by Eva Gates
The academic librarian grinned at me. Her ever-present earbuds hung around her neck, but, to my infinite relief, the sound was switched off. Charlene was devoted to rap and hip-hop, and nothing could convince her that the rest of us didn’t want to enjoy her music. “Jay Ruddle is an Outer Banks legend. His father owned a small furniture store in Nags Head, and when he died, Jay took it over and built it into a mega-chain. He hasn’t lived in North Carolina for a long time, but the old-timers still talk about him. Some pride in ‘local boy done good’; some resentment at his success, which some say wasn’t entirely aboveboard.”
I’m not an Outer Banks local, although my mother was born and raised in Nags Head. She moved to Boston when she married my dad. We came here for vacation every year, visiting Mom’s sister Ellen, Josie’s mother. The Outer Banks—OBX as it’s affectionately known—has always had a special place in my heart. When I was looking for a new start in life, where else would I go but into the arms of my beloved aunt and to my favorite place in all the world?
“Jay Ruddle is known for his passion for Outer Banks history, nautical history in particular,” Charlene said, “and the money to indulge it. He has a particularly excellent collection of maps, captains’ logs, and letters and other documents from the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries. His collection is private, but he opens it to historians and other interested parties regularly. I was lucky enough to go on a tour a couple of years ago. Amazing stuff.”
“And he wants to give it to our library? That’s fabulous. But do we have the room for it?” I thought of our rare books room upstairs. Crowded might be the applicable word.
“He’s considering giving it to us, Lucy.” Bertie came back into the main room. “That’s the problem. Other institutions are being considered.”
Charlene let out a long breath. “Competition is going to be deadly. Figuratively speaking.”
“Something happened last night you might need to know about.” I filled them in on the incident at Owens’.
Bertie groaned. “If someone had told me that one of our board members would threaten to derail the deal, I would have guessed Diane and Curtis right off the bat. Blast them.”
“They were arguing over some business deal gone wrong, at least from Curtis’s point of view. Jay threatened to take Curtis to court, and Curtis threatened to … uh … kill him.”
Another groan.
“That might not be a problem, Bertie,” Charlene said. “We can subtly let Jay know that although Curtis and Diane are on our board, they aren’t exactly popular around here. The enemy-of-my-enemy situation.”
“I’ll be in my office. I feel the need for a few sun salutations.” Bertie walked away.
“I hate to be the one to point this out, Charlene,” I said, “but we’re stuffed to the gills here as it is. Without putting a large part of our collection into storage, I can’t see where we can put Jay Ruddle’s. Surely, Bertie’s not thinking of closing the children’s library?” A jolt of fear ran through me: there was space, pending a lot of renovations, on the fourth floor. Space that was currently my beloved Lighthouse Aerie.
“Not a problem,” Charlene said. “The gift comes with enough money to build a dedicated home for the collection. A separate building, climate controlled, perfect conditions; an office for the curator; and desk space for visiting academics who might want to consult the papers.”
“Wow!” was all I could say.
“Wow, indeed. I was up most of the night putting a proposal together of how we can best use the collection, and Bertie’s been reading up on our competition. Blacklock College in Elizabeth City seems like it’s our strongest rival. Fortunately for us, Jay never went to college, so he doesn’t have an alma mater; and his only grandchild studied English lit at Berkeley, which he doesn’t consider a worthy place to house the history of the East Coast. He’s coming back this afternoon to talk about it further.”
“Why’s he doing this now? Getting rid of his collection, I mean. He seems like a healthy man, although I’d guess he’s in his eighties.”
Charlene shrugged. “He told Bertie that Greg Summers, who’s the curator, is leaving for a new post in December. Bertie assumed Jay doesn’t want the responsibility of it anymore.”
“Charlene!” Bertie bellowed. “I’ve finished calming down! Get in here.”
“Desk’s all yours,” Charlene said to me. “Needless to say, I’ll be tied up all morning.”
