Even though he hadn’t known quite what to expect, it certainly wasn’t this. Entire crews had been working for the past week, and he remembered being amazed at what had been accomplished on the first day. The kitchen had been torn out; shingles were piled on the front lawn, carpeting and a number of windows removed. Huge piles of debris lay scattered from one end of the house to the other, but since then he’d come to believe the only thing the workers did was to shift the debris piles from place to place. Even when he came by during the day to check on the progress, no one ever actually seemed to be working. Standing in circles drinking coffee, maybe, or smoking on the back porch most definitely, but working? As far as he could tell, they always seemed to be waiting for a delivery or for the general contractor to return, or they were taking a “short break.” Needless to say, the majority of the workers were paid by the hour, and Jeremy always felt a tinge of financial panic whenever he headed back to Greenleaf.
Lexie, however, seemed happy enough with the progress and noticed things that he never did. “Did you see they’ve started running the new wiring upstairs?” or, “I see they got the new plumbing routed through the walls, so we’ll be able to put the sink beneath the window.”
Usually, Jeremy would nod in agreement. “Yeah, I noticed that.”
Aside from checks to the contractor, he still wasn’t writing yet, but on the plus side, he was fairly sure he’d figured out the reason. It wasn’t so much a mental block as it was a mental overload. So much was changing, not only the obvious, but little things, too. Like what to wear. For instance, he’d long believed that he had a fairly innate sense of style, albeit one with a distinct New York flair, and his many ex-girlfriends had often complimented him on his appearance. He was a longtime subscriber to GQ magazine, favored Bruno Magli shoes and tailored Italian shirts. But Lexie apparently had a different opinion and seemed to want to change him entirely. Two nights ago, she’d surprised him with a gift-wrapped box, and Jeremy had been touched by her thoughtfulness . . . at least until he’d opened it.
Inside was a plaid shirt. Plaid. Like the kind lumberjacks wore. And Levi’s jeans. “Thanks,” he forced out.
She stared at him. “You don’t like them.”
“No, no . . . I do,” he lied, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “It’s nice.”
“You don’t sound like you mean it.”
“I really do.”
“I just figured you might want to have something in your closet that might help you fit in with the guys.”
“What guys?”
“Guys in town. Your friends. In case . . . I don’t know, you want to go play poker or go hunting or fishing or something.”
“I don’t play poker. Or hunt or fish.” Or have any friends, either, he suddenly realized. Amazing that he hadn’t even noticed.
“I know,” she said. “But maybe one day you’ll want to. It’s what guys do down here with their friends. I know, for instance, that Rodney gets together to play poker once a week, and Jed is probably the most successful hunter in the county.”
“Rodney or Jed?” he asked, trying and failing to fathom spending a few hours with either of them.
“What’s wrong with Rodney and Jed?”
“Jed doesn’t like me. And I don’t think Rodney does, either.”
“That’s ridiculous. How could they not like you? But tell you what, why don’t you talk to Doris tomorrow? She might have some better ideas.”
“Poker with Rodney? Or hunting with Jed? Oh, I’d pay to see that!” Alvin howled into the receiver. Because Alvin had filmed the mysterious lights in the cemetery, he knew exactly whom Jeremy was talking about, and he still remembered them vividly. Rodney had thrown Alvin in jail on trumped-up charges after Alvin had flirted with Rachel at the Lookilu, and Jed frightened Alvin in the same way he frightened Jeremy. “I can just see it . . . sneaking through the forest in your Gucci shoes and lumberjack shirt. . . .”
“Bruno Magli,” Jeremy corrected. At Greenleaf for the night, he was still thinking about the fact that he hadn’t made any friends.
“Whatever.” Alvin laughed again. “Oh, that’s just great . . . city mouse goes country, all because the little woman made him do it. You’ve got to tell me when this happens. I’ll make a special trip down there with my camera to record it for posterity.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll pass.”
