Booked for Trouble (3 page)

“Sue Wyatt?”

“Suzanne Richardson,” she said.

“Wyatt's your maiden name, right, Mom?” I said, trying to be helpful. Mom's birth name was Susan. The family had called her Sue as a child. When she married, she'd subtly taken on what she considered to be the more sophisticated moniker of Suzanne.

The man grabbed Mom's hand, and began pumping it with an excess of enthusiasm. Mom looked as though her fingers had been thrust into a barrel of cold, wet fish. She snatched her hand back.

“It's me,” he said. “George!”

“George? I know several Georges.”

He laughed, trying to hide his embarrassment. “You haven't changed a bit, Sue. I recognized you right away. As beautiful as ever.” Her back stiffened as he ran his eyes down her slim, well-dressed figure. Then he looked at me. “Hard to believe someone this old can be your daughter. Ha-ha.”

For the second time that day, I'd been told how ancient I looked.

For once, Mom didn't look pleased with the compliment. I could tell she didn't have a clue who this man was.

I thrust out my own hand. “Lucy Richardson. Pleased to meet you, Mr. . . . ?”

“George Marwick.” He shook my hand, but kept his eyes on Mom. Not a flicker of recognition crossed her face. His own face fell. “You must remember me, Sue. George. From high school.”

“Oh,” she said, “George.”

The hostess was watching us. I suspected, by the way
her eyes lit up, that George, manager, wasn't all that popular with the staff and she was enjoying watching him being put in his place.

“Took you a minute there, didn't it? That's okay—it's been a long time since we were in school. Gosh, must be ten years now.” He laughed heartily.

“Indeed. If you'll excuse us . . .”

George turned to me. “Your mother and I were engaged. We planned to be married—isn't that right, Sue? She was the one that got away. I've always been sorry about that.” He snatched up her left hand. The giant diamond glittered in the warm lights of the bar entrance. “Gosh darn, I was hoping you were available again.”

My mom might be polite to the hired help, but she certainly didn't allow them to touch her. She pulled her hand away. Her lips were set into a tight line, and her eyes blazed with fury. “I didn't know you
worked
here, George.” Only I noticed the emphasis on the word “worked.”

George kept smiling. “Yep, for about a year now. I've been in Raleigh since college. When this job came up, I jumped at it. Always wanted to come back to good old OBX someday. What about you, Sue? I've been married three times.” He gave me an unattractive wink. “Like I said, I let the best one get away. How about you? Still with that Boston guy you dumped me for?”

“As I said to my daughter,” Mom sniffed, “I am very tired.”

“Sure, sure. We'll catch up tomorrow. I'll call your room. Maybe we can have lunch.”

Mom walked away. I felt that I had to say something to the man. “Nice meeting you, George.”

I don't think he even heard me.

The lobby was busy, new people checking in, some
heading into the lounge or the restaurant, others going out for dinner or a walk along the beach.

“Now I remember George Marwick,” Mom said to me. “One of those odious little boys who used to follow me around at school. He doesn't seem to have changed a bit.” She handed me her valet stub.

“I'll be here at eight thirty,” I said. “Do you want me to park the car, or leave it with the valet?”

“Valet, please.”

“Sure. See you tomorrow, Mom. Aunt Ellen and Josie are in my book club. We can talk about that dinner then.”

She gave me a light kiss on the cheek and I hugged her tightly. She smelled, as she always did, of Chanel No. 5. It's still a scent I associate with love and comfort.

Karen came out of a side room, dressed in her housekeeping uniform, carrying her purse. She was pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the bag, but when she saw us, she stuffed them away and approached with a wide smile. “Sue. How nice to see you. You're looking great. Did you know that your daughter and I've become friends?”

I thought Mom had been less than polite to George, manager. That was nothing compared with the look on her face now. I have said that I love my mother. But at that moment I wanted to slap her. She was shorter than Karen, but managed to look down her long nose at the other woman. The edges of her mouth curled up in the sneer I had last seen when Rachel Ravensburg, who everyone knew had been thrown off the board of the abused women's shelter for embezzling funds, had approached Mom for a donation to the Red Cross. “Karen Whiteside.” Mom didn't bother to lower her voice. “I can't say it's a surprise to see you working as a hotel maid.”

“Mom!”

