Ashlyn stood at the center of the room, surveying the chaos. Eight cartons of assorted files and office paraphernalia scattered in a messy semicircle with several half-full trash bags stationed nearby. “You weren’t kidding when you said your father was a pack rat.”
Ethan bent down and plucked something off the carpet. It was a paperweight, a clear glass sphere with a deep-blue teardrop at its heart. He stared at it as he rolled it around in his palm. “The man could come up with a reason for hanging on to anything. Didn’t matter what it was, he’d find a reason. It drove my mother nuts, but in this case, it was a good thing.”
He waved her over to the desk. The old typewriter was still there, with the same blank sheet of paper wilting over the carriage, but the crumpled pages that had littered the floor were gone. Reaching around her, he opened the middle drawer and extracted a small bundle of papers. “I found these in one of the boxes. The last box, as luck would have it, tied with a piece of ribbon.”
“What are they?”
“Letters. Cards. Photos. From Marian to my father.”
Ashlyn felt a little thrill as she dropped into the chair Ethan had pulled out for her and accepted the stack of correspondence. Unfortunately, the envelopes all seemed to be missing, which meant there were no return addresses. She lifted the first item from the stack, a birthday card with a set of golf clubs on the front. Happy Birthday, Nephew. It was dated 1956, signed simply, Marian. But there was a brief note jotted in cursive on the opposite side. Thinking of you and Catherine. Kids are fine. We send our love.
There were several more cards. Birthday mostly, but there was also a blue-and-silver Hanukkah card with a menorah on the front. Wishing You Peace and Light. Each card included a brief note, mentions of the children mostly, but there was nothing earth-shattering about any of them.
Next came a handful of letters, newsy but bland. Talk about the weather, about trips she’d recently taken, the work she continued to do on behalf of displaced children around the world. One included a pair of photos. She peered at the backs of both. Ilese, age 11. Zachary, 13.
Once again, Ilese looked broody and serious, while Zachary grinned cheekily for the camera. He was handsome in his dark suit and tie, clutching a violin and bow in his fist, the way one might hold a dead cat—by the tail and slightly away from the body.
Ashlyn folded the photos back into the letter and looked at Ethan. “Are the rest of them like this? Just newsy letters and school photos? I was hoping for something a little more . . . helpful.”
“Keep going. You’re almost there.”
The next piece was a letter dated 1967.
Dearest Dickey,
I hope this finds you well. It’s been some time since I dropped you a line. The kids are both great, though I’m not sure I should still be calling them kids at this point. Zachary is wrapping up his graduate studies at Berklee College of Music. Ilese is as brilliant as ever and is looking at master’s programs. I’m hoping for either Yale or Princeton but she’s leaning toward Bar-Ilan near Tel Aviv, which is an exceptional school but very far away. I suppose all mothers feel like this when it’s time for their chicks to fly the nest. And speaking of chicks, I was delighted to receive the photo of my great-nephew in his Easter suit. He’s growing up so fast. Cherish him while you have him.
I apologize if I sound morose. I’ve been a little blue lately, now that the house is so empty. Family is on my mind. Do you by any chance know what happened to the photo album your mother used to keep with her papers? The one with the gold lettering on the front? It belonged to your grandmother Helene and holds especially fond memories for me. Your mother claims to have thrown it away, but I have reason to believe that is not the case. I feel strongly that she not be allowed to keep it, as she held no affection for our mother. If there is any way to discover its whereabouts, I would be grateful.
We’ve had our differences over the years, you and I. About the decisions I’ve made and how I’ve lived my life, but I hope you know how fond of you I’ve always been and how much I regret the times we allowed sharp words to come between us. I will close for now. I’m off to a luncheon. When the weather warms, perhaps we can get together. You and Catherine are welcome to visit anytime. Though I suggest waiting until the mud season is over. The roads here can be frightful in spring.
Love to all,
Marian
Questions began to bubble as Ashlyn looked up at Ethan. “She mentions tension between the two of them, about decisions she made. I assume that’s about Teddy and . . . Wait, you didn’t find the album, did you? The one she asked your dad about?”
“I did not.”
Ashlyn glowered at him as she slumped back in her chair. “I was hoping for some big revelation, but nothing here gets us any closer to Marian. Or to Hemi, for that matter.”
Ethan pointed to the floor, where a folded piece of paper had slid from her lap and onto the carpet. “Maybe you should look at that one.”
Ashlyn picked it up, laying it open on her knees. It was a concert schedule, creased into quarters with a circle of red marker ringing a portion of the text.
Boston Symphony Orchestra
August 4, 1969—Featured violinist Zachary Manning will be performing a selection of chamber pieces this weekend during his Boston debut. Manning’s flawless technique and delicate approach have already drawn the attention of some of today’s most important conductors and orchestras. A passionate performer, he is consistently praised for his refreshing interpretations and artistic sensitivity.
Ashlyn looked up, bewildered. “Am I missing something?”
“Marian’s son grew up to be a concert violinist and, from the sound of it, a fairly prominent one. I figured if we can track him down, we can at least find out if Marian’s still alive.”
Ashlyn scanned the page again, dubious. “This is dated 1969. What are the odds he’s still performing? And that we can locate him if he is?”
Ethan’s mouth twitched, the beginning of a grin. “I already have.”
“What? How?”
“I contacted a buddy at UNH, a music professor I used to play softball with, and asked him to check it out.”
“And?”
“And he called me this morning. Zachary Manning lives in Chicago and is currently with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.”
Ashlyn stared at Ethan. For a man who’d shown zero interest in his aunt’s story the first time they met, he was certainly proving resourceful. There was no way to know if Zachary Manning could or would lead them to Belle, but it was a step in the right direction.
“You actually found him,” she said, scanning the flyer again.
“Yup.”
“So what now?”
“That’s what we need to figure out. I’m not sure picking up the phone and saying, ‘Hey, cous, remember me? Is your mom still alive and kicking?’ is a good idea.”
Ashlyn shot him a sideways look. “That’s definitely not a good idea.”