by Eva Gates
That silly Washington Irving story was having far too much of an effect on me. “And you are not helping,” I said to the cardboard gravestone propped up against the wall next to my feet.
Charles meowed, telling me to hurry up.
And so I did.
* * *
I woke early the next morning with a sense of delightful anticipation.
This was the day of my picnic breakfast with Connor, and I was feeling good about it.
As I’d prepared for bed last night, I’d ordered myself to put the “ghostly lights” out of my mind. Something must have been happening up in the sky last night that threw light into the marsh: a low hanging satellite or maybe military helicopters on maneuvers. Even an alien invasion would be more believable than fairy fire and marsh candles.
My subconscious, inspired by some of the stories I’d been reading and the approach of Halloween, had simply taken what I’d seen and made me believe those lights were attempting to lure me to my doom.
“Ridiculous,” I said to Charles.
I’d taken his meow as agreement and put on the kettle. I made myself a cup of hot tea, sat at the table, pushed aside ghostly stories as well as thoughts of the murder of Jay Ruddle, and tried to sort out my feelings for Connor.
I came to the conclusion that I was spending too much time trying to sort out my feelings for Connor. I liked him, and he liked me. He’d said he loved me, and that had frightened me, but there are many depths and degrees of love. Did I love him in return?
Yes, I did. I thought I did.
Did I love him enough to want to spend the rest of my life with him?
It didn’t matter if I did or not. That wasn’t on the table. Not yet.
Was I rushing things mentally? Getting ahead of myself?
Yes.
Nothing wrong with dating and getting to know someone slowly.
We had plenty of time. I’d gone to sleep looking forward to sunrise at the beach, good food, and great company.
When I woke, it was still dark, and my thick drapes were drawn against the force of the lighthouse beam. I switched on the bedside lamp and leapt out of bed.
Charles groaned, put one paw over his eyes, and rolled over.
Charles is not a morning cat.
I showered and tied my hair into a high ponytail. I added a touch of pale pink gloss to my lips, but no other makeup was needed for the beach. It would be cool until the sun was fully up, so I dressed in jeans and a thick sweater. At five thirty, I ran down the twisting iron staircase to the bottom level. Round and round I went.
I love the library—any library—at any time of day, but there’s something truly magical about a library, any library, empty at night. The books standing silent in their rows, the shelves straight, the chairs waiting. I could almost sense the anticipation in the air as another day approached. Books love to be read. Books need to be read. Otherwise, they crumble to dust, and generations of pleasure, knowledge, and creativity are lost.
“Back soon,” I whispered, as though the books could hear me. Sometimes, I thought maybe they did.
I peeked out the window. I told myself I wasn’t checking for ghostly horses or flickering candles, but I was glad to see nothing but a star-sprinkled sky. As I watched, a thin line of bright light broke through the trees lining the driveway. The approaching headlights of a modern, practical, down-to-earth, twenty-first-century automobile.
I slipped outside and locked the door behind me as Connor’s BMW pulled up. I ran to the car and jumped in.
“Good morning, Lucy,” he said. He leaned over, restrained by his seat belt, and gave me a kiss on the lips. I returned it and then fastened my own belt.
“This is such a great idea,” I said.
“Not too early?”
“Absolutely not. There are plenty of stars overhead, so that means clear skies. We’ll get a good sunrise.” My lighthouse window faced east, so I could watch the sun rise over the ocean any time I wanted, but there was something special about doing it with a friend and making an occasion of it. I thought about asking Connor if he’d heard any stories of ghostly horses in the marsh or strange lights, but bit my tongue. It seemed so foolish in the fresh air of a new day.
By the time we made the five-minute journey to the parking lot of Coquina Beach, the sky to the east was lightening. Connor handed me a blanket and then lifted a basket out of the trunk. The blanket was pure wool, thick and heavy, in a pattern of red and green stripes, and the basket was exactly like a picnic basket featured in romantic movies. Square and sturdy, made of wicker, with flip-up handles and a padded gingham lining.