* * *
Theodore came in around eleven. He asked me if I was well. I said I was. He settled into a chair near the magazine rack and picked up a stack of reading material. He flipped idly through it for a few minutes and then got up and moved the chair so it was facing the circulation desk rather than away from it. I didn’t have to wonder for long why he’d done such a thing: soon the door opened and he jumped to attention. He didn’t care about facing me and the desk, I realized, but the door.
It was a patron with a stack of books to return, and Theodore returned to his copy of Sports Illustrated. I’d never known him to have an interest in sports before, nor in sitting by himself in the library. Then again, he was turning pages without paying much attention to what was on them. Today, he’d abandoned his English-country-gentleman persona and was dressed in chinos and an oatmeal sweater over a button-down shirt. He’d combed his hair and abandoned the plain glass spectacles he thought made him look older and more serious.
“Everything okay, Theodore?” I called.
“Perfectly fine, thank you, Lucy,” he replied. “Oh, I won’t be able to make book club tonight. I have an appointment with a family that inherited a set of Mickey Spillane they don’t know what to do with. I’m the only collector they’ve approached—so far—so I’m confident of getting them for an excellent price.”
“We’ll miss you,” I said. “Did you read the book?”
“No, I didn’t.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I … uh … that is, I can’t abide ghost stories.”
“Sleepy Hollow isn’t really a ghost story. Two men are competing for the affections of the rich man’s daughter, and his rival frightens poor hapless Ichabod Crane right out of town by pretending to be the Headless Horseman. And as for Bracebridge Hall, it’s just a bunch of people telling each other spooky stories. Are you okay, Teddy?”
He’d turned very pale and wrapped his arms tightly around himself despite the warmth of the room.
“Ghosts,” he whispered. “How I hate them. Oh, I know they don’t exist, Lucy.” He laughed without mirth. “But the idea of them is something I don’t even want to contemplate. When I was a child, I…” He swallowed heavily. “I thought I saw one, in my room. A ghost materializing out of the toy box. I was frightened and ran to my mother crying. My father thought it was so very funny, and for several weeks after that, he’d make moaning noises outside my door, and one night he came in with a sheet over his head, waving his arms and wailing. That was the most terrifying night of my life.”
“That’s terrible!” I said. “What a mean thing to do.”
“For the rest of my childhood, Halloween was a nightmare, but these days, it seems to be more about dressing up like superheroes or princesses than ghosts, so I’m okay with it.”
“You’ve never seemed to mind Louise Jane and her stories.”
“I don’t like them, but I can accept hearing them because it’s Louise Jane telling them, and I’ve known her since we were kids. I can’t say I’m entirely comfortable with that ship over there and the condition of the sailors, but it’s just a toy. None of them are likely to start waving their arms around and moaning, are they?” He fingered the pages of his magazine nervously. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you, Lucy?”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I said.
He returned to his magazine. At noon, I called Bertie’s office and told her I was going into town—did she want anything? She asked me to get sandwiches for her and Charlene. I left Ronald to take over the desk and the phone. I ran a few errand
s in Nags Head and picked up our lunches at Josie’s bakery.
When I got back, Theodore was still ensconced next to the magazine rack. He’d finished with back issues of Sports Illustrated and had gone on to Coastal Living. Charles was keeping him company, curled up on the floor under the chair.
“No sign of our guests?” I said to Ronald.
“You mean the Ruddles? No. Bertie’s in her office and Charlene has gone back upstairs.” He lowered his voice. “What’s up with Teddy? He’s sitting there, not reading a magazine, and practically leaping out of his skin every time the door opens.”
“I’ve no idea.” At that very moment, the door did open, and all was made clear.
Theodore jumped up so fast, the chair almost fell over, barely missing Charles, who leapt to his own feet with a startled hiss. The magazine fluttered to the floor. Theodore’s color changed from white to pink, to red, back to white, and then straight to red again.
“Good afternoon.” Jay Ruddle said to me.
“Hi,” Julia said to Theodore.
Greg said nothing.
I introduced Ronald and then said, “Go in, please. Bertie’s in her office. She’s asked Charlene Clayton, our academic and reference librarian, to join you. I’ll give her a call.” I headed for the phone. I needn’t have bothered, as I could see the tips of Charlene’s bright red sneakers on the stairs, but I made the call anyway. I spoke into an unanswered phone while Jay headed for the hall. Julia and Greg didn’t go with him.
