The Echo of Old Books

by Barbara Davis

Ethan scowled. “I certainly never heard that or anything about illegal liquor. But I wouldn’t be surprised. I know there was some big scandal at one point. Essentially ruined him. I have no idea what it was about—my father was pretty tight-lipped about that stuff. My mother was a little freer with her opinions. I once heard her say Martin was so crooked, they’d have to screw him in the ground when he died.”

so at some point, the author must have exposed Belle's father...

I must say I was surprised when you called to say you were on your way over. I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to look me in the eye. But then maybe that was the plan all along, a way to tell me without actually telling me. Perhaps you were afraid I’d make a scene, plead and rail that I’d never let you go. You needn’t have worried. I won’t chase after you. If you’re determined to sell yourself to a man who isn’t worthy of you—and it appears you are—then go.

ok tough guy

A week later, we’ve begun making plans. We set the date for our departure to coincide with a trip your father has planned to Boston, which will give you a few weeks to prepare. I’ve already arranged the tickets, a sleeper car on the Broadway Limited. We’ll stop in Chicago, find a justice of the peace, then spend a few days in the city, like proper honeymooners, before traveling on to California.

sad that it got this far... what's going to happen to fuck it all up???

I’ve said nothing to Goldie. She’ll be livid when I go. Without a word. Without a thank-you. She’s been good to me, giving me this opportunity to prove myself. But lately I’ve started to worry that she’s losing her objectivity, and I’m not sure I have the stomach for what comes next. The piece I’ve been working on has taken an unexpected turn in recent days. A somewhat disturbing turn, though our sources swear it’s true. Still, it could end up being an elaborate ruse, some enemy of your father’s looking to settle old business. No doubt he’s collected his share of adversaries over the years.

I cannot wait to finally find out what dirt they have on Belle's father...

“Nothing’s happened. I just decided I can’t go ahead with it. Even if I could absolutely prove what I’ve been told, which I probably can’t, it’s wrong to print it. Dragging up some poor woman’s illness, putting an entire family through the wringer over something that might or might not have happened more than a decade ago. That isn’t news. It’s ghoulish speculation meant to bring a man to his knees, and as much as I despise the man in question, I’ve decided I don’t want to be part of it.”

hmmm

“I’m not proud of any of it,” I tell her quietly. “But when this started, I thought you wanted a legitimate piece, an exposé on a shady man with political aspirations. Instead, it’s turned into a smear piece full of innuendo and lurid details no one’s ever likely to prove.” She rolls her eyes and snorts out a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and caught yourself a case of conscience. I hope not, for your sake. It can be fatal in this business.” Her eyes narrow suddenly, glittering and feline as they study me. “Or is it something else you’ve caught? Something with long legs and a trust fund.” I let the remark pass, refusing to take the bait. “That’s my business.” “And the Review is mine. This isn’t a courthouse; it’s a newspaper office. My job—and yours—is to print the news where we find it. What the public and the police choose to do with it is their business.”

if he's done all the legwork, why can't she just print it?? why does she care??

“Let me explain,” I say feebly. “We’ll sit down—” “It says my mother was Jewish. And that my father . . . that he . . .” “She was Jewish,” I say quietly. “And he did.” You’ve gone still now, your eyes wide and unfocused as you attempt to process what I’ve said. “I know it’s hard to hear, Belle, but it’s what happened. Your father had your mother put away. Not because she was sick but because he was ashamed of her. He’d begun making new friends—political friends—and he didn’t want them to know he was married to a Jew.”

yeah, this I'm not surprised by. I'm surprised this might break them though. Belle loved her mother very much, I'd think she'd be happy or you know, not happy, but vindicated to learn the truth, and finally able to turn her back on her father

“You still don’t understand. It isn’t about you killing the story. It’s about the fact that you were prepared to use my mother’s illness to further your career—when you knew how hard losing her was for me. You claim to love me, but you betrayed my confidence to sell newspapers!”

she's going to go on the betrayal track even though this story confirms her father is the monster she thinks he is already! yes it hurts, but knowing the truth is better than being in the dark. who cares if it's a newspaper story? I guess in the 40s the court of public opinion didn't matter as much to the elite, like they're just the rabble anyway. whereas nowadays, with as little justice as the Justice system gets done, especially against the rich, news is the only way any of us can get closure sometimes

