Rye, New Hampshire
Ethan opened two beers while Ashlyn unpacked the lobster rolls and fries she had picked up on the way over. She’d been more than a little surprised when he called to suggest they get some dinner. They’d spoken twice during the week. Baby watch had finally resulted in an actual baby, which meant he’d been teaching double classes. And when he wasn’t teaching, he was chained to his desk, polishing the chapters he’d promised his editor.
Or maybe after their conversation on Sunday, he’d decided to give her a little space. To her relief, the kiss hadn’t come up during either phone call. Instead, they’d focused on the fact that it had been days since Zachary had agreed to call Marian and pass along a message from her great-nephew.
Four days.
It wasn’t a good sign. Apparently, Marian had little interest in reconnecting. In fairness, Zachary had warned Ethan that a return call was unlikely, as his mother was an extremely private person. Still, she had hoped Marian’s affection for Richard Hillard might have tipped the scales in their favor. She’d clearly been too optimistic. They had agreed to wait a full week, then try once more before throwing in the towel. After that—short of stalking the woman—they were out of options.
Ethan handed her a beer, then snuck around her to grab a fry from one of the takeout containers. “How’s the newsletter coming?”
Ashlyn raised her beer triumphantly. “Done. And off to the printer as of this morning. I had to beg a little, but I should have it back before Thanksgiving. How about your new classes? Is it weird stepping in midsemester?”
Ethan grabbed another fry, followed by an onion ring. “A little weird, yeah. You’d think college students would be over the whole ‘slack when there’s a substitute’ thing, but they’re not.” He paused, eyeing the lobster rolls Ashlyn had just pulled from the bag. “Hey, they look good. I’ve got a fire going if you want to eat in the great room. Or we can just sit at the counter.”
“The fire sounds nice.”
“Good. You grab the beers and some napkins. I’ll bring the food.”
He was sliding the Styrofoam containers from the counter when the phone rang. They both went still, looked at the phone, then each other. Ashlyn held her breath as Ethan lifted the receiver, waiting for some sign that the call was what they hoped it was.
“Yes. Thank you. This is Ethan.”
He was quiet a moment, listening, then slid his eyes to Ashlyn’s, nodding. After another moment, he clicked the speakerphone button and laid the handset on the counter. Ashlyn covered her mouth with both hands, smothering a gasp as a women’s voice suddenly filled the kitchen, low and smoky, just the way Hemi had described it.
“My son said you have some letters and cards. Things I sent your father over the years.”
“Yes,” Ethan replied. “I also came across a few photos while clearing out his study. I thought you might like to have them back.”
“Yes,” Marian said without hesitation. “I would, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see your father before he . . . before he died. I was very fond of him.” There was a stretch of silence and then: “Did you happen to find anything else?”
Ethan and Ashlyn exchanged looks.
“The books, you mean?”
“Yes.”
The single word, after such a lengthy pause, felt like a confession somehow. Reluctant. Guilty. “Yes,” Ethan answered. “They were in my father’s study too.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve . . . read them, I take it?”
Ethan hesitated, sliding his eyes back to Ashlyn’s. She nodded. It seemed pointless to lie. “We did, yes. We weren’t sure what they were.”
“Who is we?” Marian asked, sounding strangely wary. “Is there a wife?”
“No. There’s no wife. It’s . . . She’s a friend. She’s the one who actually found the books. We’ve been reading them together.”
“Well, then. I suppose you’d better come up.”
“Up?”
“To Marblehead. You have questions, I’m sure. Can you come on Saturday, you and your . . . friend?”
Ethan looked at Ashlyn, brows raised.
Ashlyn nodded vigorously. It would mean closing for half a day, but there was no way she was passing up an opportunity like this. “In the afternoon,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Ethan said. “We can come. In the afternoon.”
“Come at three and bring the letters. The address is 11 Hathaway Road. It’s at the very end of the earth, so be sure you have a good map and give yourself plenty of time.”
There was a click, followed by empty silence. Ethan hung up the handset and for a moment they stared at each other. “Holy crap,” he said finally. “She actually called. Zachary had me convinced she wouldn’t.”
“She sounds . . . formidable.”
He nodded gravely. “She did. Can you blame her, though? I doubt she ever imagined she’d be dealing with this after forty years.”
“No. Probably not. I notice she didn’t tell you to bring the books. She said bring the letters, but she didn’t include the books.”
“Maybe after all this time, she doesn’t want them back. I’m not sure I would.”
“We’ll bring them, though,” Ashlyn said. “They’re hers.”
Ethan nodded as he went to the fridge for another beer. “Can you really make the trip on Saturday? What about the shop?”
“I’ll close at one and hang a sign on the door. My customers can do without me for half a day.”
“Okay, then. Road trip the day after tomorrow. You know what that means, right?”
“You’re going to need a good map?”
“Yeah, that too. But actually, I was talking about the books. If we’re bringing them back on Saturday, this is probably the last chance we’ll have to read the final pages of Belle’s book. What do you say? Are you up for a little after-dinner reading?”
Forever, and Other Lies
(pgs. 84–85)
December 19, 1941
New York, New York
I’ve made my plans. No one knows what they are yet, though I doubt anyone would try to dissuade me if they did. I’m a pariah now, the architect of my family’s downfall and a glaring example of what happens when a woman follows her passions instead of the rules.
I’ve settled on California after all, a tiny harbor town on the northern coast called Half Moon Bay. No one’s ever heard of the place, but during Prohibition, its craggy, fog-drenched coast made it a favorite of Canadian bootleggers. I must admit, I like the irony. It’s as far away from my family as it’s possible to get just now and as good a place as any to wait out the war. I leave the day after tomorrow. No one will miss me. And I will miss no one. Except you. But then, you were only ever a figment of my imagination.