“You don’t think a woman belongs in the newspaper business?”
Your eyes snap back to mine, sharp and overbright. “I think a woman belongs in whatever business she chooses, so long as it’s respectable. But that woman . . .” You go quiet as a waiter approaches, exchanging your empty champagne glass for a full one. You take a small sip, waiting until he’s moved away, then lean close. “You should know that there’s nothing remotely respectable about that woman.”
“I take it this is about her stable of young men?”
You blink at me, startled by my bluntness. Or at least pretending to be. You’re the kind who judges on superficialities rather than bothering to learn what might lie beneath. Disappointing, but probably better for me in the long run.
“You knew? And you still came with her? To an event like this?”
“She had an invitation and I wanted to come.”
“Why?”
“To see your sort in their natural habitat. Besides, she makes no secret of it. To me or anyone else.”
“And you’re comfortable being part of a . . . stable?”
I shrug, relishing your outrage. “It’s a matter of symbiosis, an arrangement that works for both of us.”
“I see.”
Your cheeks have gone a deep shade of pink and I’m reminded once again how young you are. Five years my junior, but for a man, those years amount to an eternity. Perhaps you’ve been sheltered from the real world of men and women, from how it all . . . works. Suddenly I find myself wondering exactly what you do know—and how you know it. I fight the urge to step back, to put distance between us. You feel dangerous all of a sudden, the pristine coolness of you at odds with the low flame that’s begun to flicker in my belly. I clear my throat, force my brain to pick up the thread of our conversation.
“It’s sweet of you to worry about my reputation, but I’m a big boy. I will give you a word of advice, though. Sometimes a silk purse is really a sow’s ear—and vice versa.”
You look at me, baffled. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that in my experience, a rough exterior often masks something quite fine, while a sheen of respectability frequently disguises the opposite.”
Your nostrils flare again, as if scenting the enemy. I am the enemy—or will be when you know me better. For now, though, you’re intrigued by our wordplay. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. Closer to your real smile, I think, though held carefully in check.
“Is this your idea of clever party banter? Tortured metaphors?”
“Just a reminder that people aren’t always who they pretend to be.”
You sweep your eyes over me, slow, assessing. “Does that go for you as well?”
It’s my turn to restrain a smile. “Oh, me most of all.”
I nod politely then and step away. I’ve just spotted Goldie, who has reappeared with a fresh coat of shellac in place and a keen light in her eye. I join her at one of the bars, glad for the gin and tonic she presses into my hand. I take a long pull, fighting the urge to glance back at you. You’re a thread I don’t dare pull. Not because I’m afraid you won’t survive the unraveling but because I’m certain—even in this early moment—that I won’t.
Eventually, I do turn, though, and find your eyes still on me, and I realize that even at this distance, I’m not safe. You’re simply dazzling, an icy-cool Eve in your slithery teal silk—the belle of the ball.
Belle.
It’s how I thought of you that night, how I’ll always think of you. Not by the name your family gave you but as my Belle. Because I sense it again as I pretend not to feel your eyes on me, the certainty that there’s another woman hiding behind that chilly facade—one who has nothing to do with the glittering charade playing out around her.
Or perhaps it’s only what I need to believe now—these many years later as I sit at my typewriter, spilling it all out—a delusion I cling to because it’s easier than admitting I could ever have let myself be so thoroughly deceived.
THREE
ASHLYN
Beneath each faded jacket and scarred board is a life, a noble deed, a bruised heart, a lost love, a journey taken.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
September 26, 1984
Portsmouth, New Hampshire
Ashlyn sipped her coffee with closed eyes, fighting a dull headache and a vaguely queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach. It happened sometimes after handling a book with intense echoes. Like a hangover or early symptoms of the flu. She knew better than to spend long stretches of time with a book like Regretting Belle. Dark books, she called them, books with echoes too intense to be shelved with regular stock.
The fact that customers didn’t know about the existence of echoes didn’t mean they couldn’t feel them. She’d seen firsthand the effects a dark book could have on the unsuspecting. Dizziness. Headache. An unexpected rush of tears. Once, a customer had pulled a copy of Vanity Fair from the shelf and been so overcome she had to ask for a glass of water. Poor woman. That was the day Ashlyn decided to purge the shelves.
She’d hung a CLOSED FOR INVENTORY sign on the door and over the course of the next three days had gone shelf by shelf, touching every book in the store, culling those with echoes she deemed too dark to be handled by the unsuspecting. There had been twenty-eight in all, some quite valuable. They were all safely out of reach now, quarantined in a glass-front cabinet in the shop’s storeroom. Regretting Belle would almost certainly end up there when she finished it.
She eyed the book, lying beside her tote now on the kitchen counter. After three readings, the opening chapter had imprinted itself on her brain. An incendiary first meeting between lovers—at an engagement party, no less. Hardly an auspicious beginning. But then, the title made it clear that there would be no happy ending for the lovers.
Which probably explained why she hadn’t been able to bring herself to move on to chapter two. The truth was she still hadn’t decided what it was she’d been reading. Was it a memoir? The first chapter of a novel? A beautifully bound Dear Jane letter? She had no idea. What she did know was that allowing herself to become immersed in a doomed romance—even one in a book—wasn’t a particularly good idea. Not when she’d fought so hard to pull herself back from the brink after her own marriage had imploded in such spectacular fashion.