Forty years . . .
He marked the page with a piece of scratch paper and flipped the book to the front cover, looking for the name of the author, his mind flashing to the first conversation he'd had with the mayor. And with that, he felt his suspicions come together like pieces in a puzzle.
Owen Gherkin.
The journal had been written by the mayor's father. Who, according to Mayor Gherkin, "knew everything there was to know about this place." Who understood what was causing the lights. Who had undoubtedly told his son. Who then knew there had never been anything supernatural at all about the lights, but had nonetheless pretended otherwise. Which meant that Mayor Gherkin had been lying all along, in the hope of using Jeremy to help make a buck from unsuspecting visitors.
And Lexie . . .
The librarian. The woman who'd hinted that he might find the answers he was looking for in the diaries. Which meant that she'd read Owen Gherkin's account. Which meant that she, too, had been lying, preferring to play along with the mayor.
He wondered how many others in town had known the answer. Doris? Maybe, he thought. No, change that, he quickly decided. She had to have known. In their first conversation, she'd come right and out and said what the lights weren't. But like the mayor and Lexie, she hadn't said what they really were, even though she probably knew, too.
And that meant . . . this whole thing had been a joke all along. The letter. The investigation. The party. The joke, however, was on him.
And now Lexie was pulling away, but not until after she'd told him that story about Doris bringing her to the cemetery to see the spirit of her parents. And that sweet story about how her parents had wanted her to meet him.
Coincidence? Or planned all along? And now the way she was acting . . .
As if she wanted him to leave. As if she didn't feel anything for him. As if she had known what would happen . . .
Had everything been planned? And if so, why?
Jeremy grabbed the diary and headed to Lexie's office, determined to get some answers. He barely noticed that he slammed the door on the way out; nor did he notice the faces of the volunteers who turned to watch him. Lexie's door was cracked open, and he pushed it wider as he stepped into her office.
With the piles of clutter now hidden, Lexie was holding a can of furniture polish and wiping the top of the desk with a cloth, bringing the wood to a shine. She looked up as Jeremy raised the diary.
"Oh, hey," she said, looking up. She forced a smile. "I'm just about finished up here."
Jeremy stared at her. "You can quit the act," he announced.
Even from across the room, she sensed his anger, and she instinctively tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"What are you talking about?"
"This," he said, holding up the diary. "You have read this, haven't you?"
"Yes," she said simply, recognizing it as Owen Gherkin's. "I've read it."
"Did you know there's a passage that talks about the lights at Cedar Creek?"
"Yes," she said again.
"Why didn't you tell me about it?"
"I did," she said. "I told you about the diaries when you first came to the library. And if I remember right, I said you might find the answers you were looking for, remember?"
"Don't play games," Jeremy said, his eyes narrowing. "You knew what I was looking for."
"And you found it," she countered, her voice rising. "I don't see what the problem is."
"The problem is that I've been wasting my time. This diary had the answer all along. There is no mystery here. There never was. And you've been in on this little charade all along."
"What charade?"
"Don't bother trying to deny it," he said, cutting her off. He held up the diary. "I've got the proof right here, remember? You lied to me. You lied right to my face."
Lexie stared at him, feeling the heat of his anger, feeling her own rise in response. "Is this the reason you came to my office? To start firing accusations at me?"
"You knew!" he shouted.
She put her hands on her hips. "No," she said. "I didn't."
"But you read it!"
"So what?" she shot back. "I read the article in the paper, too. And I read the articles by those other people. How on earth was I supposed to know that Owen Gherkin got it right? For all I knew, he was guessing like the others were. And that's assuming I even cared about the subject. Do you honestly think I've ever spent more than a minute thinking about it until you got here? I don't care! I never cared! You're the one down here investigating. And if you'd read the diary two days ago, you wouldn't have been sure, either. We both know you would have done your own investigation, anyway."
