The Echo of Old Books

by Barbara Davis

There is nothing quite so alive as a book that has been well loved.

nice!

It was a thing she had, a gift, like perfect pitch or a perfumer’s nose. The ability to read the echoes that attached themselves to certain inanimate objects—books, to be precise. She had no idea how it worked. She only knew it had started when she was twelve.

good development. I'm looking forward to seeing where it goes.

“Books are feelings,” he replied simply. “They exist to make us feel. To connect us to what’s inside, sometimes to things we don’t even know are there. It only makes sense that some of what we feel when we’re reading would . . . rub off.”

love this!

Without a reader, a book was a blank slate, an object with no breath or pulse of its own. But once a book became part of someone’s world, it came to life, with a past and a present—and, if properly cared for, a future.

love this too!! wish I could be a book empath! but I love the idea that one day all my book babies will live on for someone else who needs them.

Your voice, startlingly low for someone so young, gives me pause, but I’m amused, too, by your smooth delivery. You clearly have no idea who I am. If you did, you’d hardly be so polite.

at this point, the mystery author has given enough background for Ashlyn to figure out who Belle is... but who is the young man??? and why is he being so coy???

With Regretting Belle, the echoes were complex, heavy, and slow to lift. Against her better judgment, she placed a hand on its cover. It was bitterness that came through first, hot and sharp against the pads of her fingers. That was the top note, the initial impression. Next came the deeper and rounder heart note, betrayal, which carved a hollow place beneath her ribs. And finally, there was the base note, the most resonant of all the layers—grief. But whose grief?

comparing the echoes to perfumes. love that

“Are you working on a story now? One about an adventurous Brit, perhaps, who travels across the big blue ocean to learn all about the glamorous Americans?” “Yes,” I tell you, because it’s exactly what I’ve come to write. But it isn’t the whole truth. The whole truth you will find out later, but by then, the damage will be done.

what con is he working???

We read not to escape life but to learn how to live it more deeply and richly, to experience the world through the eyes of the other.

yes! yes we do!

Top note . . . heart note . . . base note. Accusation. Betrayal. Heartbreak. Ashlyn exhaled sharply as the intensity increased. This was nothing like Regretting Belle, which had nearly burned her fingers with its festering hostility and pent-up pain. In fact, this was the exact opposite. It was cold and cutting, like a January wind, and strangely . . . bloodless. It was an odd way to describe anger, which usually registered as hot and sharp, like a slap. But there was no heat here, only a blue-white conflagration that felt like fire but wasn’t. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t anger she was picking up. It was despair. A void so deep, so achingly familiar, it made her throat clench. The echoes were feminine.

backtracking, the guy's anger is hot and heavy, but Belle's is cold and despairing. feels very Heathcliff and Catherine

How, Belle? After everything . . . how could you do it? How??? After everything—you can ask that of me?

so the guy wrote a book to Belle and what, she wrote one back??

A girl isn’t supposed to fall in love at her own engagement party. She isn’t supposed to, but I did. But then, for a skilled pretender, I was easy prey. And you were quite skilled, as I soon learned.

ok so yes, she wrote a book back to him essentially

Your name, when you give it, is unfamiliar.

it's like they know they're part of a mystery! why can't we know anyone's name?!?! and for that matter, why hasn't Ashlyn done any research yet?? there must be a library with some microfiche!

She unfolded it, scanning the neatly typed address: Richard Hillard. 58 Harbor Road. Rye, NH. She looked up, perplexed. “What is it?”

you were literally looking for "the guy from rye" just yesterday! also, Dickey! Belle's nephew!

Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe the whole thing was ridiculous and she should let it go before she became any more distracted. The books were already taking up hours that would be better spent in the bindery. But even as she acknowledged the wisdom of abandoning this strange new obsession, she felt the pull of it. Of them—whoever they were—and their unfinished story, beckoning her to read on.

uh yeah, no, you can't just let it go! you own a book store! you've come across some mystery books! obviously you must figure out who wrote them and at the very least finish reading them! could you imagine if the story ended here?! 🤣

“Poems,” I say simply. “You write poetry?” I see I’ve surprised you. I’ve surprised myself too. I haven’t thought of those silly poems in years, and I wonder why they’ve suddenly sprung to mind. “I was a girl. It’s what girls do. Write silly poems about our angst.” “Love poems?” I toss my head with a little laugh, dimly aware that the gesture might be mistaken for a flirtation. “What did I know about love? I was a child. No. I wrote nonsense. Rubbish about a caged bird who dreamed of leaving her bars behind, of soaring high above the city and flying far, far away. And there was one about being lost in one of those hedge mazes. The hedges kept growing taller and taller and I couldn’t find my way out.” “Sounds deep.” “It was tosh, as they say on your side of the pond. But I was a fanatic about poetry back then. I read everything I could get my hands on, some of it unacceptable for a girl my age. I was convinced I was going to be Elizabeth Barrett Browning when I grew up.” You study me strangely, as if searching for something. “When were you going to tell me this?” The question feels odd, the kind of thing you ask someone you’ve known for years. “Tell you how? When? We’ve only just met.” Your mouth curls in a way that’s vaguely sensual. “I keep forgetting.”

I like this a lot!

This is what it’s supposed to be like, I think as our breaths mingle and my bones begin to melt. This. This. This.

indeed! trouble!

We saw each other the next day and the day after that. Do you remember? We’d meet at the stables in the afternoons and ride together or walk in the woods where we knew we wouldn’t be seen, holding hands, stopping now and then for long, slow kisses. I was ridiculously happy, content to simply be with you, pretending it wasn’t odd that we never spoke of your engagement.

now he's writing like he has no ulterior motive... what's going on with him?!

“I believe in you,” you say softly. I look away, swallowing the words that are on the tip of my tongue. That you shouldn’t—and won’t when you know what I’m really after.

what the actual fuck is he after?!?! a story???

“And your sister?” “What about her?” “How did she take the news?” You offer another of your evasive shrugs. “People deal with loss in different ways.” “Were the two of you close?” “She raised me,” you say, not quite an answer. “After my mother went away. She had just turned seventeen, but she stepped into my mother’s shoes as if she’d been training for it all her life. She dedicated every waking moment to taking care of my father, running his house, writing his letters, hosting his dinner parties. She became indispensable to him.” There was something vaguely discomfiting about the description, not blatantly unsavory but not quite natural either. “A little odd, isn’t it? A seventeen-year-old playing lady of the manor? At that age, most girls are worried about clothes and boys, not approving the weekly menu and playing hostess.” You smile, a brittle smile that leaches the warmth from your eyes. “Cee-Cee was never most girls. She was so driven, even then, willing to throw herself on a live grenade if my father required it of her—which he did from time to time. We were never close—not before my mother died or after—but she took care of me. She took care of everything. It’s hard to fault that kind of loyalty.” “And yet, something tells me you do.” “Of course I don’t.” “It’s just us,” I say gently. “You don’t have to defend her. Or your father. Not to me.” “I don’t know what you mean.” “I just mean you seem a little protective. You button up the minute I ask about either one of ...

yes, alarm bells should be ringing

Here are the things I didn’t tell you, the lovely things about her that you might have known but never bothered to ask—because you were interested in only the ugly parts. And you made quick work of those bits when you got a hold of them, didn’t you? What a banner day it must have been for you. What a laugh you must have had at my expense, fool that I was. But I’ll tell you the rest now—not because I imagine you capable of remorse; I know you too well for that—but because I want you to know the woman I knew.

it's becoming more and more apparent he sold her dirty secrets in some way shape or form

There was talk, of course, whispers about other students. One had supposedly threatened to drown herself when he broke it off. Another had an abortion and left school with a hefty check for her silence. She had written it off at the time, chalking it up to campus gossip. Until she came home early one afternoon and found Marybeth and Daniel in the kitchen, making eggs together. Daniel was in his pajama bottoms. Marybeth was wearing the Brooks Brothers robe Ashlyn had given Daniel for Christmas, her hair still wet from the shower. True to form, Daniel had blamed her. For not being supportive enough, talented enough, woman enough. And suddenly, horrifyingly, in the middle of all that hurled blame, she realized she’d become her mother. A doormat and a victim. An emotional whipping post for a failed and angry man.

