True Believer Part 5

"So you can do that, too?"

She shrugged without answering. "Can I be frank now?"

"Sure."

"One day, you're going to learn something that can't be explained with science. And when that happens, your life's going to change in ways you can't imagine."

He smiled. "Is that a promise?"

"Yes," she said, "it is." She paused, looking him in the eye. "And I have to say that I really enjoyed our lunch. It isn't often that I have the company of such a charming young man. It almost makes me feel young again."

"I had a wonderful time, too."

He turned to leave. The clouds had drifted in while they'd been eating. The sky, while not ominous, looked as if winter wanted to settle in, and Jeremy tugged at his collar as he made his way to the car.

"Mr. Marsh?" Doris called out from behind him.

Jeremy turned. "Yes?"

"Say hi to Lex for me."

"Lex?"

"Yeah," she said. "At the reference desk in the library. That's who you should ask for."

Jeremy smiled. "Will do."

Four.

The library turned out to be a ma.s.sive Gothic structure, completely different from any other building in town. To Jeremy, it looked as if it had been plucked from a hillside in Romania and dropped in Boone Creek on a drunken dare.

The building occupied most of the block, and its two stories were adorned with tall, narrow windows, a sharply angled roof, and an arched wooden front door, complete with oversize door knockers. Edgar Allan Poe would have loved the place, but despite the haunted house architecture, the townsfolk had done what they could to make it seem more inviting. The brick exterior-no doubt reddish brown at one point-had been painted white, black shutters had been put up to frame the windows, and beds of pansies lined the walkway out front and circled the flagpole. A friendly, carved sign with italicized gold script welcomed all to BOONE CREEK LIBRARY BOONE CREEK LIBRARY. Still, the overall appearance was jarring. It was, Jeremy thought, kind of like visiting a rich kid's elegant brownstone in the city, only to have the butler meet you at the door with balloons and a squirt gun.

In the cheerfully lit, pale yellow foyer-at least the building was consistent in its inconsistency-sat an L-shaped desk, the long leg stretching to the rear of the building, where Jeremy saw a large gla.s.sed-in room devoted to children. To the left were the bathrooms, and to the right, beyond another gla.s.s wall, was what appeared to be the main area. Jeremy nodded and waved to the elderly woman behind the desk. She smiled and waved back before returning to the book she was reading. Jeremy pushed through the heavy gla.s.s doors to the main area, proud that he was getting the hang of the way things worked down here.

In the main area, however, he felt a surge of disappointment. Beneath bright fluorescent lights were only six shelves of books, set relatively close together, in a room that wasn't much larger than his apartment. In the nearest two corners were outdated computers, and off to the right was a sitting area that housed a small collection of periodicals. Four small tables were scattered throughout the room, and he saw only three people browsing the shelves, including one elderly man with a hearing aid who was stacking books on the shelves. Looking around, Jeremy had the sinking suspicion that he'd purchased more books in his lifetime than the library had.

He made his way to the reference desk, but not surprisingly, there wasn't anyone behind it. He paused at the desk, waiting for Lex. Turning around to lean against it, he figured that Lex must have been the white-haired man putting the books away, but the man didn't make a move toward him.

He glanced at his watch. Two minutes after that, he glanced at it again.

Another two minutes later, after Jeremy had cleared his throat loudly, the man finally noticed him. Jeremy nodded and waved, making sure the man knew he needed help, but instead of moving toward him, the man waved and nodded before going back to stacking books. No doubt he was trying to stay ahead of the rush. Southern efficiency was legendary, Jeremy observed. Very impressive, this place.

In the small, cluttered office on the upper floor of the library, she stared through the window. She'd known he would be coming. Doris had called the moment he left Herbs and told her about the man in black from New York City, who was here to write about the ghosts in the cemetery.

She shook her head. Figures that he would have listened to Doris. Once she got an idea about something, she tended to be pretty persuasive, with few concerns about the possible backlash an article like this could cause. She'd read Mr. Marsh's stories before and knew exactly how he operated. It wouldn't be enough to prove that ghosts weren't involved-and she had no doubt about that-but Mr. Marsh wouldn't stop there. He'd interview people in his own charming way, get them to open up, and then he'd pick and choose before twisting the truth in whatever way he wanted. Once he was finished with the hatchet job that would pose as an article, people around the country would a.s.sume that everyone who lived here was gullible, foolish, and superst.i.tious.