We slipped off our shoes and walked through the dunes and sea grass to emerge on the beach. Gray light caressed the still ocean, but the sun had yet to make its appearance.
A group of joggers ran past, not even sparing us a glance, and further down the beach, fishermen were setting up their poles. Once the runners passed, Connor and I were alone.
I spread the blanket, and Connor put the basket on it. We sat down, and he opened the basket with a flourish and a cry of “Ta-da!” He pulled out cloth napkins and two glass flutes. “Champagne, Madam?”
“For breakfast?” I laughed. “What an indulgence.”
“Heavily dosed with orange juice.” Out came a mini bottle of sparkling wine. He pulled out the cork, poured a mouthful into each glass, and topped them with orange juice.
“To victory,” I said.
“To it being over,” he said.
We drank.
He settled back onto the blanket and let out a long breath. He’d dressed casually in chinos and a T-shirt. He looked, I thought, exhausted. He closed his eyes, and I studied his handsome face. New lines had appeared in the delicate skin around his mouth and his eyes. He hadn’t shaved yet today, and the dark stubble was thick on his jaw.
“I’m not asleep,” he said.
I laughed. Yes, sleepy or not, I did love this man’s company. “You must be tired.”
“Tired, invigorated. Bored to tears, exhilarated beyond belief. Bursting with enthusiasm and energy, and asleep on my feet. Two minutes from one to the other. A political campaign is like nothing else on earth.” He opened his eyes. “It’s not for everyone.”
“No.”
“As much as I’d love to sit here all day, just you and me, I have to get back to pressing the flesh and kissing babies, and you have a job to do. Let’s eat.”
He sat up, and out of the depths of the basket he brought a checked tablecloth and two sets of plastic dishes. He arranged smoked salmon and pâté and an assortment of cheeses, grapes, and nuts. Next came a baguette and a big bread knife. He sliced thick chunks off the loaf. It was so fresh and warm, I could smell it.
“Is that from Josie’s?” I asked.
“I threw myself on your cousin’s better nature and convinced her to open early for one special customer. When you’ve finished your mimosa, I have something else she provided.”
He produced a thermos and two plastic mugs. He twisted the top off the thermos and the scent of hot coffee hit me.
“Heaven! Connor McNeil, I think you might be the perfect man.”
The corners of his mouth turned up. “My mother would agree with you on a good day, but no one else.”
“It’s going to be a lovely sunrise,” I said. “The sky’s completely clear.”
We nibbled on cheese and bread, pâté and crackers, sipped coffee, and chatted about nothing of consequence.
A group of women, dressed in form-fitting shirts and black leggings, passed at the waterline, walking fast, backs straight, arms pumping.
“Morning, Mr. Mayor,” one of them called.
Connor lifted his hand.
She pulled her phone out of the small pack tied around her waist, lifted it, and took a picture of us. I tried to smile.
“Good luck in the election,” one of her friends called. They walked on.
“Am I going to be in the paper tomorrow?” I asked.
“I didn’t recognize her, so she’s unlikely to be with the media,” he said. “Wouldn’t hurt, though. Here I am, relaxing, enjoying the best Nags Head has to offer. It’s all part of the job, Lucy.”
I didn’t say it wasn’t part of my job. Instead, I sipped my coffee.
“I heard about Josie and Jake getting engaged,” Connor said. “About time too.”
The women were specks in the distance. No one else was anywhere nearby. I helped myself to a plump grape, and Connor drank his coffee. I broke off another grape.
“Are you remembering to get your proper number of servings of fruit and vegetables every day?” I asked.
“What?”
“I bet you’re not. I bet you’re eating nothing but junk food, when you do bother to eat. You need five to seven servings of fruit and vegetables a day. Here’s the first one for today.” I pressed the grape to his lips.
He grinned at me. He opened his mouth, and I slipped the grape in. His lips closed on my finger. His eyes stared into mine. They didn’t look exhausted any more.