Ashlyn is tragic enough! I don't know if I've highlighted any of it but there's also a mother dead of cancer and a father that took his own life shortly thereafter. it's hard to keep all the tragedy straight with Belle also having lost her mother to a mental health battle.

He held up a copy of her newsletter. “The Care & Feeding of Old Books. Clever title. Your idea?” Ashlyn frowned, perturbed by what felt like a deliberate brush-off. “Yes. Thank you. But I’m afraid—” “Good photo of you too.” “Thanks, but as I said, we’re closed. We’ll be open again at nine tomorrow if you’re looking for something special.” The man returned the newsletter to its slot on the rack, pushed his hands into his pockets, and ran his eyes around the shop. He was younger than she’d first thought. A little uncomfortable in his skin but good-looking in a damp, uncombed way. She forced a smile and tried again. “If you’re looking for something specific, a particular title or author, I’d be happy to take your name and number and give you a call tomorrow.” He eyed her blandly. “You already have my number. We spoke a few days ago. I’m Ethan Hillard. I wasn’t sure what time you closed, but I took a chance. I was wondering if it would be possible to see the books.” Ashlyn blinked at him, more than a little surprised. When they spoke on the phone, he hadn’t seemed the least bit interested. “See them?” “All right, read them.” His sudden change of heart set off alarm bells.

oh so this is now a romance!

“If you’re under the impression that the books are valuable, Mr. Hillard—” “It’s Ethan,” he said, cutting her off. “And this isn’t about money. After we spoke the other night, the name Belle kept popping into my head and I couldn’t think why. And then yesterday I remembered. I have an aunt. She’s a great-aunt, actually. The sister of my paternal grandmother. Her real name is Marian, but I’m almost sure I remember the name Belle coming up in conversation between my parents.”

her first real lead!! as Ethan is Dickie's son, and Belle was Dickie's aunt, yes, this is it!!

“He’s the author of Regretting Belle. That isn’t his real name. It’s just what Belle calls him. Short for Hemingway, because he’s a writer. Goldie appears to be a nickname as well, though I’m hoping to learn her identity soon. Once I do, I might be able to pin down Hemi’s name as well, since he wrote for one of her papers. How about Helene? Does that name jog any memories?” “None. Who was she?” “Belle’s mother. At least that’s the name she used. She’d be your great-grandmother, your father’s grandmother. She died when Belle was just a girl . . . by suicide, according to Belle. Apparently, the family did their best to sweep it under the carpet.” She paused, registering Ethan’s blank face. “None of this rings a bell?”

geez woman! breathe!

“There are inscriptions in both books—one by Belle and one by Hemi—that you really need to read together.” He glanced up from the book, looking faintly annoyed. “Why?” Ashlyn bit her lip in an effort to hide her annoyance. He had to be the least curious man she’d ever met.

opposites attract!

And they’re gaining traction. The Bund held a rally in Madison Square Garden. Twenty thousand people doing the Nazi salute on American soil, and no one’s paying attention. Some are even cheering them on. The only way to keep those so-called patriots out of power is to pay attention, Belle, to decide where you stand on the issues before you accidentally find yourself on the wrong side.”

oh how gross that history repeats itself! this time with tiki torches and podcast bros and TV hosts playing politics

I blink at you, rerunning what you’ve just said. Dinner. At your father’s table. With his . . . guests, who are almost certainly not movie stars. It’s the opportunity I’ve been angling for. And yet, my conscience chafes.

ok so, some story to expose her father as a Nazi sympathizer?