“How can I get on that train now? When all I can think about is what else you may have lied about—and what you might lie about next. All I’d be doing is trading a family I can’t trust for a man I can’t trust.” For the first time, it occurs to me that I could actually lose you over this. “Belle, I swear to you . . .” Your face is so steely, so completely devoid of expression, that the words dry up in my throat. I’d prefer that you rail at me, fly at me, strike me. Instead, you stand there, still and white, icy calm. “Don’t you see?” you say at last. “It doesn’t matter what you swear now. It will never matter. Because I’ll never believe you. You said you loved me, but you couldn’t. Not if you could do something like this. I thought I knew you, but I don’t know the man who could do what you meant to. And I don’t want to.”

geez. ok. I get it but also I don't

Ethan was smiling when he pulled back the door, wearing jeans and a New England Patriots sweatshirt that was badly frayed at the collar. He grinned, noting the direction of her gaze. “No making fun of my lucky sweatshirt. I’ve had it since college.” Ashlyn eyed him skeptically. “Are you sure it’s lucky? The Pats haven’t exactly been setting the world on fire the last few years.” The smile morphed into a lopsided grin. “Maybe not, but you watch. One of these days, they’re going to get the right guy under center, and when they do, they’re going to win so many Super Bowls that the entire country will hate them.”

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

“And then you got this,” he said softly, taking her hand and turning it palm-up. Ashlyn swallowed, suddenly off-balance. “Yes.” “Does it still hurt?” His voice was unsettlingly soft, the room too warm. “No. Not now.” “I’m glad.” What was happening? Her heart felt like it was tap-dancing on her rib cage and she couldn’t seem to make her lungs expand. There hadn’t been anyone since Daniel. And not really anyone before him. Certainly no one who made her feel the way she was feeling now. “You okay?” She blinked at him, aware that she’d been silent a long time. “Yeah, just . . .” Ethan abruptly let go of her hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” “You didn’t. It’s just . . . been a while. I guess I’m out of practice. Not that I was ever in practice. I just meant . . .” Oh god, stop talking, Ashlyn. He touched your hand. He didn’t invite you to his bedroom.

so cute!!!

Ethan’s mouth curved softly. “I get it. I haven’t been . . . practicing much either. The divorce wrecked me. And then my dad got sick. There hasn’t been much time for a social life. And to be honest, I’ve never been very good at this part. The wooing thing, I mean. Picking up on signals, social cues. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” It was Ashlyn’s turn to smile. He was nothing like she’d imagined him when he walked into the shop that night. He was charming and funny and kind. “You’re doing fine,” she told him shyly. “Wooing-wise, I mean.” “We can go slow.” Feathery little wings seemed to take flight in her belly as she met his gaze. “Slow is good.”

oh! ok! we're doing this! great!

People lied. Echoes didn’t. Belle and Hemi both genuinely believed themselves to be the wronged party, which seemed to suggest that there was more to the story than they currently knew.

agreed! there was no closure, I think, for either of them

Her eyes are riveted to my face as she continues. “I know how often you take the car out, where you go, and how long you stay. I know about the groceries and the wine and what I suspect are very cozy suppers. I know it all.” “You had me followed?” “I suspected the two of you might be involved the first time he came around. I saw you watching him. And him watching you. Like a pair of hungry cats. I didn’t care, so long as you didn’t botch the business with Teddy. A friend in the press can be a good thing to have.” She pauses, flashing a feral smile. “And something tells me he’s very good. A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but that can be a plus. They say it’s fun to go slumming now and then. Is it true?”

so I wonder if the sister is going to have something to do with Belle not meeting up with her lover after all