Theodore smiled shyly at Julia. “May I say, you look quite lovely this afternoon.”
She blushed and ducked her head. I thought she looked efficient and professional in a plain skirt and crisply ironed blouse, but lovely wasn’t the word I’d have chosen. Charles wandered over, and Julia bent to give him a scratch behind the ears.
“Would you like a tour of the library, Julia?” Theodore said. “It’s a unique setting, situated as it is here in the lighthouse. The lighthouse itself was first built in 1872 to replace one that had been destroyed during the War Between the States.”
“That would be nice,” Julia said. “Greg, do you want to come with us?”
“Why not?” he said.
Theodore looked as though he could give the assistant a great many reasons why not, but off they went, Charles leading the way. “Our children’s library on the second floor has won state awards for initiatives in programming.” The desk phone rang, and I left Theodore to act as tour guide.
They must have climbed all the way to the top, because when they got back, Theodore and Julia’s faces were flushed, and they were breathing heavily. Greg looked like he’d been resting comfortably in an armchair. Julia carried a happy Charles. “Thank you,” she said. “That was interesting.”
“Sure was.” Greg smothered a yawn.
Julia smiled at Theodore. Theodore smiled at Julia. Charles purred.
“I love that model ship,” Julia said. “It’s a genuine work of art. The detail is amazing. All those little sailors and everything.”
“It’s beautiful,” Theodore agreed. He was not looking at the ship.
“My father likes his history pristine and completely accurate, but I disagree. Surely, sometimes, we can have fun with it.”
“We can have fun, as you put it, with made-up stories, Julia,” Greg said. “But never, never with history. If you allow inaccuracies to go unchallenged, they grow and spread, and before long truth and fiction blur into one.”
“Nonsense,” she said. I got the feeling this was well-traveled ground. “History needs to be brought alive. Not just a recitation of facts and figures and the deeds of famous men, but the story of people. And as the story of most people was never captured, we have to recreate it as best we can.”
Greg turned to me. “Julia and I have agreed to disagree.”
Her color rose. “Because you’ll never admit that I’m right.”
Theodore said, “I’ve said to Lucy many times, history needs to be personalized, haven’t I, Lucy?”
“Uh … sure.” As far as I was aware, Teddy had not the slightest interest in historical fiction. “The ship is for our Halloween exhibit,” I explained, “as you’ve probably guessed by all the other stuff we have around.” I waved my hand at the gravestones and giant spiders. “At our book club tonight, we’re discussing Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Bracebridge Hall to get us in the mood.”
“Oh, you have a book club!” Julia’s eyes shone. “I adore book clubs, but I don’t have much of a chance to get to one. Can I come? I haven’t read Washington Irving in years, but I remember loving him. Sleepy Hollow is such a delight. What time’s the meeting?”
“Seven,” I said. “When the library closes.”
“That would be perfect! We have no plans tonight, do we, Greg?”
He shook his handsome head. “Jay’s having dinner with one of his old buddies. I’m sure you can bow out of that.”
“Marvelous.” She clapped her hands in delight. “I hope I can come, Lucy. That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Guests are always welcome,” Theodore said.
I nodded in agreement. I liked our book club very much and always looked forward to the meetings and the discussion. But even I didn’t think it something to get too excited about.
“I myself am a member of this book club,” Theodore said. “I’ll enjoy discussing Mr. Irving with you.”
“I thought you had—” I said.
“A simple business meeting. It hasn’t even been confirmed yet. No problem putting it off. I’ve a wonderful idea. Why don’t I collect you for the meeting, Julia? I can drop you off again after. Where are you staying?”
“We’re at the Ocean Side Hotel,” she replied.
“Washington Irving, eh?” Greg said. “I read him in college. No need to put yourself out, buddy. I’ll bring Julia and stay for the meeting myself.”
Theodore’s smile froze on his face. “How nice,” he said through gritted teeth.