His phone rang.
My hand jerked back.
He swore.
He fumbled in his pocket. “That’s Dorothy’s ring. I told her emergencies only before nine today. So sorry, Lucy.” He pushed the button. “What is it?”
I could hear a woman’s voice on the other end of the line. Sharp, urgent.
I crawled to my side of the blanket. I curled my feet up and put my arms around my knees.
The great ball of the sun rose over the watery horizon in a fiery blaze of orange and yellow. I watched it rise alone.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy.” Connor began gathering up the remains of our feast. “Dorothy got a heads-up from her contact at the local radio station. Doug will be interviewed on the morning show, and he plans to make insinuations about the death of Jay Ruddle.”
“What sort of insinuations?”
“About the library. Not a safe place, etcetera, etcetera. Typical Doug rumor-mongering and muck spreading. I need to have a response ready.”
He got to his feet and held out his hand. I let him pull me up. He didn’t let go. “I am so sorry,” he said again. “Can you forgive me?”
I forced out a smile. “You missed the sunrise.”
He turned and looked out to sea. The giant orange ball had crested the horizon. “There’ll be other sunrises. The election will be over soon. One way or another.”
We walked back to the car, carrying the picnic basket between us. I shouldn’t be angry at Connor, but I had to be angry at something. Doug Whiteside was the best choice, but if it wasn’t Doug running against Connor, it would be someone else. Being mayor meant a lot to Connor. He loved the job, if not the politicking. He was a good mayor. His love of Nags Head and the Outer Banks was always his first priority, unlike some others. In particular, he was a good friend of our library; he believed in the importance of libraries. In these days of budget cuts and the impetus for everything to be revenue generating, that was important.
Doug Whiteside would see us closed down faster than you could say ticket sales.
“The Ruddle collection would have been a big boost to the library,” I said to Connor. “It would be hard even for Doug to argue that it should be closed if we’d been given such a prize.”
He turned to me with a smile. “You’re not thinking Doug killed Jay, I hope. You considered him those other times, and you were wrong.”
“I wasn’t wrong, as such; I merely had him among my list of possible suspects. No, I’m not thinking that. Neither Doug nor Bill Hill, his campaign manager. Doug might kill to be mayor, but he doesn’t really hate the library. It’s a means to an end for him. Talking about shutting it makes him sound like he’s protecting the interests of the hardworking taxpayer.”
“The hardworking taxpayer who doesn’t frequent the library and doesn’t have children who do or an elderly parent who needs the library community to keep themselves involved.”
“Preaching to the choir, Mr. Mayor.”
He flicked the fob on his key, put the basket and blanket into the trunk, and we got into the car. We drove the short distance to the lighthouse in silence.
He pulled up to the path and made no move to get out. I unfastened my seat belt.
“Lucy?”
“Yes?”
“On election night, will you come with me to my party? Victory celebration or otherwise, I’d like you to be with me. Officially, I mean.”
“I’d be happy to.” I said.
I got out of the BMW and waved goodbye as he drove away.
I’d go to the party. After that? I wasn’t sure. Regardless of my feelings for Connor—and sitting there, on the beach, in the breaking dawn, drinking mimosas and laughing, I had truly believed I loved him—I didn’t think I could handle the life of a politician’s wife.
Posing for pictures in what was supposed to be a private moment. Special times interrupted by breaking news.
No.
Thinking about marrying him before he’d even come close to asking me wasn’t jumping the gun. If I didn’t plan on a future with Connor, it wasn’t fair to him—it wasn’t fair to me—to let him think that might eventually be a possibility.
Mood thoroughly spoiled, I went upstairs to get ready for work.
* * *
Blacklock College is a little over an hour’s drive from Nags Head, situated on the Pasquotank River close to Elizabeth City. Bertie and I left at eight. I didn’t say anything about my picnic-on-the-beach breakfast to her, but I warned her about Doug’s impending radio interview.
She groaned. “Not that again. The man’s like a lion with a thorn in his paw over our library.”