I only glimpsed your sister from a distance that night at the St. Regis, but once again, I’m struck by the differences between you. There are similarities, of course, despite the gap in your ages, a vague resemblance if you look very hard, but she’s a bloodless version of you, smaller and paler, as if the years have washed out all her color, and I find myself wondering if she always looked like this or if it’s the result of the life she’s lived. A husband chosen by her father, a stable of impeccably reared children, years of living up to expectations someone else has set for her. It makes me shudder to think you might look like this after a few years with Teddy.

hey that's exactly what Belle is afraid of!

Books may be likened to the people who come into our lives. Some will become precious to us; others will be set aside. The key is to discern which is which.

I would like a book of just these little witticisms

“I was hoping you could tell me if she ever married him.” “She never married anyone, as far as I know.” Ashlyn frowned. “I thought you said you met her kids.” “Her adopted kids. A boy and a girl. War orphans.” “She adopted two war orphans? From where?” “I don’t remember. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever knew. I know she traveled after the war, but I have no idea where.

hooray! at least Belle got to travel!

Ashlyn looked at him in disbelief. “But that’s only a piece of the mystery. Aren’t you curious about the rest of it?” “Not in the least.”

you must pull him in, Ashlyn!!

She rolled up her sleeves and took on the social issues of the day. Birth control. Wages for women. Eugenics. Child labor. Had quite a lot to say about the Nazis too. Not the ones in Europe. The ones she claimed lived right here in the US of A. Named names too.”

yes! getting into the nitty gritty!

Labeled a lefty and a commie, but she never backed down. She had a knack for finding dirt on the big boys. Bribery. Corruption. Cronyism. If she got a whiff of something rotten, she dug it up, and then she printed it. Took down more than one bigwig in her day, and by any means necessary.

this is why she got herself a young Brit to charm the daughter in order to get close to the father...

Never married, as far as I can tell, but she did finally level off when someone named Steven Schwab entered the picture. He appears to have been a longtime protégé and love interest. Looks like he worked for a couple of her newspapers, though I’m not sure which or in what capacity. Maybe he was just, as they say . . . on the payroll.

she may have found her guy...

And finally, a tiny tabloid piece dated November 2, 1974. Who’s the Hunk on Goldie Spencer’s Arm? The photo showed a smiling but noticeably older Goldie at some gala or other. She was wearing a dress trimmed in feathers and a necklace that could have bankrolled a small third-world country. On her arm was an impossibly tall Adonis. A 007 type, with chiseled good looks and a wide white smile, impeccable in black tie. Ashlyn felt a little thrill as she let her magnifying glass hover. Here, at last, was Steven Schwab, considerably younger than Goldie and still quite dashing.

this can't be our mystery writer. he was wooing Belle in the 40s.

“And the instant you got your foot in the door, I became invisible.” You study me for what feels like a very long time, your mouth drawn down at the corners. Finally, you come a step closer. I expect you to touch me, to kiss me, since there’s no one around. Instead, you shake your head. “You parade me in front of your father and sister like some bloody trophy, pretending to barely know me, then get angry because I haven’t spent the entire evening pining for you from across the room.” “I didn’t expect—” You hold up a hand, cutting me off. “You seem to think this is some sort of game, Belle. You leave me hanging for days at a time, then tug my chain. And I’m supposed to jump when you call. I was happy to play along—for a while. But things are different now. I can’t play anymore.”

this back and forth from her chapters to his is not giving an accurate enough picture of which one is in the wrong. maybe she really does ignore him until SHE has time and availability, but it seems to me he's being a bully right now. BUT, this is her chapter...