“Not for sale?” She actually laughs, a high, mocking trill. “You poor dolt. You never saw him coming. You’re a would-be heiress, engaged to one of the most eligible men in the state, but he makes a play for you anyway. He woos you with that pretty face and that stuffy accent. And then, when he’s got you on the hook, he begins to pry little bits of information out of you. He wants to know all about you, how you grew up, and what it was like being the daughter of such an important man. He sets up a little love nest so the two of you can be alone, away from the big bad world, and you play house together. All of this after he’s managed to get himself invited to this house and into Father’s inner circle. Did it never occur to you to ask yourself what he might hope to gain from all that romancing? Or what would happen once he had what he wanted?” It sounds so obvious when she lays it all end to end like that, so completely and carefully orchestrated. Because that’s exactly how it happened, right down to that first invitation to dinner and the fight we had after. You were in your element that night, smiling and nodding as my sister dragged you around the room, introducing you to people you would have never met otherwise. None of this is news, of course. You admitted as much to me. But knowing that she knows it too—that she sees me for the fool I’ve been—is a hard pill to swallow.

so, what? this old story?? you can easily test the validity by meeting him at the train station as planned...

I’ve been wrestling with the words, with the impossible choice between my heart and my head.

how on earth are they not united?!?! is loyalty so important to her when she essentially hates her father and her sister??? she loves her writer, but what, does she still think he was only using her???

The moment of softness, so unexpected, so unfamiliar, brings a fresh rush of tears. I try to hold them at bay, but it’s useless. I crumple against her, sobbing. “Poor darling,” she croons, patting my back. “It can’t be as bad as all that.” I let myself relax against her. Like a child who’s suffered a fall, I’m shaken and clingy, desperate for something sure to hold on to. And I’m suddenly so tired.

This is the same sister who literally just said that their mother was weak and that Belle was a fool. Belle, you are a fool if you fall for this

6 December 1952

we've jumped ahead 11 years...

Your name echoes in the narrow hallway. But instead of you, I see a lanky boy with a tweed cap and a green coat scurrying toward the mouth of the stairs. He turns, wide-eyed, and goes still. His face is familiar. Your sister’s boy. The quiet one you call Dickey. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “Where’s your aunt?” I say as calmly as I can manage. “Is she with you?” He closes his mouth, shakes his head. “You’re here alone?” He nods, still silent. I keep one eye on him as I bend down to retrieve the envelope from the floor. “How did you get here?” “On my bike. I have to go now. I’m not supposed to talk to you.” “She said that?” “I’m supposed to just push the letter under the door and come straight back.” “Will you tell your aunt something for me?” His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

so dickey was literally involved!

“I’m going to give you one more chance to be a star, you British baboon. Not that you deserve it. And to prove I’m serious, I’m going to let you name your price. Hell, I’ll even let you write the headline. But this offer comes with an expiration date. You’ve got twenty-four hours to make up your mind and get back to your desk or I’ll make someone else a star.” I swallow the rest of my gin and thump down the empty glass. “I don’t need twenty-four hours.”

ok so it was written 11 years later but it's still recounting 1941. so he's heartbroken so he's going to write the story he said he wouldn't, for Belle, but now Belle has abandoned him, so fuck it! suddenly I'm on his side, oh how the turns have tabled!

December 7, 1941

oh shit... I'm glad I've been paying attention to the dates. I mean, this'll change everything, anything could happen now. even though we still know how it ends for Belle and the mystery writer, WWII will have a way of changing a lot of things...

I feel almost giddy as the motor purrs to life. I imagine you waiting for me across town, pacing and watching the clock, as eager as I am to begin our new life. Our tickets—the ones you bought for yesterday’s Limited—have gone to waste. How I wish I had decided sooner and left in time to make that train. We’d be in Chicago by now, perhaps on our way to the registrar’s office. But we’ll buy new tickets when we get to the station and at long last wave farewell to New York. A day later than we’d planned, perhaps, but what’s one day compared to a lifetime?

well shit... what now??? I wonder if it's the sister who wrote the goodbye letter?? Belle didn't write anything? just needed an extra day??

And so I paid Dickey a dollar to deliver my letter on his way to the druggist.

okay so she did write a letter... what the fuck did this letter say??? what's the disconnect???

How could you, Hemi? After everything—how could you do it? When you knew I was coming.

okay, the fact that we don't know what was in the note that he read and the fact that we don't know what was in the note that she wrote means that the sister must have intercepted somewhere...