Oh, no. She didn't like the fact he was here at all.

She closed her eyes, absently twirling strands of her dark hair between her fingers. The thing was, she didn't like people traipsing through the cemetery, either. Doris was right: it was disrespectful, and ever since those kids from Duke came down and the article showed up in the paper, things had had been getting out of hand. Why couldn't it have just been kept quiet? Those lights had been around for decades, and though everyone knew about them, no one really cared. Sure, once in a while, a few people might head out to take a look-mostly those who'd been drinking at the Lookilu, or teenagers-but T-s.h.i.+rts? Coffee mugs? Cheesy postcards? Combining it with the Historic Homes Tour? been getting out of hand. Why couldn't it have just been kept quiet? Those lights had been around for decades, and though everyone knew about them, no one really cared. Sure, once in a while, a few people might head out to take a look-mostly those who'd been drinking at the Lookilu, or teenagers-but T-s.h.i.+rts? Coffee mugs? Cheesy postcards? Combining it with the Historic Homes Tour?

She didn't quite understand the whole reason behind the phenomenon. Why was it so important to increase tourism around here, anyway? Sure, the money was attractive, but people didn't live in Boone Creek because they wanted to get rich. Well, most of them, anyway. There were always a few people out to make a buck, beginning first and foremost with the mayor. But she'd always believed that most people lived here for the same reason she did: because of the awe she felt when the setting sun turned the Pamlico River to a golden yellow ribbon, because she knew and trusted her neighbors, because people could let their kids run around at night without worrying that something bad would happen to them. In a world growing busier by the minute, Boone Creek was a town that hadn't even attempted to keep up with the modern world, and that's what made it special.

That's why she was here, after all. She loved everything about the town: the smell of pine and salt on early spring mornings, the sultry summer evenings that made her skin glisten, the fiery glow of autumn leaves. But most of all, she loved the people and couldn't imagine living anywhere else. She trusted them, she talked to them, she liked liked them. Of course, a number of her friends hadn't felt the same way, and after heading off to college, they'd never returned. She, too, had moved away for a while, but even then, she'd always known that she would come back; a good thing, it turned out, since she'd been worried about Doris's health for the past two years. And she also knew she would be the librarian, just as her mother had been, in the hope of making the library something that would make the town proud. them. Of course, a number of her friends hadn't felt the same way, and after heading off to college, they'd never returned. She, too, had moved away for a while, but even then, she'd always known that she would come back; a good thing, it turned out, since she'd been worried about Doris's health for the past two years. And she also knew she would be the librarian, just as her mother had been, in the hope of making the library something that would make the town proud.

No, it wasn't the most glamorous job, nor did it pay much. The library was a work in progress, but first impressions were deceptive. The bottom floor housed contemporary fiction only, while the top floor held cla.s.sic fiction and nonfiction, additional t.i.tles by contemporary authors, and unique collections. She doubted whether Mr. Marsh even realized the library was dispersed through both stories, since the stairs were accessed in the rear of the building, near the children's room. One of the drawbacks to having the library housed in a former residence was that the architecture wasn't designed for public traffic. But the place suited her.

Her office upstairs was almost always quiet, and it was close to her favorite part of the library. A small room next to hers contained the rare t.i.tles, books she'd acc.u.mulated through estate and garage sales, donations, and visits to bookstores and dealers throughout the state, a project her mother had started. She also had a growing collection of historic ma.n.u.scripts and maps, some of which dated from before the Revolutionary War. This was her pa.s.sion. She was always on the lookout for something special, and she wasn't above using charm, guile, or simple pleading to get what she wanted. When that didn't work, she stressed the tax deduction angle, and-because she had worked hard to cultivate contacts with tax and estate lawyers throughout the South-she often received items before other libraries even found out about them. While she didn't have the resources of Duke, Wake Forest, or the University of North Carolina, her library was regarded as one of the best small libraries in the state, if not the country.

And that's how she viewed it now. Her Her library, like this was library, like this was her her town. And right now a stranger was waiting for her, a stranger who wanted to write a story that just might not be good for town. And right now a stranger was waiting for her, a stranger who wanted to write a story that just might not be good for her her people. people.