* * *
I was returning to the desk after helping a lady find a book for her granddaughter (“It has an apple on the cover”), when Jay came out of Bertie’s office, carrying a stack of papers, followed by Bertie and Charlene. Greg was leaning against a shelf, reading Paris 1919 by Margaret MacMillan, and Theodore was telling Julia everything there is to know about collecting rare books. She actually looked interested.
“That was most informative, thank you,” Jay said. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Clayton. I’ll be in touch.” He headed for the door. Julia and Greg said quick goodbyes and hurried after him. Theodore hurried after them.
“How’d it go?” I asked when the door had closed behind our visitors.
Bertie let out a breath. Charlene punched the air with her fist.
“I won’t say it’s in the bag,” Bertie said.
“But darn close,” Charlene added.
“He was highly impressed with the proposal Charlene put together. He wants to go over it with Greg, his advisor.”
“Greg’s coming to book club tonight,” I said. “He and Julia. She expressed an interest, so I invited them. Is that okay?”
“Great!” Charlene said. “Let them know the library is a community center as well as a serious place for the study of books.”
“Don’t talk about the donation, Lucy,” Bertie said. “We don’t want to look like the invitation is part of a hard sell.” She went back to her office, the slightest of springs in her step.
“Speaking of book club,” I said. “I had an idea. I checked the weather earlier, and it’s going to be a clear night with a nearly full moon. Let’s set up outside. We’re talking about ghost stories. It’ll be perfect.”
“You aren’t afraid of scaring anyone?” Charlene said. “Suppose Mrs. Peterson brings her kids?”
“No one likes horror movies more than teenagers. But that’s not likely to be a problem. Washington Irving’s stores aren’t exactly frightening. If anything, they’re charming in their innocenc
e and simplicity.” I shoved aside a feeling of guilt as I remembered Teddy and his confession. He’d invited himself tonight, and I hoped the presence of Julia would more than make up for silly ghost stories.
“True,” she said. “Sounds like fun. What are you going to do for light? It’s dark outside after seven. Except when the lighthouse light comes on, and you can’t read by that.”
“Flashlights? I have one in my car and another one upstairs. Bertie keeps a couple in the office in case of a power failure.”
“I have one you can borrow.”
“I’ll pop into town and see what I can get cheap. A handful of those key chain ones should do.”
* * *
The Bodie Island Lighthouse Library Classic Novel Reading Club didn’t usually get together on Fridays, but this was a special pre-Halloween meeting. Louise Jane had proposed it, saying it would help her get in the mood for her talks on Saturday and Wednesday. She’d also suggested that, to honor the approaching holiday, we dress in costume, and club members eagerly agreed. We’d decided to keep our costumes to the theme of our club—classic literature.
Not surprisingly, the first to arrive this evening was Theodore Kowalski. I was laying napkins and plastic glasses on the refreshments table when he strolled up. “Are we meeting outside?”
“I thought it would add an extra touch to the Halloween atmosphere. I hope you don’t mind. Where’s your costume? We were supposed to dress up.” I eyed Theodore’s stiff black jeans and black turtleneck. Not only not a costume, but not a Harris Tweed thread in sight.
“I considered it but decided I have no desire to be childish. This is a serious book club we have here. Besides, we didn’t mention costumes to Julia. I wouldn’t want her to feel out of place. You’re not trying to be Elizabeth Bennett or Jane Eyre, I hope. Not in that hat—it’s far too ornate.”
“I’m Lady Bracknell.”
“Lady Bracknell? Really, Lucy. Lady Bracknell is not a character from a novel, but a play.”
“Gee, Teddy, lighten up. I tried, didn’t I?” When I was in town earlier, scooping up flashlights, I’d popped into a costume jewelry store and bought a pair of earrings about the size and shape of chandeliers—not to mention the weight. I’d gathered up my hair and plopped my elaborate Victorian-era hat on top of it. I completed the costume with a floor-length skirt I sometimes used as a beach wrap, and a long, fringed shawl. Nothing award winning, but it would do for tonight and for Halloween day itself, when the staff were planning to wear costumes.