Karen recoiled. I swear conversation all around us stopped. George, manager, had come out of the lounge and stood watching. The hostess picked her jaw up off the floor. A stately woman, well into her eighties, tittered in embarrassment. Another woman, all gray—gray hair, gray eyes, a severe gray suit, and flat gray shoes—watched, not even pretending not to be listening. Even her frown seemed gray. I wanted to snarl at her to mind her own business, but I refrained.

“I need extra towels in my room,” my mother said. “See to that, will you?”

Karen had approached Mom with a friendly smile and bright eyes. The smile remained frozen on her face, but her eyes darkened. I was reminded of the way the light outside my bedroom window changed when a storm moved in from the sea.

Mom began to walk away.

“I . . . ,” I said.

“My name's Karen Kivas now, not that you care,” Karen said in a penetrating voice. “Sue Wyatt, you were the most ambitious, greedy bitch in school. I'd heard you slept your way into money.” The onlookers, hanging on to every word, gasped. Mom's back stiffened, but she did not turn around. “I still remember things about you, Sue. Things you might not want to get out, now that you're a pillar of respectability. What was it you were accused of? Oh, right, I remember. You were a common thief. And everyone knew it.”

M
om turned a corner and was gone. George rushed over. His face looked like an overinflated red balloon, about to pop. He grabbed Karen by the arm, and pulled her toward the nearest exit. Which happened to be the front door. I ran after them. Connor McNeil, the mayor of our town, stood in the entrance. He had to have heard the whole thing. Connor and I had become good friends; we might even be on the verge of becoming more than just friends. At the sight of him, my humiliation increased tenfold.

“Karen, wait,” I cried. “Please.”

George stopped at the bottom of the steps. He didn't let go of Karen's arm.

“I am so, so sorry,” I said. “I can't believe what my mother said. I'll admit she can be somewhat imperious sometimes. It's just her way. She's . . . insecure.”

“You think?” Karen said with a sneer. “Pardon me, Lucy, but your mother's a nasty piece of work. She always was. I'm surprised you turned out okay.” She pulled her arm out of George's grasp.

“Let's not involve Lucy,” Connor said. “She's not responsible for the actions of her mother.”

“I'm sorry you had to witness that, Mr. Mayor,” George said. “As for you, Mrs. Kivas . . .”

“Forget about it, George,” Connor said. “I'd say Karen was provoked. No need to discipline her if she promises to stay out of Mrs. Richardson's way.”

“As if I have any intention of seeing that . . . woman again,” Karen said.

George hesitated. He'd probably been about to fire Karen on the spot. I knew Karen had recently separated from her husband. She needed this job.

Connor didn't give George a chance to speak. “Good, then we can consider the incident over.”

“As if I don't have enough to put up with,” Karen said, with a heavy sigh. “Good night. See you tomorrow, Mr. Marwick.” She walked away, her back straight, her head high.

George shrugged, relieved to have the unpleasant decision of whether to fire someone taken out of his hands. He barked at the ramrod-straight valet not to slouch and marched back into the hotel.

I waved my ticket at the valet, who took it and went to get the car.

“Valet parking?” Connor said with a grin that made his gorgeous blue eyes dance. He was dressed in a gray business suit, a crisp white shirt, and a red tie. A trace of five-o'clock shadow darkened his jawline.

“Mom's car. She had several of glasses of wine and I don't want her driving. She doesn't drink much, and the wine seems to have gone to her head. That isn't like her. What happened in there, I mean.”

“It's okay, Lucy. We're not responsible for our parents.”

“Then why do I feel so bad?”

“Because we can't help
feeling
responsible for our parents. And all the other people we care about.” His blue eyes always reminded me of the ocean on a perfect day. Connor and I had had a very short, very innocent romance one summer when we were young and I'd been vacationing in Nags Head. He hadn't been around the following year, but I'd never entirely forgotten him. I'd only recently learned that he'd never forgotten me, either, but he'd not tried to find me again, thinking that I wouldn't be interested in a boy from the Outer Banks, since my family had money. He'd done very well for himself as a result of intelligence, hard work, and determined parents. He'd become a dentist and then the mayor.

Connor let out a low whistle as the SLK pulled up with one looking-pleased-with-himself valet behind the wheel. “You're driving that?”

“It's a change from the Yaris, I will admit. I have to go—it's almost seven and I'm meeting Josie. I'll see you at book club tomorrow?”

“I'm sorry, Lucy, but I can't make it. I have a meeting I can't get out of. I loved the book, though. Perhaps you and I can discuss it another time. Over dinner?”