Oh, she'd seen him drive up, all right. Seen him get out of the car and head around front. She'd shaken her head, recognizing the confident city swagger almost immediately. He was just another in a long line of people visiting from someplace more exotic, people who believed they had a deeper understanding of what the real world was like. People who claimed that life could be far more exciting, more fulfilling, if only you moved away. A few years ago, she'd fallen for someone who believed such things, and she refused to be taken in by such ideas again.

A cardinal landed on the outside windowsill. She watched it, clearing her head, and then sighed. Okay, she decided, she should probably go talk to Mr. Marsh from New York. He was, after all, waiting for her. He'd come all this way, and southern hospitality-as well as her job-required her to help him find what he needed. More important, though, she might be able to keep an eye on him. She'd be able to filter the information in a way that he'd understand the good parts about living here, too.

She smiled. Yes, she could handle Mr. Marsh. And besides, she had to admit that he was rather good-looking, even if he couldn't be trusted.

Jeremy Marsh looked almost bored.

He was pacing one of the aisles, his arms crossed, glancing at the contemporary t.i.tles. Every now and then he frowned, as if wondering why he couldn't find anything by d.i.c.kens, Chaucer, or Austen. If he asked about it, she wondered how he would react if she responded with "Who?" Knowing him-and she readily admitted she didn't know him at all but was simply making an a.s.sumption here-he'd probably just stare at her all tongue-tied like he had when she saw him earlier in the cemetery. Men, she thought. Always predictable.

She tugged at her sweater, procrastinating for one last moment before starting toward him. Keep it professional, she reminded herself, you're on a mission here.

"I suppose you're looking for me," she announced, forcing a tight smile.

Jeremy glanced up at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, he seemed frozen in place. Then all at once he smiled as recognition set in. It seemed friendly enough-his dimple was cute-but the smile was a little too practiced and wasn't enough to offset the confidence in his eyes.

"You're Lex?" he asked.

"It's short for 'Lexie.' Lexie Darnell. It's what Doris calls me."

"You're the librarian?"

"When I'm not hanging out in cemeteries and ignoring staring men, I try to be."

"Well, I'll be," he said, trying to drawl the words like Doris had.

She smiled and moved past him to straighten a few books on the shelf that he'd examined.

"Your accent doesn't cut it, Mr. Marsh," she said. "You sound like you're trying out letters for a crossword puzzle."

He laughed easily, unfazed by her comment. "You think so?" he asked.

Definitely a ladies' man, she thought.

"I know so." She continued straightening the books. "Now, what can I help you with, Mr. Marsh? I suppose you're looking for information on the cemetery?"

"My reputation precedes me."

"Doris called to tell me you were on the way."

"Ah," he said. "I should have known. She's an interesting woman."

"She's my grandmother."

Jeremy's eyebrows shot up. L-I-B, he thought, keeping it to himself this time. But wasn't that that interesting? "Did she tell you about our delightful lunch?" he asked. interesting? "Did she tell you about our delightful lunch?" he asked.

"I really didn't ask." She tucked her hair behind her ear, noting that his dimple was the kind that made little kids want to poke their finger in it. Not that she cared one way or the other, of course. She finished with the books and faced him, keeping her tone steady. "Believe it or not, I'm fairly busy at the moment," she a.s.serted. "I've got a load of paperwork that I need to finish today. What type of information were you looking for?"

He shrugged. "Anything that might help me with the history of the cemetery and the town. When the lights started. Any studies that have been done in the past. Any stories that mention the legends. Old maps. Information on Riker's Hill and the topography. Historical records. Things like that." He paused, studying those violet eyes again. They were really quite exotic. And here she was right next to him, instead of walking away. He found that interesting, too.

"I have to say, it's kind of amazing, isn't it?" he asked, leaning against the shelf beside her.

She stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Seeing you at the cemetery and now here. Your grandmother's letter, which brought me down here. It's quite a coincidence, don't you think?"

"I can't say I've given it much thought."

Jeremy was not to be deterred. He was seldom deterred, especially when things were interesting. "Well, since I'm not from around here, maybe you could tell me what people do for relaxation in these parts. I mean, is there a place to get some coffee? Or a bite to eat?" He paused. "Like maybe a little later, after you're off?"

Wondering if she'd heard him right, she blinked. "Are you asking me out?" she asked.

"Only if you're available."

"I think," she said, regaining her composure, "I'll have to pa.s.s. But thank you for the offer."

