Booked for Trouble (2 page)

I gestured to Mom and headed for the door.

“That was incredibly rude,” Mom said as we descended the stairs. “Do you know that frightful woman?”

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Peterson is one of our most regular patrons. She is a devoted and doting mother to her five daughters. Devoted, I might add, to the exclusion of everyone and everything else in the world. She takes it as a personal affront when Ronald spends time with any other kids.” Despite their mother's excessive attention, the five Peterson daughters were growing up to be great girls. I figured Ronald had a lot to do with that.

More running, laughing children passed us on the stairs.

“Did you like the children's library?” Bertie asked Mom.

“Totally delightful,” Mom said.

“Now, let me show you our pride and joy. Although only temporary, I fear.” Bertie unlocked the Austen cabinet with great flourish. I handed Mom the white gloves used to handle the valuable books, and indicated she could pick up the notebook. It was, of course, a precious and fragile thing, about four inches square and an inch thick, with a faded and worn leather cover. Mom opened the book. The hand was small, the writing faded with the passage of years. Mom smiled. “How marvelous.” She carefully returned it to its place, and Bertie turned the key in the lock.

We stood quietly for a moment, no one saying
anything. Then Mom shook the sentiment off, almost like a dog emerging from the surf, and said, “We'll take my car, Lucy. I'll bring you back.”

We said good-bye to Bertie and headed for the door. As I reached for the knob, it flew open as if propelled by a force of nature. A woman about my age, all sharp bones and jutting angles, stood in the doorway. She spotted the bag tossed over my shoulder. “Lucy,” she said. “Surely you aren't leaving work in the middle of the day.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” I said, shoving Mom out the door. “Gotta run. Catch you later, Louise Jane.” I dragged my mom down the path.

“Are we suddenly in some sort of a hurry?”

“Nope.” I loved living in the Outer Banks and I loved working at the Lighthouse Library. My colleagues seemed to like working with me and I was making friends. But there is always a bug in the ointment, and Louise Jane was a skinny, lantern-jawed fly buzzing around my jar.

Mom's eye-popping silver Mercedes-Benz SLK stood out among the sturdy American vans and practical Japanese compacts pulling into the parking lot, bringing kids for the summer afternoon preteens program. Since she'd been in New York for a couple of days, she'd probably done a
lot
of shopping. More than would have fit into the suitcase-sized trunk of the two-seater convertible. She must have told the stores to send everything to the house.

“How's Dad?” I asked.

“Busy. Some silly deal with some silly Canadian oil company has run into problems.”

My dad was a lawyer, partner in Richardson Lewiston, one of Boston's top corporate law firms. “You know your father. Always working.” Mom gave me a strained
smile. Outside, in the brilliant North Carolina summer sun, I saw the fine lines edged into the delicate skin around her eyes and mouth.

I climbed into the passenger seat of the car, and we roared off in an impressive display of engine power.

I knew perfectly well that Mom had not come for a visit, or to see that I was settling in nicely. She'd come to try to take me home.

I
pushed thoughts of Boston aside and stared out the window as the SLK pulled out of the lighthouse road onto the highway that wound through the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. It was a perfect Outer Banks summer day of blue sky, soft breeze, and warm sunshine. Not to mention plenty of tourists. Gulls circled overhead and sand drifted onto the road, but the ocean itself was hidden behind dunes and scruffy vegetation struggling to survive in the sea air and poor soil. The top of the car was down, and I took my hair out of its ponytail to let the wind, heavy with salt spray, blow through it. Mom chatted about the play she'd seen in New York, and I made the occasional grunt to indicate I was listening. After a few miles, the highway splits: left to the bridge to Roanoke Island and the charming town of Manteo, right to Nags Head and towns to the north.

We went right, down Virginia Dare Trail, past rows of brightly colored beach houses perched high on stilts to provide views over the dunes (and place them above hurricane waters), and hotels, restaurants, bars, and shops catering to summer visitors. Soon Mom slowed and turned
down a private drive. Sea oats and beach grass gave way to a pebbled parking area outlined by huge pots overflowing with flowers in controlled colors of purple, white, and yellow. The hotel had been built in the 1950s but made to look much older, constructed in the memory of a grand old Southern plantation: three stories, painted a pale yellow, with a wide white veranda wrapping around three sides, a long balcony on the upper floors, framed in white Greek-style pillars. To the side of the building, I caught a glimpse of the weather-stained boardwalk leading to the ocean.

The car pulled to a stop in front of the wide, curving staircase, and the valet, dressed in a uniform of forest green jacket and knee-length breeches, rushed to open Mom's door. I clambered out without assistance. Mom tossed the valet her keys, leaving him to bring in her bags, and we mounted the stairs. While Mom checked in, I glanced around. I hadn't been here in many years. When my brothers and I were children, we used to come to the Outer Banks every summer to stay with Mom's sister, Ellen, and Ellen's husband, Amos. I still think of those lazy, happy summers as the best days of my life. Dad had never accompanied us—work, of course—and Mom had come less often as we got older. She never stayed at Ellen and Amos's house, where she would have been welcome, but always here. Always alone.