“You think the president of the United States has been praying that we’d be attacked and hundreds of people would be killed?” “You still don’t understand, do you, who’s pulling the strings and why? This wasn’t a random attack. It was orchestrated to drag us into their war. The Jews and the communists want us to use our money and our resources to fight their war for them. Why should we? Let them raise their own army and fend for themselves.”

clearly the sister is the evil one, or at least, she has thoroughly drunk the Kool-Aid

But there has been a telegram from my father. Cee-Cee made sure it was on this morning’s breakfast tray. It seems the Boston rally has been canceled, though my father plans to remain for another week. Since the attack on Pearl Harbor, Lindbergh’s beloved America First committee has begun to fray and my father and his friends are hoping to hold it together. The last line is about me: a directive to keep an eye on me until he can come home and deal with me properly.

so, you have a date for this entry, you have the family name now, this seems to imply that the article destroying her father in print has run... you know where to look... My only issue with this book is that these chapters and the present day chapters are run uninterrupted. but there are clearly places here where research should be happening! Even though I know Ashlyn is reading this, it's as if this story is completely unconnected to her present. that's my only criticism. I'm so freaking hooked otherwise, but that's even more reason for the criticism! stop right here and go to the library and look up newspapers - no!! you even know the magazine name now!! you can easily look up December 1941 articles in the Review about the Manning family!!!

And then I see it—a grainy rendition of my parents’ wedding photo staring back at me from the front page of the New York Weekly Review, along with the garish headline: GRUESOME ASYLUM DEATH RAISES FRESH EYEBROWS.

oh, she's only just found out he printed it... whatever, doesn't change anything

There will be no wedding in June. Teddy’s parents have made it official, expressing shock and dismay at the Weekly Review’s recent revelations about my father. I suspect they’ll waste little time before arranging another matrimonial merger. There are faces to save, after all, and what better way to paper over their son’s brief but unfortunate engagement to me than to wed him to some new and unsullied bride—preferably one with pure gentile bloodlines.

hooray... see I can't drum up any feelings for her... she should have run away long ago. I'm sorry... in the last chapter, she even admitted that she has money from a trust fund from her mother!! what in the hell was keeping her in that house?!?!

It took several days, but eventually, the most lurid details elbowed past the war news. The other papers have picked it up now as well, as you surely knew they would. How proud you must be to have pulled it off.

AND SHE'S PISSED AT HIM!!!

I’ll begin with the story that appeared in the Review shortly after I left the States—a story, I might add, I learned about purely by chance, nearly two full years after it was published. That this story happened to contain facts to which I was privy has no doubt led you to conclude that I had some hand in it, but it is a matter of record that the name attached to it was not mine. I gave you my word that day in my apartment—the last time I saw you, as it turns out—and I will not do so again. If you know me so little after all we shared, there’s no point in trying to absolve myself.

so he never wrote that story... good for him, I guess, he should have! we're not taking about some scandals with hushed up affairs with the help or secret babies! we're talking about murder and Nazi sympathisers!!!

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.

uh oh! I wish we had more dialog! more talk from our MCs about why they support one or the other!

“Have you always been able to do it?” he asked finally. “It started when I was twelve. At first I thought everyone could do it. Then I did some reading about it.” She looked down at the beer bottle in her hand, scraping at the soggy label with her thumbnail. “Turns out I’m a bit of a freak.” “Or maybe you’re just more tuned in than most people.” She scrunched one eye as she looked at him. “You don’t think it’s weird?” “Oh, I think it’s totally weird. I also think it’s amazing.”

AWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!

“Before . . . ,” he said finally, awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to make light of how you feel. I get now why you’re so invested. But it’s different for me. I’m not sure how I even got involved. I should be upstairs writing, or at least working on finals. Instead, I’m up to my ears in some romantic whodunit and I have no idea how it happened . . . except that it gave me an excuse to keep seeing you.” His final remark caught Ashlyn off guard. “You thought you needed an excuse?” “Didn’t I?” The question brought a flush of warmth to her cheeks. “At first. Maybe.” He reached up to push a lock of hair out of her eyes. “And now?” It felt like the most natural thing in the world to lean into him, to melt into the circle of his arms, to yield when his lips touched hers. Natural and yet terrifying.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. they're so cute!!!!!!!!!!!

