The Echo of Old Books

You saw to that.

From that very first night at the St. Regis, you have filled my brain, leaving no room for anyone else. Even with an ocean separating us, I could feel you, like the ache of a phantom limb. For a while, I had the war to distract me, and my work. There were stories that needed telling, atrocities that needed to be exposed, whether the world wanted to see them or not. Grinding hunger. Gas chambers. The ovens. Human beings reduced to ash. And then the liberation of the camps. Someone had to cover that, too, so the world would know and never let it happen again. But after the war came an unbearable quiet, an emptiness riddled with wounds that had nothing to do with bullets and battlefields.

And then suddenly there was Laura, sitting across from me at a dinner one night, a ghost promising second chances. We were married four weeks later. I meant to make a go of it, to cauterize the oozing places you left behind, but every time I looked at her, I felt the knife twist, and the bleeding would start all over again. She never knew why it didn’t work. She never heard your name—or even knew you existed—but you were always there between us. The other woman.

The only woman.

I almost came looking for you once, in a moment of madness and perhaps more gin than was good for me. I thought if I saw your face one more time, I could walk away clean. I’d shut up the vault with all my memories inside and finally get on with the business of living. By morning I’d come to my senses, of course. Or maybe I just ran out of gin. I can’t remember.

Instead, I dragged myself to my typewriter and banged out a pair of books about the war. They were well received and earned several prestigious awards, but they were cool, clinical things, bloodless, academic postmortems. I hated them.

I was weary of war, of its tactics and mechanics and politics. I wanted to write something that felt alive, something with a pulse. But I couldn’t get it off the ground. So many false starts and crumpled pages. Wastebaskets full, mocking me for weeks on end. And then one night I woke up in the dark and you were there, the ache of that phantom limb, throbbing with a vengeance. The pulse I’d been searching for.

The words spilled out like poison—the story of us. Alas, dear Belle, it is a story without a happy ending, with no ending at all really, only these few bitter lines. And so, as the old year dies and a new one begins, I will bring this bloody tale of ours to a close. I’ll have it bound, I think, and make a present of it to you. A souvenir or a trophy. I shall leave that for you to decide.

By the by, it might surprise you to know that every now and then, I find myself thinking about that suitcase, wondering if anyone ever made use of it or if it’s shut up in some attic or basement somewhere, still full of your things. It doesn’t matter—how could it after all these years?

Still, I do wonder.

—H





THIRTEEN


ASHLYN

We develop a particular fondness for our favorite books, the way they feel and smell and sound, the memories they invoke, until they begin to exist for us as living, breathing things.

—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books

October 21, 1984

Rye, New Hampshire

Ashlyn wrapped her arms tight about her body, warding off the breeze pushing in from the harbor. She couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment as Ethan closed the copy of Regretting Belle and set it on the table between their chairs. It felt like the end of a movie, when the credits start to roll and you realize no one’s going to ride off into the sunset. She had known, of course, but it still felt wrong somehow, unfinished.

“I can’t believe that’s really it.”

“For Hemi, at least,” Ethan replied. “There’s still the last of Belle’s book to get through if you want.”

Ashlyn shook her head. “No. Not just now. It’s not like we don’t know how that one ends too.”

Ethan frowned. “You sound sad.”

“I am, a little. I guess I’m used to books where all the loose ends are tied up in a pretty bow. I knew this one wouldn’t end with soaring violins, but it feels unfinished and I’m not sure why. After everything, he never stopped loving her.”

“Or hating her, apparently.”

“He didn’t hate her, Ethan.”

“What would you call it?”

“Despair,” Ashlyn said quietly. “He was heartbroken. Grieving for someone he’d lost. So was Belle. They only pretended to hate one another. Because it felt safer, stronger.”

Ethan shrugged. “Maybe. But to just no-show like that was pretty harsh. She could have let him know she wasn’t coming. Instead, she bailed. Just left him hanging.”

The response should have surprised Ashlyn but didn’t. She’d noticed it several times this week, the faint but palpable friction that had started creeping into their conversation, as if they’d each unconsciously stepped into the story and assumed their respective gender roles. Without meaning to, they had chosen sides.

“She didn’t leave him hanging, Ethan. She sent him a letter, presumably to tell him she was coming. If anyone bailed, it was Hemi. Can you imagine what it must have felt like to walk into that empty apartment?”

“About the same as finding yourself alone on a train platform, I imagine. And we don’t know what the letter said. We only know what Belle implies. What we do know is how Hemi reacted after reading it. He went straight for the gin, and it clearly wasn’t to pour himself a celebratory shot. I’m not sure I blame him for disappearing. She’d been dragging her feet for weeks. How many times was he supposed to give her the benefit of the doubt? At some point, you have to call it, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But something doesn’t add up. You said it yourself; we don’t know what the letter said. You’re assuming from Hemi’s reaction that it was a Dear John letter, but why would Belle show up at his apartment if she’d just given him the boot? She expected him to be there, waiting for her.”

“That argument goes both ways. If Hemi honestly believed she was coming and all was forgiven, why disappear? The only logical explanation is that the letter was a polite kiss-off.”

“And to get even, he went ahead and published the story?”

Ethan blew out a breath. “I’m not saying it was right, but at that point, what did he have to lose?”

“He denies having anything to do with it.”

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