Jeremy knew exactly what the mayor was doing. Gherkin had a way of getting people to do just what he wanted and making them think it was their idea. It was obvious he wanted Jeremy to take care of his grand marshal problem in exchange for getting the permit, and the only question was whether Jeremy wanted to play along. Frankly, he didn’t, but they did need a date. . . .
Jeremy sighed. “Maybe I can help. Who do you want?”
Gherkin brought a hand to his chin, looking as if the fate of the world rested on solving this particular dilemma. “Could be anyone, I suppose. I’m just looking for name recognition, someone who’ll make the town ooh and aah and bring in the crowds.”
“How about if I find someone? In exchange, of course, for helping us with the permit?”
“Well, now there’s an idea. Wonder why I hadn’t thought of it. Let me think about that for a bit.” Gherkin tapped his finger against his jaw. “Well, I suppose that might work. Assuming you get the right sort of person, I mean. What kind of person are you talking about?”
“I’ve interviewed a lot of people over the years. Scientists, professors, Nobel Prize winners . . .”
The mayor was already shaking his head as Jeremy continued.
“Physicists, chemists, mathematicians, explorers, astro- nauts . . .”
Gherkin looked up. “Did you say astronauts?”
Jeremy nodded. “The guys who fly the space shuttle. I did a big story on NASA a couple of years back, and I became friends with a few. I could give them a call. . . .”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.” Gherkin snapped his fingers. “I can see the billboards now: ‘The Heron Festival: Where Outer Space Is Brought to Your Doorstep.’ We can make use of that theme all weekend. Not just a pie-eating contest, but a Moon-Pie-eating contest; we can make floats that look like rockets and satellites—”
“You bothering Jeremy with that ridiculous catfish story again, Tom?” Doris said as she walked back into the room, the journal nestled beneath her arm.
“Nosiree,” Gherkin answered. “Jeremy here was kind enough to offer to find a grand marshal for the parade this year, and he’s promised us a genuine astronaut. What do you think of outer space, as far as themes go?”
“Inspired,” Doris said. “A stroke of genius.”
The mayor seemed to puff up just a bit. “Yes, you’re absolutely right. I like the way you think. Now, Jeremy, what weekend were you thinking about for the wedding? Summer’s mighty tough, what with all the tourists.”
“May?”
“Early or late?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “As long as we get a date, anything will be fine. But if you can, the earlier the better.”
“In a rush, huh? Well, consider it done. And I can’t wait to hear all about that astronaut as soon as you talk to him.”
With a quick turn, Gherkin was gone and Doris was laughing under her breath as she took her seat. “Snookered you again, huh?”
“No, I knew what he was doing, but Lexie’s been getting antsy about that permit.”
“But other than that, the plans are going well?”
“I suppose. We’ve had our differences—she wants something small and intimate, I tell her that even if only my side of the family comes, there won’t be enough hotels out there to accommodate them all. I want my agent, Nate, to come; she says that if we invite one friend, we have to invite them all. Things like that. But it’ll work out. My family will understand no matter what we do, and I’ve already explained the situation to my brothers. They’re not thrilled, but they understand.”
Just as Doris was about to say something, Rachel came bursting through the front door, her eyes red and swollen. She sniffled as she saw Doris and Jeremy, froze for a second, and then headed toward the rear of the building. Jeremy could see the concern on Doris’s face.
“I think she needs someone to talk to,” he observed.
“You don’t mind?”
“No, we’ll catch up on the wedding plans another time.”
“Okay . . . thank you.” Doris slid the journal to Jeremy. “And take this. It’s a great story, I promise. And you won’t find any tricks because there weren’t any.”
Jeremy accepted the journal with a nod, still undecided as to whether or not he would use it.
Ten minutes later, Jeremy was enjoying the afternoon sunshine and heading for his cottage at Greenleaf when he eyed the office. After hesitating, he turned that way and pushed open the door. There was no sign of Jed, which meant he was probably in the shack set on the far edge of the property, the place where he plied his craft as a taxidermist. Jeremy paused once again before thinking, Why not? He might as well try to break the ice, and Lexie swore the man did talk.
