Booked for Trouble (4 page)

“She hasn't said.”

“What's she want?”

“Me,” I whispered. “She wants me. Back in Boston.”

Josie stopped her work, a lemon square sprinkled
with a dusting of icing sugar in one hand. “Are you considering it?”

“Did Lizzy consider marrying Mr. Collins?” I said, referring to characters in
Pride and Prejudice
.

“Only briefly. Although her mother wanted her to.”

“Exactly.”

Butch pushed between us and reached for a raspberry tart. Josie hip-checked him. “Back off, buster—wait until I'm finished here.” He snatched up the delicate pastry and quickly retreated.

“You know you'll never win,” I said.

“Not when it comes to the Greenblatt brothers.” Josie's almost-fiancé, Jake, was Butch's brother.

Butch grinned and bit into his tart. He looked around the room. “His Honor not honoring us with his presence tonight?”

“He had a meeting,” I said.

“Gee,” Butch replied. “That's too bad.” He gave Josie an exaggerated wink and went to find a seat.

Josie moved away from the table, and the rush to the refreshments began. Grace Sullivan, who was Josie's closest friend and rapidly becoming one of mine, cried, “Let the festivities begin” in her usual flamboyant manner. She greeted Josie and me, whom she'd last seen only the previous night, with a European-style double kiss, one on each cheek. Mrs. Peterson, one of our most enthusiastic patrons, for once not accompanied by some combination of her five daughters, was next to arrive. “Charity is at some silly soccer camp,” she declared to the room. “An entire week wasted chasing around after a foolish ball. As for Primrose, she's feeling unwell. Nothing to worry about, I'm sure. Just the sort of thing young girls get, you know.”

Which I interpreted to mean that the teenage girls were grateful for any excuse not to have to spend their summer evening discussing classic works of literature with people their mother's age. Even I, who'd loved the classics the first time I was exposed to them, could understand that.

My mom and Aunt Ellen chatted happily while everyone helped themselves to refreshments and found seats. The sisters were not close and could go for a year or more without seeing each other, especially now that my siblings and I were older. Aunt Ellen and her husband, Amos, were true Bankers (as longtime locals were sometimes called) and their idea of a vacation was a weekend in Duck or Hatteras. They had built my uncle's law office together, and were both very active in the life of the community. My mom had different goals in life, which was why she left the area, planning to never return. She had obtained most of those goals.

Theodore took the seat on the other side of Ellen and my aunt introduced him to Mom. Ellen said something and Mom threw back her head and laughed. It had been a long time, I realized, since I'd heard my mom laugh with such abandon. She held the Michael Kors purse on her lap and slid her beach bag under her chair. Butch sat beside Mom and joined the conversation.

Everyone except for Karen had arrived and once they were clutching glasses of tea or lemonade and napkins full of pastries, I called the meeting of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library Classic Novel Reading Club to order.

Most of our members had joined the group because they wanted to discover new books and to hear other
people's opinions on what they'd read. Theodore came because he liked to talk about not only the book in question, but every other book of any possible similarity, the social and political issues of the time, the author's life and influences, and anything else he could think of to impress us with his range of knowledge. It was exhausting trying to get him to stick to the topic at hand and not let him dominate the conversation. Tonight he was dressed for book club in his usual wardrobe of three-piece tweed suit, paisley cravat, and gold watch attached by a chain to his vest pocket. He pulled out the plain-glass spectacles he wore for the effect and slipped them over his ears. He was only a year or two my senior, but unlike almost everyone else in the world, he tried to give the impression he was older than he was.

Louise Jane McKaughnan came because she wanted to sit beside Mrs. Fitzgerald, the chair of the library board. At the moment, Charles was curled up in Mrs. Fitzgerald's lap, allowing her to stroke his fur and coo about what a beautiful cat he was. Louise Jane's main goal in life was to work at the library, and she hoped her way in would be through Mrs. Fitzgerald. Louise Jane's second goal in life was to get rid of me.

Louise Jane was still fetching tea and squares for Mrs. Fitzgerald when I asked who'd read the book. Every hand, except for Louise Jane's, as it was occupied with bribes for Mrs. Fitzgerald, went up.

The bell at the front door rang. “Must be Karen,” I said.