“And Marian is alive and well and living in Massachusetts, of all places.”

oh em gee, are they going to find out hemi is alive too?

The number of lives we are capable of living is limited only by the number of books we choose to read.

wow!

Hugh Garret.”

we have a name!! now the young lovers need to poke and prod and wrangle the old stubborn curmudgeons back together!!

Ashlyn moved to the fireplace, her back to him as she stared into the fire. “He started to make a scene, so I got up and left. I had already crossed the street by the time he came out of the bar. I heard my name and turned. He was standing on the curb, looking straight at me with this weird expression. There was a van coming down the street, the kind that carries those big sheets of glass. He watched it come closer . . . and then he stepped off the curb.” She heard Ethan’s ragged intake of breath, his long, slow exhale. “My god . . .” His expression when she turned to face him was one of genuine horror. She squared her shoulders, bracing herself to say the rest. “Just before he stepped into the road, there was a split second . . . He looked up at me and smiled; then he called out, Say hello to Dr. Sullivan.” “Who is Dr.—” “Dr. Sullivan was my therapist. The one I used to see every other Thursday after my father shot himself.”

that's a level of petty I can't fathom!

“It’s Zachary,” she breathed. “Hugh Garret is Zachary’s father.”

I knew it! Marian was so cagey when talking about her kids both being adopted from Joanna!

“How can you say that? He wanted to marry you.” “Once, perhaps. But he never came looking for me. Never called or wrote a single letter.” “He wrote you a book,” Ashlyn reminded her pointedly. She nodded wearily. “Yes, he did. I remember the day it came. When I read the inscription, I thought he’d found out about Zachary—that he was asking how I could have kept his son from him. Then I started reading and realized it was just another attempt to paint himself as the injured party. He wasn’t interested in the truth. Or in me. It felt like a vindication, proof that he didn’t deserve to know. I’m sure it looks terrible to an outsider. Heartless and selfish. And perhaps it was. But Zachary was happy growing up and that’s what I cared about. I loved him enough for both of us and always will. The rest of it doesn’t matter anymore.”

do not for one second believe I've forgotten about this letter nonsense! I am convinced Corrine intercepted the letter!

I step past him then, out into the hallway, and head for the alcove where the house phone is located. I don’t have to call Ilese. I just need a moment to compose myself and I know the ladies’ room is here. I step inside, then sag against the closed door. I’ve dreaded this moment for so long, and yet I’ve never once thought how I might handle it, what excuse I might offer for what I’ve done. Probably because there isn’t one. Not for something like this.

has she done something else? or is she just referring to Zachary??

My face flames. I reach for my wine again, my eyes fixed on the rows of liquor bottles lined up shoulder to shoulder, like jewel-colored soldiers behind the bar. “Say what you came to say.” “I didn’t come to say anything. I came to listen. I thought you might have something you’d like to say to me, something you’d like to explain.”

they're still doing this cheeky thing! she thinks he knows she has his son, I think he's referring to something in the fake note.... YES!! I'M STILL CONVINCED THE NOTES GOT SWITCHED!! WHY THE FUCK ELSE NOT TELL US WHAT WAS IN THEM?!?!

“After all these years, you still blame me.” “Who should I blame?” “I went to that bloody station two hours early, dragged both suitcases down there, and waited for you to show. Do you know what it felt like standing on the platform watching that train pull away?” I stare at him, stunned that he can sit there and talk about hurt—to me. Has he forgotten his part in all of it? The promise he made and the breaking of it? His disappearance from my life without a word? “I imagine it felt a lot like walking into your apartment the next day and finding it empty.” “I went to the station as agreed. You didn’t come.” “I sent you a note.” “Yes. Your note was quite clear. I’m sorry your wedding plans fell through, by the way. Though I still say you dodged a bullet. Teddy was never good enough for you.” Teddy? I haven’t thought of my ex-fiancé in years and the name catches me off guard. “Why bring up Teddy now?”

ha HA!! out with it!!!

He shrugs. “If you must know, it’s a question of pride. It still baffles me that you could have chosen that buffoon over me. Even now, I can’t quite wrap my head around your words. Or the fact that you thought I could be pacified by such unmitigated tripe.”