More me time, I guess.

Mom and Aunt Ellen came from a family of small means. My granddad had been a fisherman. His father had deserted the family when my granddad was only days old, but my great-grandmother had worked hard and raised her only child well. She'd died long before I was born and I've always been sorry not to have known
her. My mom's mother, another hard worker, had been a cashier in a shop. I thought those were roots to be proud of, but Mom was never anything but ashamed of her hardscrabble origins.

I glanced around the hotel lobby. Marble floors, rich red carpets, wood-paneled walls, gleaming brass accents, lush palm trees in brass pots. Only one clerk was behind the reception desk and two people were ahead of Mom in the line. She was tapping the toe of her left espadrille impatiently. I leaned up against a wall. Plaster and paint were peeling where the ceiling met the wall. When I looked closer, I could see stains on the rugs, hairline cracks in the baseboards, a bad gouge in one wall, and a thick layer of dust coating the wide leaves of the potted palms.

The flowers on the round table in the center of the room were not fresh, but fading silk, covered in more dust. An air of neglect hung over the place, along with the overly strong scent of cleaning liquid. I wondered if the hotel was in financial trouble or merely trying to implement “efficiencies.”

A van pulled up in front, and through the streaked glass doors, I saw a pack of almost identically dressed, camera-toting Japanese tourists spill out. The receptionist gave a quick glance out the window. Her shoulders visibly slumped and I sensed that no one would be rushing to help her check the new arrivals in.

“Suzanne Richardson,” Mom announced. It was her turn at the desk. The receptionist switched her smile back on and said, “Mrs. Richardson, good afternoon.”

Mom joined me, key card in hand, a minute later. “I swear the service here gets worse every time I come.”

She'd been given a room on the second floor, and the elevator whisked us up. Now that I'd noticed signs of poor
repair, I was seeing them everywhere. Scratched paint, a missing section of baseboard, ripped wallpaper, cracks in the elevator mirrors. Small and unobtrusive, but things like that didn't stay small—or unobtrusive—for long.

A cart loaded with towels, cleaning equipment, and an open garbage bag was parked about halfway down the corridor. A woman came out of a room as we approached, a bundle of sheets wrapped in her arms. She wore the plain gray dress of the housekeeping staff, and her thick black hair was pulled into a knot.

“Karen. Hi,” I said.

“Lucy, what brings you here?” She pushed a wayward lock of hair off her forehead. She glanced at my mom.

“I'd like you to meet—” I began, but Mom was almost dashing down the corridor. “My mom's visiting.”

“That's your mother?” Karen asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, well. She's arrived at last, has she?”

We watched as Mom stuffed the key card into the slot. She shook the door handle, and when nothing happened, she ran the card through again. The door swung open and she disappeared at a rapid clip.

That was uncharacteristically rude. Mom could always be counted on to be polite, although not overly friendly, to waiters and hotel staff.

“What's she call herself these days?” Karen said, watching the closed door.

“Suzanne Richardson,” I said. “Do you know her?”

“I did. Once.”

It sounded to me as though, if they'd known each other in the past, they hadn't parted on good terms. I changed the subject. “Are you coming to book club tomorrow? Did you read the book?”

She turned back to me. “Yes, I did. I hope to make it. You know how much I love the book club. But they laid off two more of the maids and that means more work for the rest of us. Then I have to get home and make dinner, and . . .”

Since getting the Austen collection, we'd found—to our considerable surprise—a keen interest in the classics among Outer Banks residents and visitors. So far the classic novel reading club had been a great success, and the members had been able to discuss the chosen novels with much argument and enthusiasm.

“I understand,” I said. I tried to like Karen—I really did—but her constant whining put my teeth on edge. Karen usually stayed after book club to help me clean up. But her real purpose, I thought, was to make sure I knew how hard done by she was.

“I'll let you get back to your work.” I hurried after Mom.

She'd left the door open for me, and when I came in, she was standing in front of the French doors. The room opened onto a spacious balcony overlooking the beach and the ocean. People splashed in the waves, relaxed in deck chairs, or strolled along the waterline.

“That was rather rude, wasn't it?” I said. “Karen belongs to my book club and I was going to introduce you.”

“I'm sorry, dear. Perhaps I'm more tired than I realized.” She turned and faced me. “At least the view is as lovely as I remember. Let's go down for a drink. I'll unpack later.”

“You have to drive me back to the library.”

“One glass won't hurt.”

“I guess. If you want, I can take your car and get someone to come back with me to drop it off later.” My
mom wasn't much of a drinker, so I had no problem with her having one now if she wanted. As long as she didn't try to drive.

She shrugged.

I looked at her closely. A heaviness I'd never seen before lay behind her eyes. “Are you okay, Mom?”