“But she has a point, you know. You do need to make some friends down there. Which reminds me . . . do you remember that girl I met?”
“Rachel?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Do you ever see her?”
“Sometimes. Actually, since she’s the maid of honor, you’ll see her, too.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Believe it or not, she’s actually dating Rodney.”
“The muscle-bound deputy? She could do better. But hey, here’s an idea. Maybe you and Lexie could double-date. Lunch at Herbs, maybe a little porch sitting . . .”
Jeremy laughed. “You sound like you’d fit in well here. You know all the exciting things to do.”
“That’s me. Mr. Adaptable. But if you see Rachel, tell her I said hi and that I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”
“Will do.”
“How’s the writing going? I’ll bet you’re getting antsy to chase another story, huh?”
Jeremy shifted in his seat. “I wish.”
“You’re not writing?”
“Not a word since I’ve been down here,” he admitted. “Between the wedding and the house and Lexie, I hardly have a spare minute.”
There was a pause. “Let me get this straight. You’re not writing at all? Even for your column?”
“No.”
“You love writing.”
“I know. And I’ll get back to it as soon as things settle down.”
Jeremy could sense his friend’s skepticism at his answer. “Good,” Alvin finally said. “Now, about the bachelor party . . . it’s going to be awesome. Everyone up here is on board, and as I promised, it’s going to be a night you’ll never forget.”
“Just remember . . . no dancing girls. And I don’t want some lady in lingerie jumping out of a cake or anything like that.”
“Oh, c’mon. It’s a tradition!”
“I’m serious, Alvin. I’m in love, remember?”
“Lexie worries about you,” Doris said. “She cares about you.”
Doris and Jeremy were having lunch the following afternoon at Herbs. Most of the lunch crowd had finished eating, and the place was clearing out. As usual, Doris had insisted that they eat; whenever they got together, she claimed Jeremy was “skin and bones,” and today Jeremy was enjoying a chicken pesto sandwich on pumpernickel bread.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he protested. “There’s just a lot going on, that’s all.”
“She knows that. But she also wants you to feel like you belong here. That you’re happy here.”
“I am happy here.”
“You’re happy because you’re with Lexie, and she knows that. But you have to understand, deep down Lexie wants you to feel the same way about Boone Creek that she does. She doesn’t want you here just because of her, she wants you here because this is where your friends are. Because this is where you feel like you belong. She knows it was a sacrifice for you to move from New York, but she doesn’t want you to think of it that way.”
“I don’t. Believe me, I’d be the first to tell her if I felt that way. But . . . c’mon . . . Rodney or Jed?”
“Believe it or not, they’re good guys once you get to know them, and Jed tells the funniest jokes I’ve ever heard. But okay, if you don’t relax the way they do, maybe they’re not the right ones.” She brought a finger to her lips, thinking. “What did you do with friends in New York?”
Went to bars with Alvin, flirted with women, Jeremy thought. “Just . . . guy stuff,” he said instead. “Went to ball games, shot pool every now and then. Just hung out, mainly. And I’m sure I’ll make friends, but as I said, I’m busy right now.”
Doris evaluated his answer. “Lexie says you’re not writing.”
“I’m not.”
“Is it because of . . . ?”
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “It has nothing to do with feeling out of place or anything like that. Writing isn’t like other jobs. It’s not just about showing up and going through the motions. It’s more about creativity and ideas, and sometimes . . . well, you just don’t feel creative. I wish I knew how to tap into my creative source whenever I wanted, but I don’t. But if I’ve learned anything about writing in the last fifteen years, it’s that I know the inspiration will eventually come.”
“You can’t come up with an idea?”
“Not an original one. I’ve printed up hundreds of pages from the library computer, but every time I come up with something, I realize that I’ve already covered it before. Usually more than once.”
Doris thought about it. “Would you like to use my journal?” she asked. “I know you don’t believe what’s in it, so maybe you could . . . I don’t know, write an article about your investigation into it.”