HA HA!!!!! VINDICATED!!!!!

How does one write such a letter? Knowing the pain it will cause. To end things so bluntly, after so much planning, seems unthinkable even to me. You’ll think me hard and selfish. Perhaps it’s true. Yes, I’m certain it is. But we would never have been happy, you and I. Not in the end. I care for you—will always care for you in my way—but it never would have worked. We’re not matched in the things that really matter, which is why I must now end what should never have begun. If you look at it squarely, as I have, you’ll see that it’s for the best. In fact, one day I believe you’ll be glad I came to my senses. I’m to blame, of course, for letting it go on as long as it did, for letting it happen at all, I suppose. And this is hardly a brave way to end things, a few words scribbled on a scrap of paper. But when your pride has recovered from the sting of this note, you’ll realize I’ve spared us both. The truth is I’ve promised myself to another and despite my misgivings, I’m not strong enough to break that promise. I’m going away, will already be gone when you read this, too much of a coward to face the mess I’ve created. Please don’t try to contact me. My mind is made up. I beg you to forgive my selfish and fickle heart. —Marian

oh fucking no!!!!!!! so I was right and I was wrong. SHE SWITCHED UP THE LETTERS!!! THIS IS THE LETTER SHE MEANT TO SEND TO TEDDY!!! AND SOMEHOW HEMI GOT IT INSTEAD?!?!?!?! FUCKING HELL!!!!!

“No,” I say, shaking my head emphatically. “I didn’t send you this. I wrote two letters. One for Teddy, to explain why I couldn’t marry him, and one for you. The one I wrote to you was short. Eight words, to be precise. This is Teddy’s letter.” He picks up his drink and lifts it to his lips, then puts it down again without sipping. He’s silent for a time, eyes locked straight ahead as he registers what I’ve just told him.

that's the oh fuck face 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

A blade of cold slices through me as the truth dawns, terrible yet inescapable. “They were switched. Somehow Teddy’s letter wound up in the envelope meant for you.”

ok PHEW!! I was still right, Corrine didn't write a fake letter but she still switched them

I pick up the letter again, scanning the lines I penned so long ago, the vague phrasing and carefully chosen words—words meant for another man—and I imagine Hemi reading them for the first time. My throat aches as I realize how easy it would have been to believe they’d been meant for him and the gut-wrenching pain they must have caused. I try to wrap my head around it. How could it have happened? And then I remember Corinne coming into my room while I was writing the letters and how she was still there, tidying up, when I returned from the bathroom. “My sister,” I say, knowing it’s true. “She did this.”

there's you go. sad and then, yes! finally! vindicated!! you can both be happy now and hate your sister together! you only lost 40 years over this

The repercussions of her treachery hit like a fist. What’s been stolen from me. From us. The life we should have shared. The son we would have raised together. The ache of it nearly doubles me over.

uhh yeah! I'd fucking kill her!

Has he grasped the fallout from my sister’s actions, or am I the only one lamenting what might have been? “Say something,” I say at last. He looks down at his hands, fisted on the edge of the bar. “What is it you want me to say?” “I want you to say you believe Corinne switched the letters, and to acknowledge what that means.” “It was a lifetime ago, Marian. At this point, I don’t think it matters.” The use of my real name—so foreign on his tongue—is like a dash of icy water, but his cavalier response cuts to the bone. I blink at him, stunned. “You came all the way to Boston to crash an awards dinner because you claimed you wanted an explanation. Now it doesn’t matter?”

yeah, excuse me, Bud! don't be fucking stupid!

“You’d rather just go on hating me. Is that it?” He’s silent for a time, as if weighing his next words. When he finally does answer, his voice is flat, almost weary. “I’ve been bitter for a long time, Marian. A very, very long time. I’m not sure I could take knowing I’ve spent the last forty years in purgatory for no damned reason.” “You’d rather remember it wrong?” “I’d rather not to remember it at all, thank you. But anger is easy. It’s also familiar. My default position, you might say.” I blink at him, experiencing an eerie sense of déjà vu. Didn’t I say something similar to Ashlyn last night?

yeah he needs a good chat with Ashlyn! and a good kick in the ass!!