"That's not the point," he said, dismissing the likelihood that she was right. "The point is that this whole thing has been a scam. The tour, the ghosts, the legend--it's a con, plain and simple."
"What are you talking about? The tour is about historic homes, and yeah, they added the cemetery to it. Whoop-de-do. All it is, is a nice weekend in the middle of a dreary season. No one's being conned, no one's being hurt. And come on, do you really think that most people actually think they're ghosts? Most people just like to say they do because it's fun."
"Did Doris know?" he demanded, cutting her off again.
"About Owen Gherkin's diary?" She shook her head, furious at his refusal to listen. "How would she know about it?"
"See," he said, raising his finger, like a teacher emphasizing a point to a student. "That's the part that I don't understand. If you didn't want the cemetery as part of the tour, and Doris didn't want it as part of the tour, then why didn't you just go to the newspaper with the truth? Why did you want to involve me in your little game?"
"I didn't want to involve you. And it's not a game. It's a harmless weekend that you're blowing completely out of proportion."
"I didn't blow it out of proportion. You and the mayor did that."
"So I'm one of the bad guys now?"
When Jeremy said nothing, her eyes narrowed. "Then why did I give you the diary in the first place? Why didn't I just keep it hidden from you?"
"I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with Doris's notebook. You two have been pushing that on me since I got here. Maybe you figured that I wouldn't come down for that, so you concocted this whole thing."
"Can you even hear how ridiculous you sound?" She leaned over the desk, face flushed.
"Hey, I'm just trying to figure out why I was brought down here in the first place."
She raised her hands, as if trying to stop him. "I don't want to hear this."
"I'll bet you don't."
"Just get out," she said, shoving the can of furniture polish into her desk drawer. "You don't belong here and I don't want to talk to you anymore. Go back to where you came from."
He crossed his arms. "At least you finally admitted what you've been thinking all day."
"Oh, now you're a mind reader?"
"No. But I don't have to read minds to understand why you've been acting the way you are."
"Well, then, let me read your mind, okay?" she hissed, tired of his superior attitude, tired of him. "Let me tell you what I see, okay?" She knew her voice was loud enough for the entire library to hear, but she didn't care. "I see someone who's really good at saying the right things, but when push comes to shove, doesn't mean a thing he says."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
She started across the room, anger stiffening every muscle in her body.
"What? You don't think I know how you really feel about our town? That it's nothing more than a stop on the highway? Or that deep down, you can't understand why anyone would live here? And that, no matter what you said last night, the thought that you might live here is ridiculous?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to!" she shouted, hating the smug way he sounded. "That's the point. When I was talking about sacrifice, I knew full well that you thought I should be the one to uproot. That I should leave my family, my friend
s, my home, because New York is so much better. That I should be the good little woman who follows her man wherever he thinks we should be. The thought never even crossed your mind that you'd be the one to leave."
"You're exaggerating."
"I am, huh? About what? Expecting me to be the one to leave? Or were you planning to pick up a real estate guide on your way out of town tomorrow? Here, let me make it easier for you," she said, reaching for the phone. "Mrs. Reynolds has her office across the street, and I'm sure she'd be delighted to walk you through a couple of houses tonight if you're in the market for something."
Jeremy simply stared at her, unable to deny her accusations.
"Nothing to say?" she demanded, slamming the phone back down. "Cat got your tongue? Then tell me this instead. What did you mean exactly when you said that we'd find a way to make it work? Did you think I was interested in waiting around for you to visit every now and then for a quick roll in the sack, without the possibility of a future together? Or were you thinking of using those visits to convince me of the error of my ways, since you think I'm wasting my life here and would be so much happier tagging along in your life?"
The anger and pain in her voice were unmistakable; so was the meaning behind what she was saying. For a long time, neither of them said anything.
"Why didn't you say any of this last night?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
"I tried," she said. "It's just that you didn't want to listen."
"Then why . . . ?"
He let the question hang, the implication clear.