Your words are like little stones. They sting when they land. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying that in the future, you should be more careful with your invitations.” You turn then and retreat down the hall. I watch you walk away, your shoulders stiff as you pass through the parlor and slip from sight. Your heels echo against the marble tiles in the foyer, and then I hear the thud of the front door, firm and final. Much too final.

moreover! he seems all pissed off at her that she let him get ingratiated into her father's circle but I thought that was his whole purpose! he's all "maybe you should be more careful about what you invite me to" like it's her fault... but doesn't he want secret Nazi sympathizer evidence on her dad?? it's he gaslighting her?? or is he just poorly directing his frustration because he feels guilty that he's going to have to expose her dad?? either way, he's being a dick!

And for the first time in my life, I’m working on something important. I thought I could keep the two separate, but I can’t. And I can’t afford to get distracted. Not on this story.” “What’s it about?” “Your father.” You go still. “My . . . What about my father?” “There are . . . stories.” “Stories you heard from Goldie?” “Some were from Goldie, but not all. You told me yourself, there’s been talk for years. Word is your father ran a proper racket back in the twenties. Whisky out of Canada. Rum from Bimini. Had some pretty unsavory friends in those days too. The kind who come in handy when you’re involved in rough trade.”

yes, so he's mad at her because he lives her but he has to report on her father... like it's her fault. even in his own chapter, he's the one being an asshole

“Let’s not play the whole scene, Belle. We both knew this day would come. You’re stung that I’ve chosen the time and place rather than leaving it to you, but it’s time we let each other off the hook, don’t you think?”

yup, this is all male pride

“Four months ago, I was an outsider in your world, a bloke with the wrong clothes and a funny accent who’d come here to do a job. But first, I needed an entrée, admittance to the kinds of parties your father and his sort throw. Goldie provided that, but only to a point. I needed a more . . . intimate contact.” I swallow. Hard. “That’s where you came in.”

he admits to this and he has the nerve to try to make her feel bad!!! I believe his mentality is that she has her cushy engagement to fall back on, but that's the practicalities. he's being cruel about the emotional part.

Your silence threatens to undo me, and for a moment, I consider taking it all back and telling you the real truth—that it was true once but isn’t anymore. That the story I’m working on has taken a turn I never saw coming, one I wish I didn’t have to pursue. That I imagine abandoning the whole bloody business and taking you somewhere very far away. And then I remind myself—as Goldie reminded me last night and then again this morning—that you’ve made your plans and they don’t include me.

see, he feels bad that he has to expose her father but the reason he's being harsh is that he thinks she'll be just fine without him whereas he'll be the only one to suffer heartbreak, that he has a monopoly on it. dickhead. I'm 10000% on her side

There’s an urgency in your touch, a well of pent-up need given free rein at last. I respond instinctively, meeting your hunger with my own, unafraid suddenly, unashamed. The power of it—of us—is like nothing I’ve imagined. I’m both powerful and powerless, conqueror and conquered. Whole in your arms in a way I never thought possible and, at the same time, utterly shattered as we hurtle headlong over the precipice together. And in that moment, there can be no going back. I’m yours forever. Irrevocably. Indelibly.

but they get over all that and bone anyway...

We make love again, more slowly this time, exploring tender topography missed in our first frenzied joining. We cherish each other, every touch and taste and murmur. We whisper promises as the afternoon ebbs into evening. Words like forever and tomorrow and always. And we mean them when we say them. Or at least I do. Because I haven’t begun to think any of it through. What it will mean. What it will cost. Where it all might lead.

even if we didn't know the ending (or in this case, the beginning) we'd still know it. she's so naive! just enjoy the sex and stop pretending! but of course, it's the 40s, this is the height of scandal! Romeo and Juliet! destined to burn to the ground!

