You said something once that I never forgot. You said people like me never accomplish anything meaningful because we don’t have to. All anyone expects from us is that we dress well and throw a good party. It stung at the time, because I knew you were only half teasing. Well, I have done something meaningful. Not because I had to but because I chose to. And when my aunt passed away and I returned to the States, I continued that work.
As for marriage, that was never in the cards for me, which is not to say I’ve been lonely. Far from it. My life has been full and rewarding. I never once thought of trying to find you. At least not seriously. The part of me that believed in such things—in heroes, and sunsets, and happy endings—died the day your story appeared in that rag.
You’ll think me bitter, and I was for a time. A very long time. I felt I had paid a higher price for our recklessness than you—as the woman invariably does—and I wanted to punish you. But there’s no point, really, in keeping score. We’ve gone on with our lives, totted up our wins and losses. You’ve no doubt made mistakes. And I’ve certainly made mine. You were the first, but there have been others. Some, I’ve managed to forgive myself for. As for the rest, I continue to atone. But I have learned this. In every wound, there is a gift. Even the self-inflicted ones.
You smashed me to bits when you left, carved my heart into tiny pieces, but chance put me back together again. I learned that I could bear the memory of your face after all. I will never be completely free of you. Your voice, your smile, even that little cleft in your chin will never be far from my thoughts. My cross and my consolation. At least I can say I didn’t walk away empty-handed.
As for the suitcase, I have no idea what might have become of it. Perhaps your landlord sold it or gave the contents to his wife. I’ve never given it much thought. Perhaps because they were never really my things. They belonged to another woman—to Belle, the woman you left behind. But that woman no longer exists. She became someone else that day, and she got on with her life.
M—
FIFTEEN
ASHLYN
The number of lives we are capable of living is limited only by the number of books we choose to read.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
October 27, 1984
Marblehead, Massachusetts
It was a glorious day for a drive. Chilly and clear, with the bright autumn sun shining through gold-leafed trees. Ashlyn had closed the shop at one and eaten a sandwich in the car on the way to Ethan’s. They had opted to take his Audi and she was perfectly happy to let him drive.
Marian had been right about needing a good map. It had taken them a little over an hour to get to Marblehead, but once there, they found the jumble of narrow roads and even narrower coastal side streets tricky to navigate. It didn’t help that many of the street signs were either obscured by foliage, weathered beyond reading, or missing entirely, but eventually they managed to find Hathaway Road, which traced along a rocky, crescent-shaped cove and offered a breathtaking stretch of silver-gray sea.
The house stood on a high granite bluff, an impressive three-story Cape of softly weathered gray and white, with a columned portico, a cluster of red brick chimneys, and a pair of eyebrow dormers that gave the house a vaguely face-like appearance.
Ashlyn hugged her tote to her chest as Ethan pulled up the drive. Inside, the books were tucked safely in their clear plastic sleeves. She’d be giving them up today and the thought made her sad, but they belonged to Marian—if she wanted them. And in a way, it felt right, like they were finally coming home.
Ethan shut off the car and opened his door. The sound of the sea rushed in with the breeze, the distant pull and rush of waves against the rock-strewn shore. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Marian answered the bell almost immediately, as if she’d been hovering nearby. Ashlyn ventured a smile as the door pulled back. It wasn’t returned, reminding her that despite Marian’s invitation, their intrusion into her life was an unwelcome one.
She was surprisingly tall, almost willowy in a tailored pantsuit of charcoal-gray silk. Her blouse was the color of daffodils and the cleverly knotted scarf at her throat gave her a crisp, tailored air. Minimal makeup, single pearl studs, and a sleek chestnut chignon rounded out her Town & Country ensemble. She looked like money. Or at least what Ashlyn always imagined money to look like. Polished and beautiful, untouched somehow by time, despite her sixty-plus years.
Marian stepped back from the doorway, nodding with what felt like resignation. “Come in, then, and take off your coats. I suspect you’ll be staying awhile.”
The smell of lemon oil and beeswax greeted them as they stepped inside. The entry hall was long and low with a beamed ceiling and gleaming dark-paneled walls. There was a wide staircase with a heavy banister leading to the second floor, and the collection of heavily framed artwork ascending up the wall gave the space a slightly museum-like feel.
Marian hung up their coats, then led them through a parlor furnished with an impressive collection of eighteenth-century antiques, all polished to a high sheen. It was a beautiful room, spacious and surprisingly bright despite the mostly dark furniture, but the real showpiece was a stunning baby grand that took up one full corner of the room.
Ashlyn squinted to read the lettering stenciled in gold above the keys. SAUTER. She wasn’t familiar with the name, but it was clearly an expensive instrument. “What a beautiful piano.”
“Zachary’s,” Marian said, her face softening ever so slightly. “I bought it when he was ten. He discovered the violin the following year. It’s been gathering dust ever since, but I can’t bear to get rid of it. I keep telling myself I’ll learn to play one day, but I never do anything about it. It’s handy for displaying pictures, though.” She pointed to the small collection of framed photos reflected in the piano’s glossy black surface. “That’s him in the black frame, taken three or four years ago now.”
Ashlyn studied the face in the photograph, lean and undeniably handsome. Piercing blue eyes; a thin, straight nose; a heavy wave of dark hair pushed back off his forehead. But it was his mouth, full and faintly sensual, that held her attention. Perhaps it had to do with the smile he seemed to be suppressing. It reminded her of his boyhood photos. Even then, he’d had an infectious smile.
“He’s very handsome,” Ashlyn said. “Beautiful eyes.”
“He was always a charmer. That’s Ilese in the red frame. His sister.”
The photo was reminiscent of those she had seen of Ilese as a child, the same light eyes and strawberry-blonde mane, the same sober expression. Her head was tipped to one side, but her gaze as she faced the camera was clear and unflinching, almost brash.
“Such a serious girl,” Marian said fondly. “But a fierce heart.”
“I can see that,” Ashlyn said, smiling.
Marian stepped to the doorway, waving them through. “I was about to brew a pot of tea when you arrived. I thought we’d go out to the sunporch to talk.”