"I don't know." She looked away. "You're a nice guy, we had a couple of good days. Maybe I was just in the mood."
He stared at her. "Is that all it meant to you?" he asked.
"No," she admitted, seeing the pain in his expression. "Not last night. But it doesn't change the fact that it's over, does it?"
"So you're pulling away?"
"No," she said. To her dismay, she felt tears begin to well in her eyes. "Don't put this on me. You're the one who's leaving. You came into my world. It wasn't the other way around. I was content until you arrived. Maybe not perfectly happy, maybe a little lonely, but content. I like my life here. I like being able to check on Doris if she isn't having a good day. I like reading to the children at story hour. And I even like our little Historic Homes Tour, even if you're intent to turn it into something ugly so you can make a big impression on television."
They stood facing each other, frozen and finally wordless. With everything out in the open, with all the words spoken, both of them felt drained.
"Don't be like this," he said at last.
"Like what? Like someone who tells the truth?"
Instead of waiting for him to respond, Lexie reached for her jacket and purse. Slinging them over her arm, she headed for the door. Jeremy moved aside to allow her to pass, and she brushed by him without another word. She was a few steps away from the office when Jeremy finally summoned the will to speak again.
"Where are you going?"
Lexie took another step before stopping. With a sigh, she turned around. "I'm going home," she said. She brushed away a tear on her cheek and stood straighter. "Just like you will."
Eighteen
Later that night, Alvin and Jeremy set up the cameras near the boardwalk on the Pamlico River. In the distance, the sounds of music drifted from Meyer's tobacco barn as the dance got under way. The rest of the shops downtown had closed up for the night; even Lookilu had been abandoned. Bundled in their jackets, they seemed to be alone.
"And then what?" Alvin asked.
"That's it," Jeremy said. "She left."
"You didn't follow her?"
"She didn't want me to," he said.
"How do you know?"
Jeremy rubbed his eyes, replaying the argument for the umpteenth time. The last few hours had passed in a haze. He vaguely remembered heading back to the rare-book room before putting the stack of diaries on the shelf and locking the door behind him. On the drive back, he'd brooded over what she'd said, his feelings of anger and betrayal mingling with those of sadness and regret. He spent the next four hours lying on the bed at Greenleaf, trying to figure out how he could have handled it better. He shouldn't have stormed into her office the way he had. Had he really been so angry about the diary? About the thought that he'd been duped? Or was it simply that he was angry at Lexie and, like her, looking for any excuse to start an argument?
He wasn't sure, and Alvin didn't have any answers, either, after he'd related the day's events. All Jeremy knew was that he was exhausted, and despite the fact he had to film, he was fighting the urge to go to Lexie's house and see if he could mend things. Assuming she was even there. For all he knew, she was at the dance with everyone else.
Jeremy sighed, his thoughts going back to their final moment in the library. "I could see it in the way she looked at me," he said.
"So it's over?"
"Yeah," Jeremy said, "it's over."
In the darkness, Alvin shook his head and turned away. How his friend had become so attached in such a short period of time was beyond him. She hadn't been that charming, and she didn't fit the deferential image he'd had of southern women.
But whatever. This was a fling, Alvin knew, and he had little doubt that Jeremy would get over it as soon as he boarded the flight back home.
Jeremy always got over everyone.
At the dance, Mayor Gherkin sat alone at a table in the corner, his hand on his chin.
He'd hoped that Jeremy would swing by, preferably with Lexie, but as soon as he'd arrived, he heard the chatter from the library volunteers about the argument in the library. According to those folks, it had been a big one, and had something to do with one of the diaries and some sort of scam.
Thinking about it now, he decided he shouldn't have donated his father's journal to the library, but at the time, it hadn't seemed all that important, and it was a fairly accurate record of the town's history. The library was the obvious place to donate it. But who could have guessed what would happen in the next fifteen years? Who knew the textile mill would be closed or the mine abandoned? Who knew that hundreds of people would find themselves out of work? Who knew that a number of young families would leave and never return? Who knew the town would end up fighting a battle of survival?