I never told you how I came to be standing in the ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel the night we met, but I’ll tell you now, so you’ll understand. Had I been paying better attention, I might have seen what was coming, though what I could have done to prevent it, I still don’t know.

it occurs to me I don't think the writer of regretting Belle ever got to read Belle's response, this forever and other lies, because the nephew had both books still. sad prospect

My father was not amused when I pointed out that Teddy and his parents were not my guests but his. I also informed him that I had no intention of marrying anyone. I was going to school to study art or education. I folded my napkin, then laid it aside and stood. My father stood, too, and slapped me so hard, I dropped back into my chair. He’d never struck me before and he took an abrupt step back, as if he’d surprised himself. “You should be careful,” he warned, his voice steely soft. “You’ve always had too much of your mother in you. Too silly and sentimental for your own good. I suggest that in the future, you try to be more malleable. It’s spared your sister no end of heartache.” “Is it silly to want to love the man I marry?” “What you want is of no consequence to me. You have a duty to this family, and you’ll do it if you know what’s good for you. End of discussion.”

I mean... I can't pretend to understand the demure of women in the 40s but... a slap I think I could handle. this is the most flight she puts up, and then she gives in. she says she doesn't care about money, she says she's afraid of her father's rage, and perhaps she is much meeker than she will let on, but... she really didn't put up much of a fight

“Haven’t you been listening? There is no choosing. We’re pieces on a chessboard, you and I. Nothing more. He’ll move us wherever and however he likes, and he won’t stop until he has all the pieces.” She pushed back from the table and stood, then hesitated, pinning me with a frosty glare. “You should also know that on occasion, a few pieces have gone missing. Troublesome pieces that didn’t matter much to anyone. Don’t ever think he won’t do it to you.”

her fucking sister just threatened her! Belle is a grown woman! I have no idea if this was one of those times a woman still want allowed to like, rent her own apartment or whatever, I'm assuming no... yeah, I just looked it up. without her own money or backing from a male relative, not until the 60s and 70s. I guess she literally can't run away. I want to be mad at her but I'm pretty sure she is quite literally stuck

“I was just . . . I didn’t think you were home. I rang the bell but no one answered.” “So you thought you’d just let yourself in?” “No!” She held up the book in her defense. “I was just going to leave this inside the storm door, then call and leave a message when I got back to the shop. I tried the mailbox, but it’s full.” Ethan eyed the book, then looked at her, frowning. “It’s illegal to go into someone’s mailbox.” Ashlyn blinked at him. Is it really? “I wasn’t going to take anything. I was just going to leave the book.” “Why?” Ashlyn shot him a nervous smile. This wasn’t going quite the way she’d hoped. “I have some questions. And I’ve learned some things since the night you came to the shop. I left you several messages but I never heard back.” “So you came to my house.” It sounded bad when he said it. Intrusive and a little bit creepy. “Not to see you. Well, I’d have to see you, but I wasn’t planning to bother you. I wrote my questions down on Post-its and stuck them to the pages so you could look them over when you had time. If I had known you were here, I wouldn’t have . . .” Ashlyn let the words dangle. He looked tired and annoyed, as if she’d caught him in the middle of something. “I’m sorry. It looks like I picked a bad time.”

super freaking creepy!! but like, in a cute way... cute stalker

Ashlyn managed a smile, but she couldn’t help comparing the choices her mother had made in the wake of her diagnosis to those of Catherine Hillard, who had done everything in her power to ensure those she loved were looked after. She had chosen to stay. Chosen to fight.

So here's this sweet and uber curious young woman who's been just wracked with tragedy and this standoffish young man who had a lovely family life and she's trying to unravel the mystery of one of his distant relatives and he couldn't care less. but interestingly, he's still welcomed her into his home, even giving her a tour, and he's about to offer her some seafood chowder. an interesting beginning...

“All right,” Ethan said grudgingly. “I’ll take a look. But chowder first. I’m starving. We can talk while we eat. Can you make a salad? The stuff’s in the crisper. You might want to shuck the jacket, though.”

he's all like 'sure, as long as you make yourself at home, eat my chowder, and make a salad.' like it's too homey to even be rude. he's literally like 'you belong here now'

“Then we’d better open some wine. Red or white?”

wine now!! next it's gonna be 'you might as well just move here.' she literally just met this man and doesn't know him from Adam!