“Perfectly. Why wouldn't I be, dear? It's been a long day. Perhaps I'll have an early dinner tonight. You will join me, of course.”

“Sorry, but I can't. I'm going out with Josie and some of her friends.”

“You can cancel that.”

“I'd rather not. You and I have lots of time to spend together. Why don't you come to my book club tomorrow night? You'll enjoy it. We're reading
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“Perhaps. Actually, Lucille, darling, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about. Let's go down to the lounge and have a little chat.”

Oh dear.

The lobby bar was filling up with new arrivals, but we were shown to a quiet corner by the window. We settled into two wingback chairs covered in pink chintz. A dark stain marked the back of Mom's chair and I expected her to refuse to sit there, but she didn't even seem to notice. We admired the view while we waited for the waitress to arrive. A man dressed in overalls and a large straw hat was sweeping sand off the boardwalk, collecting plant refuse, and tossing it into a bucket at his feet.

“The hotel might be falling down around our ears,” Mom said, “but if they can keep the grounds looking good, I'll continue to come here.”

“Good afternoon, ladies. Can I get you something to drink?” A smiling waitress appeared at our table. She put down coasters and cocktail napkins.

Mom ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio and I asked for hot tea.

“If I remember correctly,” Mom said when the waitress had bustled off, “they used to serve mixed nuts with the drinks in this hotel.”

I glanced around. None of the other tables had small bowls. “Times change.”

“Rarely for the better,” Mom said. “Speaking of which, Ricky is simply beside himself.”

I snorted. Finally, we had arrived at the true reason for this visit.

“My dear, he wants me to speak to you.”

“How long are you staying?” I asked, choosing to ignore her last comment.

“A few days.”

“That's fine,” I said. “It's nice to see you. Why don't we invite Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos to dinner one night? Did you know that Josie's boyfriend has opened his own restaurant? We can go there. He's having the official grand opening week after next, but the restaurant's already doing well. Josie's bakery's doing great, too. Every time I go, she's got a line out the door.”

Josie was my cousin, Ellen and Amos's daughter, and one of my very favorite people.

“Lucille, we need to talk.”

“No, Mom. We don't. And we aren't going to.”

“You're making a terrible mistake.”

I pushed my chair back and stood up. “If I am, I'll live with it. You enjoy your wine. I'll take your car and have
someone help me drop it off before the library opens tomorrow morning. If you want, phone Aunt Ellen about that dinner.”

Mom let out a long sigh. “Very well, dear. I'll say no more. Sit down and have your tea.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

The waitress brought our drinks and I took my seat. I had won the battle. But the war, I feared, was going to be a long one.

Mom chatted about the perilous state of my second brother's marriage; gave me the news from the country club; made a few nasty digs at Evangeline, wife of my dad's business partner; and debated going to Paris in the fall. I listened to her and thought that (other than trips to Paris) she led a boring and lonely life. A life that she was determined to see me re-create with Richard Eric Lewiston III, son of the aforementioned Evangeline and Richard Eric Lewiston Jr., my dad's law partner. That neither Ricky, as he was generally known, nor I was all that keen on getting married was irrelevant to Mom's plans.

Mom had two glasses of wine and I asked for a fresh pot of tea. It was coming up to six o'clock when I said I had to get home to have a quick bite before meeting Josie.

“No need to do that,” Mom said. “You can have something here.” She picked up the bar menu that had been left on the table, waved the waitress over, and ordered a plate of bruschetta and one of calamari.

“And another one of these, please,” she said, lifting her glass.

Three glasses of wine was pretty much unheard-of in my mother's daily life. She must have noticed my expression because she said, “I am on vacation, dear.” I
wondered if there was another reason for this visit besides trying to drag me off home. Could there be trouble in my parents' marriage? For as long as I could remember, my mom and dad had lived together in a state of mild contempt. She had her tennis lessons and her country club friends; he had his business acquaintances and golf partners. They went to public functions together, holding hands and smiling affectionately at each other. At home, he escaped behind the closed doors of his den, where he disappeared into a cloud of cigar smoke, a glass of expensive whiskey resting on the table beside him, while she watched TV or went to bridge parties. Separate bedrooms, separate lives.

It had always been that way. I don't recall ever hearing a word of affection pass between my parents. But they must have had
some
romantic moments; I'm the youngest of four children.

At quarter to seven I pushed my chair back. “Gotta go, Mom.”

“I'll walk you out.” She wobbled only slightly as she stood up.

While we'd chatted, the lounge had filled with predinner drinkers. The van load of Japanese tourists were taking pictures of one another standing by the windows or posing with a potted plant.

A man, somewhat overweight, with a bulbous nose in a ruddy face and a greasy comb-over, was coming into the room as we left. He wore a dark suit with a name badge that said
GEORGE, MANAGER
. He stepped aside to let us pass.

“I think I'll go to my room and read for a while before sleep,” Mom said. “Scarcely seven o'clock and I'm exhausted.”

“Sue?” the man said.

She turned to him. “Yes?”