Maybe he shouldn't have added the cemetery to the tour. Maybe he shouldn't have publicized ghosts when he knew they were simply the lights from the night shift at the paper mill. But the simple fact was that the town needed something to build on, something to get people to visit, something to make them spend a couple of days in town so they could experience how wonderful this place was. With enough people passing through, maybe they could eventually become a retirement mecca like Oriental or Washington or New Bern. It was, he thought, the town's only hope. Retirees wanted hospitable places to eat and bank, they wanted places to shop. It wouldn't happen right away, but it was the only plan he had, and it had to start somewhere. Thanks to the addition of the cemetery and its mysterious lights, they'd sold a few hundred extra tickets to the tour, and Jeremy's presence had offered them the opportunity to get the word out nationally.
Oh, he'd always figured that Jeremy was smart enough to figure it out on his own. That part didn't bother him. So what if Jeremy exposed the truth on national television? Or even in his column? People around the country would still hear about Boone Creek, and some might seek it out. Any publicity was better than no publicity. Unless, of course, he used the word "scam."
It was such a nasty-sounding word, and not in keeping with what was happening. Sure, he knew what the lights were, but hardly anyone else did, and what was the harm, anyway? The simple fact was that there was a legend, there were lights, and some people did believe that they were ghosts. Others simply played along, thinking it made the town seem different and special. People needed that now, more than ever.
Jeremy Marsh with fond memories of the town would understand that. Jeremy Marsh without them mi
ght not. And right now Mayor Gherkin wasn't sure which impression Jeremy would be leaving with tomorrow.
"The mayor looks sort of worried, don't you think?" Rodney remarked.
Rachel looked over, feeling rather proud that they'd been standing together most of the night. Even the fact that he sometimes glanced toward the door and seemed to scan the crowd for Lexie did nothing to diminish the feeling, for the simple reason that he seemed happy to be with her as well.
"Sort of. But he always looks that way."
"No," Rodney said, "it's not the same. He's got something serious on his mind."
"Do you want to talk to him?"
Rodney thought about it. Like the mayor--like everyone else, it seemed--he'd heard about the argument at the library, but unlike most of them, he figured he had a pretty good handle on what was going on. He was able to put the bits and pieces together, especially after seeing the mayor's expression. The mayor, he suddenly knew, was worried about the way Jeremy was going to present their little mystery to the world.
As for the argument, he'd tried to warn Lexie it was coming. It had been inevitable. She was just about the most hardheaded woman he'd ever met, someone who always stood her ground. She could be volatile, and Jeremy had finally gotten a taste of it. Though Rodney wished she wouldn't have put herself through the wringer again, he was relieved to know the affair was just about over.
"No," Rodney said, "there's not much I can tell him. It's out of his hands now."
Rachel furrowed her brow. "What's out of his hands?"
"Nothing." He waived the subject off with a smile. "It's not important."
Rachel studied him for a moment before shrugging. They stood together as one song ended and the band began a new one. As more people took to the dance floor, Rachel began tapping her foot to the beat.
Rodney didn't seem to notice the dancers, preoccupied as he was. He wanted to talk to Lexie. On his way here, he'd driven past her house and seen her lights on and the car in the driveway. Earlier, he'd also received a report from another deputy, noting that City Boy and his cartoon character friend were setting up their camera on the boardwalk. Which meant that the argument had yet to be resolved.
If Lexie's lights were still on after the dance had ended, he supposed he could drop by on his way home, like he'd done the night after Mr. Renaissance had left. He had a feeling she wouldn't be entirely surprised to see him. He figured she'd probably stare at him for a moment before opening the door. She'd brew some decaf, and just like the last time, he'd sit on the couch and listen for hours as she berated herself for being so foolish.
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