She was referring to the journal she’d compiled in which she claimed to be able to predict the sex of babies. Hundreds of names and dates were included in the pages, including the entry that had predicted Lexie’s birth and the fact that she was a girl.
To be honest, Jeremy had considered it—Doris had made the offer previously—but although he’d rejected it initially because he knew her abilities couldn’t be real, lately he’d rejected it because he didn’t want his true feelings to cause a rift with Doris. She was going to be family.
“I don’t know. . . .”
“I’ll tell you what. You can make your decision later, after you’ve studied it. And don’t worry—I promise that I’ll be able to handle being famous if you do end up writing about it. You don’t have to worry. I’ll still be the same charming woman I’ve always been. It’s in the office. Wait here.”
Before Jeremy had the chance to object, she was rising from the table and heading for the kitchen. In her absence, the front door opened with a squeak and Jeremy saw Mayor Gherkin enter.
“Jeremy, my boy!” Gherkin exclaimed, approaching the table. He slapped Jeremy on the back. “I didn’t expect to find you here. I thought you might be out pulling water samples, searching for clues regarding our latest mystery.”
The catfish.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Mayor. How are you?”
“Good, good. But busy. Town business never stops. There’s always so much to do. Barely sleep at all these days, but don’t bother worryin’ none about my health. Haven’t needed more than a few hours of sleep ever since the dehumidifier almost electrocuted me a dozen years back. Water and electricity don’t mix.”
“I’ve heard that,” Jeremy said. “Hey, listen . . . I’m glad I ran into you. Lexie thought I should talk to you about the wedding.”
Gherkin’s eyebrows shot up. “You reconsidering my offer to make it an event for the whole town and have the governor come?”
“No, it’s not that. Lexie wants to have the ceremony out at Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, and I haven’t been able to get through to anyone at the parks department to get the permits. Do you think you could help with that?”
Mayor Gherkin thought for a few moments, then gave a low whistle. “That’s a tough one,” he said, shaking his head. “Dealing with the state can be mighty tricky business. Mighty tricky. It’s like making your way through a minefield. You have to know someone to navigate the territory.”
“That’s why we need your help.”
“I’d love to help, but I’ve just been so busy trying to straighten things out for the Heron Festival this summer. It’s the big event around here—even bigger than the Historic Homes Tour, if you can believe that. We have carnival rides for the kids, concession booths along Main Street, parades, and all sorts of contests. Anyway, the grand marshal of the parade was supposed to be Myrna Jackson from Savannah, but she just called saying she’s not going to be able to make it on account of her husband. You know Myrna Jackson?”
Jeremy tried to place the name. “I don’t think so.”
“The acclaimed photographer?”
“Sorry,” Jeremy said.
“Famous woman, Myrna,” he said, ignoring Jeremy’s comment. “Probably the most famous southern photographer there is. Wonderful work. She actually spent a summer in Boone Creek when she was a girl, and we were lucky to get her. But just like that, her husband comes down with cancer. A terrible, terrible thing, mind you, and we’ll all be praying for him—but it also puts us in a bind. We’re in quite a spot, and it’s going to take some time to find a new grand marshal. I’m going to have to spend hours on the phone trying to line someone up. Someone famous. . . . It’s just a shame I don’t have any connections in the celebrity world. Well, except you, of course.”
Jeremy stared at the mayor. “Are you asking me to be the grand marshal?”
“No, no, of course not. You’ve already got your key to the city. Someone else . . . someone whose name people will recognize.” He shook his head. “Despite the breathtaking beauty of our town and the wonder of our fine citizens, it’s not easy selling Boone Creek to someone from a major metropolis. Frankly, it’s not a duty I look forward to, not with everything else that needs to be arranged for the festival. And then, having to deal with those folks in state government . . .” He trailed off, as if even considering the request were too much to fathom.