“That would be nice.”

“What are we reading next?”

“I'm going to put it to a vote. Either
Jane Eyre
, for another look at the social restrictions on women of the age, or
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
for a nasty look at the life of women of the age. Feel free to send your own suggestions.”

“I will,” he said. “I gotta run. I'm late.”

We said our good-byes and I drove back to the Bodie Island Lighthouse. I might have enjoyed driving the SLK a bit too much, and I made it in record time.

*   *   *

I quickly changed out of my work clothes into a short blue-and-green skirt, a blue blouse, strappy sandals, and loads of costume jewelry. I remembered to feed Charles, and then headed back into town to meet Josie and some of her friends at a bar featuring live music. Mom hadn't said I
couldn't
take her car out again, so I drove the SLK. Mindful of my responsibilities toward the beautiful car, I didn't dare have a drink, but I still had a lot of fun. Josie's friends were great, and they made room for me in their close-knit circle. We didn't stay late, since Josie started work in her bakery at the awful hour of four a.m. and some of her friends were early risers also. By the end of the night, I realized that I'd learned the secret of attracting male attention. Drive a flashy, expensive, European car. A pack of men of all ages had been gathered around the SLK as I left the bar.

The following morning, I wanted to burrow back under the covers when my alarm went off at eight a.m., but the thought of my cousin's intense schedule kept my hand away from the snooze button. I listened to Charles prowling around the minuscule kitchen, hoping some food might have escaped his bowl, and I rolled out of bed and started to get ready for work. Mom called as I was sitting down to my muesli and coffee. “I'm not feeling too well today, dear,” she said. “Change in the weather, no doubt.”

I thought I showed admirable restraint by not mentioning that several glasses of wine and no dinner will do that to a person.

“As a result, I'm going to have a quiet day and simply
relax. I'll spend the day by the pool, have a light lunch, maybe go for a walk to the pier later.”

“That sounds nice.”

“You can keep the car until it's time to pick me up for your book club.”

“See you then, Mom. Have a nice day.”

In the summer, traffic through the library doors is totally dependent on the weather. It was a beautiful sunny day, and thus we weren't very busy. Ronald is off most Tuesdays, so we don't have children's programs to fill the library with laughter and excitement. It was a good chance to get caught up on paperwork. Shortly before noon, our only patrons were two elderly sisters who never stopped squabbling and Harvey Spineta, a frequent visitor. Harvey had recently been widowed and I guessed that he mainly came to the library for the company. He'd taken his regular spot in a corner near the Austen alcove, and was reading magazines. The front door opened and a woman marched in. “Marched” being the operative word. Her back was ramrod straight and her steps were firm. She wore a gray T-shirt tucked into baggy gray knee-length shorts with a gray belt tied firmly around her thin waist. Her gray hair was tied into a tight knot at the back of her head. She ran her gray eyes over me, sniffed in a show of disapproval, and began studying the room.

“Good morning,” I said. “Are you here to see the Austen collection?”

“No.”

“Oh.” I was momentarily taken aback, but plowed on. “We have a special exhibit for the summer. A full set of Jane Austen first editions. Also a personal notebook of Miss Austen herself. Written in her own hand.” The widower put down his magazine and the sisters stopped
berating each other over some long-ago, and long-forgotten, slight. I got to my feet. “They're in that alcove, over there. Let me show you.”

“I can see it perfectly well. Thank you. Are you trying to find something to do?”

“No.”

“You can get back to your work, then,” she said.

I dropped into my chair.

As he always did, Charles was keeping Harvey company. Maybe the man came here to let the cat curl up on his lap as much as to read. As the woman passed them, walking firmly in her sensible gray shoes, Charles slowly stood up. The hair on his back lifted; he arched his body and hissed.

The woman stopped. “Are you allowed to bring your animal into the library, sir?”

Harvey blinked. “Isn't mine. Library cat.”

The woman threw me a look that indicated the strength of her displeasure. But she said nothing and bent to examine the Austen collection. I went back to work.

She didn't stay long, and left in the wake of the still-squabbling sisters. There was something familiar about her, and I struggled to recall where I'd seen her before. Then it came to me: she'd been in the lobby of the Ocean Side Hotel last night, watching that scene between Mom and Karen. She'd been dressed in an all-gray suit then, too. A Gray Woman.