He headed down the rutted path toward the shack. The smell of death and decay hit him long before he pushed his way inside.
Centered in the room was a long wooden workbench covered in stains that Jeremy assumed were blood, and strewn about were dozens of knives and other assorted tools: screws, awls, and a few of the scariest pliers and knives he had ever seen. Along the walls, set atop the shelves, and stuffed into corners were countless examples of Jed’s work, everything from bass to opossums to deer, though he had the peculiar habit of making everything he mounted appear as if it were about to attack something. Off to Jeremy’s left was what seemed to be a counter where business was transacted. It, too, was stained, and Jeremy found himself growing queasy.
Jed, wearing a butcher’s apron while working on a wild boar, looked up as Jeremy entered. He froze.
“Hey, Jed, how are you?”
Jed said nothing.
“I just thought I’d come by to see where you actually do your work. I don’t think I’ve mentioned my interest, but I find your work quite amazing.” He waited to see if Jed would speak. Jed merely stared at Jeremy as if he were a bug that had splattered on the windshield.
Jeremy tried again, trying to ignore the fact that Jed was absolutely enormous and furry, was holding a knife, and didn’t seem to be in the best of moods. He went on. “You know, how you make them look like they’re snarling, claws exposed, ready to pounce. I’ve never seen that before. At the Museum of Natural History up in New York, most of the animals look friendly. Yours look like they’re rabid or something.”
Jed scowled. Jeremy had the sense that his conversational gambit wasn’t going well.
“Lexie says you’re quite a hunter, too,” he offered, wondering why it suddenly seemed so hot in there. “I’ve never been, of course. The only thing we hunted in Queens were rats.” He laughed, Jed didn’t, and in the ensuing silence, Jeremy found himself growing nervous. “I mean, it’s not like we had deer running down the block or anything. But even if we did, I probably wouldn’t have shot them. You know, after seeing Bambi and all.”
Staring at the knife in Jed’s hand, Jeremy realized he was beginning to ramble, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
“That’s just me, though. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with hunting, of course . . . NRA, Bill of Rights, Second Amendment. I’m all for that. I mean, hunting is an American tradition, right? Line up the deer in your sights, and bam. Little fella topples over.”
Jed moved the knife from one hand to the other, and Jeremy swallowed, wanting nothing more than to get out of there.
“Well, I just dropped by to say hey. And good luck with . . . well, whatever you’re doing there. Can’t wait to see it. Any messages?” He shifted from one foot to the other. “No? Okay, then. Nice talking to you.”
Jeremy took a seat at the desk in his room and stared at a blank screen, trying to forget what had just happened with Jed. He desperately wished he could think of something to write but gradually came to the conclusion that the well had run dry.
It happened to all writers at various times, he knew, and there was no magic cure, simply because all writers approached their craft in slightly different ways. Some wrote in the morning, others in the afternoon, still others late at night. Some wrote to music, others needed complete silence. He knew of one writer who supposedly worked nak*d, locking himself in his room and giving strict instructions to his assistant that he was not to receive his clothing until he slid five written pages beneath the door. He knew of others who watched the same movie over and over, still others who couldn’t write without drinking or smoking excessively. Jeremy wasn’t that eccentric; in the past, he’d written whenever and wherever he’d needed to, so it wasn’t as if he could make a simple change and all would be right again.
Though he wasn’t quite panicked yet, he was getting concerned. More than two months had passed since he’d written anything, but because of the magazine’s publishing schedule—it was usually put together six weeks in advance—he’d written enough columns to get him through July. Which meant he still had a bit of breathing room before he’d be in serious trouble with Scientific American. But because freelancing paid most of the bills and he’d practically emptied his brokerage account to buy his car, pay for his living expenses, put the down payment and closing costs in escrow, and continue the ever expanding renovations, he wasn’t sure he had even that much time. Money was being sucked from his accounts as if by a vampire on steroids.
