“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.
“Twenty-five?” he called out.
“Nice try, Mr. Marsh. But I’m not playing.”
He laughed. This was definitely going to be an interesting week.
Jeremy turned his attention to the article and began to read. It was written just the way he’d expected—heavy on hype and sensationalism, with enough haughtiness to suggest that everyone who lived in Boone Creek always knew the place was extra special.
He learned very little that was new. The article covered the original legend, describing it in much the same way that Doris had, albeit with some minor variation. In the article, Hettie visited the county commissioners, not the mayor, and she was from Louisiana, not the Caribbean. What was interesting was that she supposedly passed the curse outside the doors of the town hall, which caused a riot, and she was brought to the jail. When the guards went to release her the following morning, they discovered that she’d vanished, as if into thin air. After that, the sheriff refused to try to arrest her again, because he feared that she would put a curse on his family as well. But all legends were like that: stories got passed around and altered slightly to make them more compelling. And he had to admit, the part about vanishing was interesting. He’d have to find out if she’d actually been arrested and if she’d really escaped.
Jeremy glanced over his shoulder. No sign of Lexie yet.
Looking back at the screen, he figured he might as well add to what Doris had told him about Boone Creek, and he moved the glass plate housing of the microfiche, watching as other articles popped into view. There was a week’s worth of news in a total of four pages—the paper came out every Tuesday—and he quickly learned what the town had to offer. It was scintillating to read, unless you wanted coverage of anything happening anywhere else in the world or anything that might even keep your eyes open. He read about a young man who landscaped the front of the VFW building to earn the right to be an Eagle Scout, a new dry cleaner opening on Main Street, and a recap of a town meeting where the top of the agenda was to decide whether or not to put a stop sign on Leary Point Road. Two days of front-page coverage were devoted to an automobile wreck, in which two local men had sustained minor injuries.
He leaned back in his chair.
So the town was just what he expected. Sleepy and quiet and special in the way that all small communities claimed to be, but nothing more than that. It was the kind of town that continued to exist more as a result of habit than any unique quality and would fade from existence in coming decades as the population aged. There was no future here, not long-term, anyway . . .
“Reading about our exciting town?” she asked.
He jumped, surprised he hadn’t heard her come up behind him and feeling strangely sad about the plight of things here. “I am. And it is exciting, I must admit. That Eagle Scout was something. Whew.”
“Jimmie Telson,” she said. “He’s actually a great kid. Straight As and a pretty good basketball player. His dad died last year, but he’s still volunteering around town, even though he has a part-time job at Pete’s Pizza now. We’re proud of him.”
“I’m sold on the kid.”
She smiled, thinking, Sure you are. “Here,” she said, setting a stack of books beside him, “these should be enough to get you started.”
He scanned the dozen or so titles. “I thought you said that I’d be better off using the diaries. All of these are general history.”
“I know. But don’t you want to understand the period they were set in first?”
He hesitated. “I suppose,” he admitted.
“Good,” she said. She absently tugged at the sleeve of her sweater. “And I found a book of ghost stories that you might be interested in. There’s a chapter in there that discusses Cedar Creek.”