Not a very friendly one, either. I put her out of my mind and carried on with my day.

At six thirty I went to pick up Mom.

I took the SLK. I put the top down and enjoyed the feel of the salty wind on my face and in my hair. My hair is naturally curly, and it fuzzes into a ball resembling
steel wool when exposed to sea air. But I'm from Boston and after many tearful mornings, I decided that I'd have to live with what I'd thought of as my curse. My mother, of course, has sleek, silky hair. As I might have said, my mother is extraordinarily beautiful. I am not. Josie, in fact, looks more like Mom than I do. And Josie has the added advantage of getting her height from her six-foot father rather than the much shorter Wyatt women.

I'd learned long ago not to wish for what I could never have.

At the lights at Whalebone Junction, a car pulled up beside me. Two young men whistled and waved and gave me thumbs-up gestures. I grinned at them, assuming they were referring to the car, not to me. When the light changed, I pulled away in an impressive display of horsepower.

Not your mother's librarian.

One of my mom's virtues is punctuality. Despite living in a world of the fashionably late, Mom never was able to get rid of some of the fisherman and shop-clerk habits she'd been raised with. She was always where she said she would be, when she said she would be there. Today she was waiting for me on the steps of the hotel. She climbed into the passenger seat and gave me a kiss on the cheek. She carried her Michael Kors purse as well as an enormous canvas beach bag. “What's in the bag?” I asked.

“A scarf in case it's cool later.”

“Mighty big bag for a scarf.”

“We are going to a library. I thought I might check out a book or two. I've almost finished the book I brought.”

I turned the car around, and we headed out of town.

I glanced at the car's clock as I pulled into the library
parking lot. Five to seven. Most of the members of the book club had arrived and were milling about outside, waiting for me. I tried to look nonchalant as I put the roof up on the car. Theodore Kowalski and Butch Greenblatt came over to admire it. “New car?” Butch asked, almost drooling.

“Not for you, Butch,” Theodore said, in the fake English accent he thought made him appear scholarly. “You would not fit.”

I laughed at the image. Butch was a solid, muscular six foot five. A good-looking man in his early thirties with dark hair cut short, chiseled cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes of a deep brown speckled with flakes of gold.

“You'd always have to put the top down,” I said.

He looked genuinely sorry. “I'd still like to take it for a spin, Lucy.”

“If you're good in class tonight,” I laughed, “I might ask Mom to let you drive around the loop.” Meaning the loop that was the end of the lighthouse road. “This is my mother, Suzanne Richardson. She's here for a visit and is going to join us tonight.”

Butch put out his hand and Theodore nodded.

Mom shook, and gave the men warm smiles. “I'm glad you like my car, gentlemen.” She threw me a questioning look that I pretended not to see. Men don't usually join book clubs. And not a classic novel club such as ours. But Theodore had a degree in English lit and was a passionate (although impoverished) book collector, and Butch . . . well, I think Butch came because he liked me. I liked him, too.

Josie and Aunt Ellen waited for us with the group by the door. Mom and her sister exchanged enthusiastic greetings, and Mom gave Josie a big hug, which my
cousin was unable to return because of the tempting-looking bakery box cradled in her arms. I unlocked the library door and we crowded in. I switched on lights and led the way past the circulation desk, through the main hall, and up the twisting, spiral iron stairs. The children's library was on the second floor, and the third level was where we housed research volumes as well as kept a small (very small) meeting room. It was my job to set out the chairs in the third-floor room and lay out glasses and napkins, and I'd done so before going to get Mom.

I glanced around the room as the members of the book club filed in, followed by Charles the cat. Drat, I'd lost Theodore. I'd been warned the day I started working here that Theodore had what Bertie called “wandering hands,” meaning books would sometimes find themselves in his coat pockets, or make their way to the shelves in his home. We kept a small but impressive collection of rare books and old maps in a private room accessible by only the back staircase. The room was kept locked when not in use, but . . .

“Theodore,” I bellowed. “Get up here.”

His head appeared at a bend in the stairs, followed by his long, thin body. “I am coming, Lucy. This is a library. No need to shout.” I didn't see any bulges in his pockets that hadn't been there a few minutes ago.

Mom and Aunt Ellen had taken seats, and (satisfied that Theodore hadn't nicked any of our collection) I helped Josie lay the contents of her box out on the table. Josie whispered to me, “How long's your mom here for?”