She held his gaze steady until he finally raised his hands.

"Okay, fair enough," he said, his tone easy. "But you can't blame a guy for trying." He smiled, the dimple flas.h.i.+ng again. "Now, would it be possible to get started with the research? If you're not too busy with the paperwork, I mean. I can always come back tomorrow if it's more convenient."

"Is there anything you'd like to start with in particular?"

"I was hoping I might read the article that appeared in the local paper. I haven't had a chance yet. You wouldn't happen to have it around here, would you?"

She nodded. "It'll probably be on the microfiche. We've been working with the paper for the last couple of years, so I shouldn't have any trouble digging it up."

"Great," he said. "And information about the town in general?"

"It's in the same place."

He glanced around for a moment, wondering where to go. She started toward the foyer.

"This way, Mr. Marsh. You'll find what you need is upstairs."

"There's an upstairs?"

She turned, speaking over her shoulder. "If you follow me, I promise to show you."

Jeremy had to step quickly to catch up with her. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

She opened the main door and hesitated. "Not at all," she said, her expression unchanged.

"Why were you in the cemetery today?"

Instead of answering, she simply stared at him, her expression the same.

"I mean, I was just wondering," Jeremy continued. "I got the impression that few people head out there these days."

Still she said nothing, and in the silence, Jeremy grew curious, then finally uncomfortable.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" he asked.

She smiled and, surprising him, winked before moving through the open doorway. "I said you could ask, Mr. Marsh. I didn't say that I would answer.

As she strode ahead of him, all Jeremy could do was stare. Oh, she was something, wasn't she? Confident and beautiful and charming all at once, and that was after after she'd shot down the idea of going on a date. she'd shot down the idea of going on a date.

Maybe Alvin had been right, he thought. Maybe there was something about southern belles that could drive a guy crazy.

They made their way through the foyer, past the children's reading room, and Lexie led him up the stairs. Pausing at the top, Jeremy looked around.

L-I-B, he thought again.

There was was more to the place than just a few rickety shelves stocked with new books. A lot more. And lots of Gothic feeling, too, right down to the dusty smell and the private-library atmosphere. With oak-paneled walls, mahogany flooring, and burgundy curtains, the cavernous, open room stood in stark contrast to the area downstairs. Overstuffed chairs and imitation Tiffany lamps stood in corners. Along the far wall was a stone fireplace, with a painting hung above it, and the windows, narrow though they were, offered just enough sunlight to give the place an almost homey feel. more to the place than just a few rickety shelves stocked with new books. A lot more. And lots of Gothic feeling, too, right down to the dusty smell and the private-library atmosphere. With oak-paneled walls, mahogany flooring, and burgundy curtains, the cavernous, open room stood in stark contrast to the area downstairs. Overstuffed chairs and imitation Tiffany lamps stood in corners. Along the far wall was a stone fireplace, with a painting hung above it, and the windows, narrow though they were, offered just enough sunlight to give the place an almost homey feel.

"Now I understand," Jeremy observed. "Downstairs was just the appetizer. This is where the real action is."

She nodded. "Most of our daily visitors come in for recent t.i.tles by authors they know, so I set up the area downstairs for their convenience. The room downstairs is small because it used to be our offices before we had it converted."

"Where are the offices now?"

"Over there," she said, pointing behind the far shelf. "Next to the rare-book room."

"Wow," he said. "I'm impressed."

She smiled. "Come on-I'll show you around first and tell you about the place."

For the next few minutes, they chatted as they meandered among the shelves. The home, he learned, had been built in 1874 by Horace Middleton, a captain who'd made his fortune s.h.i.+pping timber and tobacco. He'd built the home for his wife and seven children but, sadly, had never lived here. Right before completion, his wife pa.s.sed away, and he decided to move with his family to Wilmington. The house was empty for years, then occupied by another family until the 1950s, when it was finally sold to the Historical Society, who later sold it to the county for use as the library.

Jeremy listened intently as she talked. They walked slowly, Lexie interrupting her own story to point out some of her favorite books. She was, he soon came to learn, even more well read than he, especially in the cla.s.sics, but it made sense, now that he thought about it. Why else would you become a librarian if you didn't love books? As if knowing what he was thinking, she paused and motioned to a shelf plaque with her finger.

"This section here is probably more up your alley, Mr. Marsh."