True Believer (8 page)

“I think,” she said, regaining her composure, “I’ll have to pass. 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 flashing 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 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 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 titles 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 shipping 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 passed 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 classics, 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.”

He glanced at the plaque and noted the words supernatural/ witchcraft. He slowed but didn’t stop, taking time only to note a few of the titles, including one about the prophecies of Michel de Nostredame. Nostradamus, as he’s commonly known, published one hundred exceptionally vague predictions in 1555 in a book called Centuries, the first of ten that he wrote in his lifetime. Of the thousand prophecies Nostradamus published, only fifty or so are still quoted today, making for a paltry 5 percent success rate.

Jeremy pushed his hands into his pockets. “I could probably give you some good recommendations, if you’d like.”

“By all means. I’m not too proud to admit I need help.”

“You ever read this stuff?”

“No. Frankly, I don’t find the topic all that interesting. I mean, I’ll thumb through these books when they come in, looking at the pictures and skimming some of the conclusions to see if they’re appropriate, but that’s about it.”

“Good idea,” he said. “You’re probably better off that way.”

“It’s amazing, though. There are some people in town who don’t want me to stock any books on these subjects. Especially the ones on witchcraft. They think they’re a bad influence on the young.”

“They are. They’re all lies.”

She smiled. “That may be true, but you’re missing the point. They want them removed because they believe that it’s really possible to conjure up evil and that kids who read this stuff might accidentally inspire Satan to run amok in our town.”

Jeremy nodded. “Impressionable youth in the Bible Belt. Makes sense.”

“Don’t quote me on that, though. You know we’re off the record here, right?”

He raised his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

For a few moments, they walked in silence. The winter sun could barely pierce the grayish clouds, and Lexie paused in front of a few lamps to turn them on. A yellowish glow spread through the room. As she leaned over, he caught a flowery trace of the perfume she was wearing.

Jeremy absently motioned toward the portrait above the fireplace. “Who’s this?”

Lexie paused, following his gaze. “My mother,” she said.

Jeremy looked at her questioningly, and Lexie drew a long breath.

“After the original library burned to the ground in 1964, my mother took it upon herself to find a new building and begin a new collection, since everyone else in town had written off the idea as impossible. She was only twenty-two, but she spent years lobbying county and state officials for funds, she held bake sales, and she went door-to-door to the local businesses, pleading with them until they gave in and wrote a check. It took years, but she finally did it.”

As she spoke, Jeremy found himself glancing from Lexie to the portrait and back again. There was, he thought, a resemblance, one that he should have noticed right away. Especially the eyes. While the violet color had struck him immediately, now that he was close, he noticed that Lexie’s had a touch of light blue around the rims that somehow reminded him of the color of kindness. Though the portrait had tried to capture the unusual color, it wasn’t close to the real thing.

When Lexie finished with her story, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She seemed to do that a lot, he noticed. Probably a nervous habit. Which meant, of course, that he was making her nervous. He considered that a good sign.

Jeremy cleared his throat. “She sounds like a fascinating woman,” he said. “I’d love to meet her.”

Lexie’s smile flickered slightly, as if there was more to say, but instead, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I suppose I’ve rambled on long enough. You’re here to work and I’m keeping you from it.” She nodded toward the rare-book room. “I may as well show you where you’ll be cooped up for the next few days.”

“You think it’ll take that long?”

“You wanted historical references and the article, right? I’d love to tell you that all the information has been indexed, but it hasn’t. You have a bit of tedious research ahead of you.”

“There aren’t that many books to peruse, are there?”

“It’s not just books, although we have plenty of those you might find useful. My suspicion is that you’ll find some of the information you’re looking for in the diaries. I’ve made it a point to collect as many as I can from people who lived in the area, and there’s quite a collection now. I’ve even got a few dating back to the seventeenth century.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have Hettie Doubilet’s, would you?”

“No. But I do have a couple belonging to people who lived in Watts Landing, and even one by someone who viewed himself as an amateur historian on the local area. You can’t check them out of the library, though, and it’ll take some time to get through them. They’re barely legible.”

“I can’t wait,” he said. “I live for tedious research.”

She smiled. “I’d be willing to bet you’re quite good at it.”

He gazed at her archly. “Oh, I am. I’m good at a lot of things.”

“I have no doubt about that, Mr. Marsh.”

“Jeremy,” he said. “Call me Jeremy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Oh, it’s a great idea,” he said. “Trust me.”

She snorted. Always on the make, this one. “It’s a tempting offer,” she said. “Really. And I’m flattered. But even so, I don’t know you well enough to trust you, Mr. Marsh.”

Jeremy watched with amusement as she turned away, thinking that he’d met her type before. Women who used wit to keep men at a distance usually had a sharp edge to them, but somehow with her, it came across as almost . . . well, charming and good-natured. Maybe it was the accent. The way she sang her words, she could probably talk a cat into swimming across the river.

No, he corrected himself, it wasn’t just the accent. Or her wit, which he enjoyed. Or even her startling eyes and the way she looked in her jeans. Okay, that was part of it, but there was more. It was . . . what? He didn’t know her, didn’t know anything about her. Come to think of it, she hadn’t said much of anything about herself. She talked a lot about books and her mother, but he knew nothing else about her at all.

He was here to write an article, but with a sudden sinking sensation, he realized that he’d rather spend the next few hours with Lexie. He wanted to walk with her through downtown Boone Creek or, better yet, dine with her in a romantic, out-of-the-way restaurant, where the two of them could be alone and get to know each other. She was mysterious, and he liked mysteries. Mysteries always led to surprises, and as he followed her toward the rare-book room, he couldn’t help but think that his trip down south had just become a lot more interesting.

The rare-book room was small, probably a former bedroom, and was further divided by a low wooden wall that ran from one side of the room to the other. The walls had been painted desert beige, the trim was white, and the hardwood floor was scuffed but unwarped. Behind the wall were tall shelves of books; in one corner was a glass-topped case that looked like a treasure chest, with a television and VCR beside it, no doubt for tapes that referenced North Carolina’s history. Opposite the door was a window with an antique rolltop desk beneath it. A small table with a microfiche machine stood just off to Jeremy’s right, and Lexie motioned toward it. Going to the rolltop desk, she opened the bottom drawer, then returned with a small cardboard box.

Setting the box on the desk, she riffled through the transparent plates and pulled one out. Leaning over him, she turned the machine on and slid the transparency in, moving it around until the article was front and center. Again, he caught a trace of her perfume, and a moment later, the article was in front of him.

“You can start with this,” she said. “I’m going to spend a few minutes looking around to see if I can find some more material for you.”

“That was fast,” he said.

“It wasn’t that hard. I remembered the date of the article.”

“Impressive.”

“Not really. It appeared on my birthday.”

“Twenty-six?”

“Somewhere around there. Now, let me see what else I can find.”

She turned and headed through the swinging doors again.