And he was blocked, he was beginning to think. It wasn’t just that he was busy or life had changed, as he’d suggested to Alvin and Doris. After all, he’d been able to write after he’d divorced Maria. In fact, he’d needed to write just to keep from dwelling on it. Writing had been an escape back then, but now? What if he never got over this?
He would lose his job. He would lose his income, and how on earth was he supposed to support Lexie and his daughter? Would he be forced to become “Mr. Mom” while Lexie worked to support the family? The images were disconcerting.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Doris’s journal. He could, he supposed, take her up on the offer. It might be just what he needed to get the juices flowing again—supernatural elements, interesting, original. If, of course, it was true. Could she really predict the sex of babies?
No, he decided again. And that was the thing. It couldn’t be true. It might be one of the greatest coincidences in history, but it wasn’t true. There was simply no way to tell the sex of a baby by placing a hand on a woman’s stomach.
Why, then, was he so willing to believe his own baby would be a girl? Why was he as positive about it as Lexie? When he imagined himself holding the baby in the future, she was always wrapped in a pink blanket. He sat back in his chair, wondering, and then decided that in fact he wasn’t absolutely positive. Lexie was the one who was sure, not him, and he was merely reflecting her opinion. And the fact that she continually referred to the baby as a little girl only reinforced that.
Instead of dwelling on it further—or trying to write—Jeremy decided to scan his favorite news sites on the Internet, hoping that something might click. Without high-speed access, the progress was slow to the point of making him drowsy, but he pushed on. He visited four sites involving UFOs; the official Web site regarding the latest in haunted houses; and the site put up by James Randi, who like him was devoted to exposing hoaxes and frauds. For years, Randi had a standing offer to pay a million dollars to any psychic who could prove his or her ability under rigorous scientific controls. To date, no one—including those better-known psychics who appeared regularly on television or wrote books—had taken him up on his challenge. Once, in one of his columns, Jeremy had made the same offer (on a much smaller scale, of course) with exactly the same results. People who called themselves psychics were experts in self-promotion, not the paranormal. Jeremy recalled his exposé of Timothy Clausen, a man who claimed to be able to speak to spirits from beyond the grave. It was the last major story he’d worked on before he’d traveled to Boone Creek in search of ghosts and found Lexie instead.
On Randi’s site, there was the usual collection of stories, supposedly magical events peppered with the author’s disbelief, but after a couple of hours, Jeremy logged off, realizing he was no further along with ideas than when he’d started.
Checking his watch, he saw it was almost five, and he wondered whether he should stop by the house to see how the repairs were going. Maybe they’d moved another pile or something, anything to make it appear as if the project could be completed this year. Despite the endless bills, Jeremy was beginning to doubt whether they would ever move in. What once seemed manageable now seemed daunting, and he decided he’d pass on the visit to the house. No reason to make a dismal day even worse.
Instead, he chose to head to the library to see how Lexie was doing. He threw on a clean shirt, ran a brush through his hair, and slapped on some cologne; a few minutes later, he was passing Herbs on his way to the library. The dogwoods and azaleas were starting to look limp and tired, but along the sides of buildings and at the base of trees, tulips and daffodils were beginning to open, their colors even more vivid. The warm southerly breeze made it seem more like early summer than late March, the kind of day that would bring throngs to Central Park.
He wondered whether he should swing by and pick up a bouquet of flowers for Lexie, finally deciding he should. There was only one florist in town, and the store also sold live bait and fishing tackle; despite a sparse selection, he emerged from the store a few minutes later with a spring bouquet he was sure Lexie would love.
He reached the library within minutes but frowned when he realized that Lexie’s car wasn’t in its normal spot. Glancing toward the office window, he noticed her light was off. Thinking that she was at Herbs, he headed back that way, looking for but not seeing her car, then swung past her house, figuring she must have made it an early day. She was probably running an errand or shopping.