously. “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”
“A scrapbook. I only saw the thing a couple of times. My parents weren’t terribly nostalgic when it came to my father’s side of the family, but I remember it coming out every now and then. It was green leather. Or blue, maybe. Had those metal things on the corners. It would be a miracle if it was still here.”
“Can I help?”
“Grab a box and start rooting. We could be here all night, though.”
Ashlyn didn’t care. She had all night. Grabbing a box from the stack, she dropped down onto her knees and lifted the lid. Inside, she found a stack of dog-eared legal pads, a half dozen financial ledgers in red and black, but no scrapbook. The contents of the next box yielded similar results. She was about to reach for a third when Ethan suddenly yelled, “Aha!”
“You found it?”
“I found it.” He waved the scrapbook at her, dark green with corner tabs, exactly as he’d described it. “If the article’s anywhere, it’ll be in here.”
Ashlyn held her breath as he laid the book on his knees and began paging through. He was close to the last page when he abruptly stopped.
“There,” he said triumphantly, pointing to a small newspaper clipping at the bottom of the page. The clipping was creased down the middle and yellowed with age, affixed with tape that had gone a sticky brown.
Ethan read aloud. “February 7, 1950. Manning Heiress Returns to US with War Orphans.” He pointed, then handed Ashlyn the scrapbook. “That’s her.”
Ashlyn’s heart skittered as she came face-to-face with Marian Manning. It was a black-and-white headshot, the kind taken by a professional. Three-quarter profile, head and shoulders. She’d seen similar shots from around the same time. Demure. Fresh-faced. Posed just so. But Marian Manning was none of those things. She met the camera lens as if it were a pair of eyes, challenging, unapologetic, fascinating.
No wonder Hemi had fallen head over heels that first night at the St. Regis.
Ashlyn traced her fingers over the photograph, feeling an instant connection. As if they’d met in another life—which, in a way, they had. “I feel like I know her.”
She looked at the photo again. Belle . . . Marian . . . had a face now. A startlingly beautiful face. And an entirely new layer to her story. A mother and a Jewish convert. Choices she had made after losing Hemi. Perhaps to fill the empty place left by his loss. She returned her attention to the article itself, reading aloud.
February 7, 1950 (New York)—Miss Manning surprised all of New York this week, returning unannounced to the States with a pair of newly adopted war orphans in tow: a brother and sister, ages approximately 7 and 5, whose names are not currently known. According to one source who declined to be named, that surprise extended to her own family, who were not made privy to her plans. Miss Manning left the US after the war and has spent the last three years in France, where she became active in the cause of displaced children throughout Europe, many of whom lost entire families in the Nazi death camps. When asked about her decision to adopt despite being unmarried, she replied that she hopes to bring attention to the thousands of children still awaiting placement around the world and hopes to set an example for other American families. She asks for privacy as she resettles her children in the US and pledges to continue her work on behalf of war orphans around the world.
“She led by example,” Ashlyn said when she finished reading. “What a wonderful and selfless thing to do.”
“It was, though I’m guessing it was the last straw for Martin. He couldn’t have been happy about getting blindsided this way. Which I’m beginning to suspect delighted Marian no end. I’m also guessing it’s why she ended up being cut out of the will and forbidden to set foot in the house, though she had to know she was burning her bridges.”
“That makes it even more amazing. She defied him, knowing what the repercussions would be. She was brave.”
“I think that’s why she and my father hit it off. They were the only ones to ever buck the system.” Ethan took the scrapbook back then, flipping to the first page. “Let’s see what else might be in here.”
There were several photos lying loose between the pages, the tape that once held them in place no longer viable. Ethan studied them one at a time, turning each photo facedown when he finished with it. “I don’t know any of these people,” he said finally. “Aunts and uncles, I suppose, and cousins. My father was one of four.”
“Are any of his siblings still alive?”
Ethan shrugged. “Maybe. I know Robert was killed in Vietnam, shot down during the Tet Offensive. One of his sisters died a few years ago. He got a letter from an old college friend, saying he’d seen an announcement in the paper. And that’s all I know. They were never part of our lives.”
He tucked the photos back between the pages and moved on, skipping past photos and newspaper clippings that held no meaning for him. Suddenly he stopped and pointed to a photo of an unsmiling woman with a fringe of heavy bangs. Beside her stood a tall man with an angular face and small, dark eyes. He, too, was unsmiling.
“I think that’s Corinne and her husband. I don’t know his name either. He died when my dad was a boy. A lung thing, I think.”
“George,” Ashlyn supplied. “His name was George.”
Ethan cocked an eye at her. “It’s weird that you know that and I don’t.”
“His name is all I know. He isn’t mentioned much in either book. What about Martin? When did he die?”
“Not too long after I was born. I don’t know how. I just know he died and Corinne ascended the throne.”
Ashlyn looked at the photo of Corinne—Cee-Cee, as she’d come to know her. She wasn’t the beauty her sister was. In fact, there was little resemblance. But it would have been inaccurate to call her unattractive. Her face was square with wide-set eyes and a mouth that was full but ungenerous somehow. A face shaped by unhappiness.
“She doesn’t look much like Marian,” Ashlyn said.
“She looks exactly the way I imagined she’d look,” Ethan said, scowling as he turned to the final page. “Hey. These are the kids. Marian’s kids. I had no idea my parents had this. She must have sent it.” He ran a thumb beneath the edges of the photo, carefully lifting it from the page, then flipped it over. “Zachary and Ilese on the beach. July 11, 1952.”