“Or maybe you and Goldie just cooked it all up to sell papers.”
In boxing, it’s called a sucker punch, the one you don’t see coming. Yours lands squarely, low and crippling. “That’s what you think of me? That I’m some kind of tabloid hack?”
“This really isn’t the day to ask what I think of you.”
“Belle . . . please.”
“Don’t.”
“I did all the legwork. Checked out every lead. Because even I thought the story was too incredible to be believed. But it happened, Belle. I’m sure of it.”
“This was what you were after. That first night at the St. Regis. It was about this story.”
“Partly, yes,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know all of it then, but Goldie had gotten the call from your mother’s friend, and she told me where to look. I had no idea I was walking into anything like this, and then when I did . . .”
“You ran with it.”
“I thought it was important. But now . . . I just left Goldie’s office. I told her I wasn’t finishing the story, that I’d thrown all my notes in the trash.”
Your eyes slide to the felled pages on the carpet. “Another lie, since I’ve just found them on the desk beside your typewriter.”
“I was going to tear them up as soon as I got home. And then I was going to tell you. All of it. I didn’t realize you’d be here when I got back.”
“You still don’t understand. It isn’t about you killing the story. It’s about the fact that you were prepared to use my mother’s illness to further your career—when you knew how hard losing her was for me. You claim to love me, but you betrayed my confidence to sell newspapers!”
“You knew I was working on a piece about your father—”
“About his business dealings! Not my mother!”
“I couldn’t not pursue the story, Belle. Not when it’s about a man as powerful as your father. The public has a right to know—”
“And to hell with me, right?”
“I didn’t mean—”
You’re on your feet suddenly, hands clenched. “If you were so concerned about the public, why not turn your notes over to the police? I’ll tell you why. Because that wouldn’t sell nearly as many papers as this . . . horror story. Is this how English newspapers operate? You print whatever you want, things you can’t even prove, and then sit back and watch your readers tear the victim to shreds?”
I stare at you, my gut twisting. During all my agonizing about how this conversation might go, I never once prepared for this, for you taking his side, for seeing him as the victim in all this. “I understand that you’re angry,” I say quietly. “I even understand why. What I can’t understand is how—after everything I’ve told you—you can stand there and defend him to me.”
“This isn’t about my father. It’s about us. About not being able to trust you or believe anything you’ve ever said to me. You say you were going to tell me. When? After I’d snuck out of my father’s house and boarded a train with you to Chicago? Do you know how that would have looked? Like I was part of it! Like I fed you information to take down my own father!”
“That’s what’s bothering you—what people would have thought? I just walked away from a story I’ve been working on for months. For you. Went back on my word as a journalist and set fire to any hope of getting another job in the newspaper business. For you. Does none of that matter?”
You regard me with empty eyes. “What do you want me to say? That I don’t care about my mother being used as fodder for one of your stories? Or being made a fool of? That in your desperation to prove your journalistic bona fides, you haven’t ruined everything? I’m sorry. I can’t. Because you have. You’ve ruined everything.”
“You don’t mean that. You can’t. In less than twenty-four hours, this city and everything in it will be a memory for us. The life we planned, everything we talked about, starts the minute we step on that train. Nothing else matters.”
You look at me as if I’ve said something incomprehensible. “How can I get on that train now? When all I can think about is what else you may have lied about—and what you might lie about next. All I’d be doing is trading a family I can’t trust for a man I can’t trust.”
For the first time, it occurs to me that I could actually lose you over this. “Belle, I swear to you . . .” Your face is so steely, so completely devoid of expression, that the words dry up in my throat. I’d prefer that you rail at me, fly at me, strike me. Instead, you stand there, still and white, icy calm.
“Don’t you see?” you say at last. “It doesn’t matter what you swear now. It will never matter. Because I’ll never believe you. You said you loved me, but you couldn’t. Not if you could do something like this. I thought I knew you, but I don’t know the man who could do what you meant to. And I don’t want to.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’ve made a mistake, Hemi. We’re just too far apart. How we grew up, the things that matter to us, our sense of right and wrong, apparently. And running away won’t change that. I should never have let you into my life. Some part of me knew that. You knew about Teddy and you came at me anyway—because I had something you wanted. And you got it too. Because I let down my guard. Now I see that you’re no different from my father. You believe the ends justify the means, that nothing matters so long as you get what you want.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“I agree.”
“Belle, please . . .”
“I have to go.”
You retrieve your handbag from the arm of the sofa and walk to the door, then look back at me before reaching for the knob. I hold my breath, waiting for you to say something, but you just stand there, staring.
“You can’t leave like this, Belle. We need to talk it through.”
“I have to go,” you say again, as if you haven’t heard me.
“Will you be there tomorrow? At the station?”
I hold my breath, waiting. And then you’re gone.
ELEVEN
ASHLYN
Protracted neglect is both shameful and sad, and will likely result in reduced value, but there is nothing so unsettling, or so unforgivable, as intentionally inflicted damage.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
October 14, 1984
Rye, New Hampshire
Ashlyn rang the bell, then glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see Mrs. Warren and her plump spaniel lurking at the edge of the drive. The last place she’d expected to find herself on this chilly Sunday afternoon was Ethan’s house, but here she was, on his front steps, trying to tamp down her expectations.