“More like a rat.”
“That too. I’m not going to listen to the show. Someone will be sure to let me know what he has to say about us.”
“I met Julia Ruddle’s mother yesterday,” I said.
“I thought Julia was an orphan. Wasn’t she raised by her grandfather?”
“Her father died when she was young, and she was brought up by Jay, yes, but her mother is alive and kicking. They’ve had little contact over the years.”
“That’s always sad.”
I thought about Jay—successful businessman, stern, proper. And about Anna—none of the above. “She came across as somewhat of a flake. Hard to tell if it’s real, though, or an act. She’s a concert violinist apparently.”
Bertie laughed. “My musician friends say that of all the classical musicians, being a flake is practically a job requirement for a violinist.”
“Be that as it may, she says she’s here to help Julia through the grieving process. Julia thinks she’s here to help her spend her inheritance.”
“Whenever I wish I’d win the lottery, I always remember that no one loves me for my money,” Bettie said. “And it’s better that way.”
“I wonder why she stayed away all these years. Was that her idea, or did Jay order her to?”
“Does it matter?”
“If he kept her separated from her daughter, she’d have a powerful reason to hate him.”
“Powerful enough to kill him?” Bertie said. “Maybe at one time, but not after all these years, I’d think.” She pulled around a van with New York license plates, piled high with kids, dogs, suitcases, and beach paraphernalia.
“True. Unless something changed. I got the feeling Anna has fallen on hard times, and she doesn’t like it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She was staying at a cheap hotel. I bet they’ve never seen anyone dressed quite like her walk through their doors before. She declared, without being invited, that she’d move into the Ocean Side today. She also declared that Jay’s account would pay for it. Her husband was quick to see that Julia got the bill for last night’s dinner. Anna invited Julia to breakfast at the Ocean Side this morning. I bet that’ll end up on Jay’s account too.”
“Presumptuous of her.”
“Very. Still, Anna couldn�
�t have killed Jay. She was in Europe, playing the violin.”
“How do you know that?”
“She said so.”
Bertie turned her head and looked at me.
“Oh,” I said. “That doesn’t mean she necessarily was, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
I stared out the window. We were on the Croatian Highway, passing into the town of Kill Devil Hills. The summer homes and hotels, piers, beaches, and ocean are not much more than a stone’s throw away, but you can’t tell from here. We were surrounded by strip malls, discount stores, restaurant chain outlets, tourist traps, four lanes of traffic, and acres of paved parking lots. Signs and flags and bouncy characters fluttered in the breeze, all competing to attract our attention. And our dollars.
One shop, the sidewalk around its doors piled with crates stuffed with beach toys, beach chairs and umbrellas, and tacky tourist stuff, featured a huge sign advertising a sale. Everything, it shouted at me, had to go, as the store was closing.
“Look at that,” I said to Bertie. “Gardner Beach Wear is having a going-out-of-business sale.”
“I’ve heard things are tough for some of the small businesses these days,” she said. “Still, Curtis has six locations, doesn’t he? That one might only be moving premises.”
“Too much competition, maybe,” I said. Less than a quarter of a mile earlier, on the other side of the highway, we’d passed a Ruddle Furniture store. Among the gazebos, plastic lounge chairs, and picnic tables, they’d also had beach things.
I twisted in my seat and watched the merchandise and signage fade away.
* * *
Blacklock is a small liberal arts college. Built in the 1960s, most of the buildings were constructed in the fashion of the day in the architectural style known as brutal realism. Solid concrete, square corners, and ugliness.
“Not very university-like, is it?” I said as we drove onto the grounds.
“Not for someone who worked at Harvard,” Bertie said, meaning me. “But I’ve heard that their English lit department is top notch.”
“In that case,” I said, “the ugly buildings don’t matter. Do you know where we’re going?”
“I did some research on the Internet last night.” Once she’d parked the car, she set off toward the main cluster of buildings with a determined step. I hurried to catch up.