Josie jumped up. “I'll get it.” She ran out of the room, and a moment later we could hear the iron stairs clatter as she came back up, accompanied by more footsteps
than I'd expected. To my surprise, Josie was followed by not only Karen but also George, the manager of the Ocean Side Hotel.

“Sorry I'm late.” Karen had changed out of her housekeeper's uniform and was dressed in a loose orange blouse and jeans. As usual, an aura of tobacco smoke hung over her. “I had trouble getting the car started. I don't know what I'm going to do if it gives out on me now. Everything's just so expensive these days. Oh, the raspberry tarts are all gone.” She pouted. “They're my favorites.”

Butch bowed his head.

“Hope you folks don't mind my dropping in,” George said. “Karen here told me about her book club earlier this afternoon, and it sounded real interesting.” He couldn't keep his eyes from wandering to my mom.

When Karen saw Mom, her mouth tightened into a thin line. She plopped herself into the last vacant chair, directly across the room from Mom. My mother suddenly remembered she had something urgent to attend to on her iPhone. She pulled it out of her bag and began pushing buttons and reading the screen, her brow furled with concentration. I didn't bother to point out that cell phones didn't get reception deep inside the thick stone walls.

All the chairs were taken, and George was looking around for someplace to sit. Butch jumped to his feet. “I can stand.”

“I wouldn't want to . . . ,” George said, practically sprinting across the room. “Gee, Sue. I didn't know you'd be here.” George Marwick was one dreadful liar. He was dressed in a sports jacket that was too large for his body and jeans that bagged in the seat. Not a good look. His thin hair was freshly greased and neatly combed over his shiny bald pate.

Butch leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. I was about to suggest he go down to the children's library and get a chair, but when I thought about the tiny little stools, I changed my mind.

We had a successful meeting. I managed to keep Theodore under some degree of control. George hadn't read the book, but at least he didn't ask foolish questions. My mom had read the book, although a long time ago, and she seemed to enjoy the discussion.

“What would you like to read for next time?” I asked once we'd finished dissecting
Pride and Prejudice
. “I've had suggestions for
Jane Eyre
or
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
.”

“Doesn't
Tess
have a murder in it?” CeeCee Watson said.

“Yes, it does.”

CeeCee was the wife of Detective Sam Watson, of the Nags Head Police. She was an avid reader of mystery novels, although her husband claimed to hate them. “Let's read that, then,” she said.

“I don't know,” Mrs. Peterson began. “Is such a book suitable for Primrose and Charity?”

“This is an adult reading group,” CeeCee reminded her. “The girls don't have to come.”

Mrs. Peterson huffed, but made no further objections. Everyone else agreed on
Tess
, the meeting broke up, and most of the group headed off into the night. Josie and Grace left together, laughing at a private joke. Josie carried an empty bakery box. Butch pulled me aside and spoke in a low voice. “Jake's having the official grand opening of the restaurant next Thursday. Will you come with me, Lucy?”

“I'd like that.”

“I am so proud of my older brother, I might just burst.” He grinned and I grinned back. When he walked away, I could see Mom watching me. She did not look happy.

Karen lingered, as she usually did, to help tidy up. Mom stayed to wish me a good night, and George was determined to grab his chance to talk to Mom. She was icily polite, but the expression on her face clearly indicated that she didn't have the least bit of interest in hearing about the joys and challenges of running a five-star hotel. Or why George kept getting divorced. Every time he called her Sue, her face scrunched up as though she were sucking on a lemon. She busied herself gathering up glasses and crumpled napkins.

There were no leftover pastries for me to take upstairs to enjoy later. Drat.

Karen folded the chairs and stacked them in a corner and then we trooped downstairs. High above us, the lighthouse light flashed, as it would all through the night, in its rhythm of 2.5 seconds on, 2.5 seconds off, 2.5 seconds on, and then 22.5 seconds off. Most of the light was directed out to sea, but traces of it leaked into the building. I found the reliability of it extremely comforting. Charles showed off, walking beside us on the iron railing, his fluffy brown tail high. He leapt down when we reached the main floor.

“How about I give you a lift to the hotel, Sue?” George said.

“I have my own car,” Mom said.

“You can come back and get it tomorrow. It'll be safe here overnight.”

“I want to visit with my daughter,” she said. “Good night, George.”

Even he could take that hint, and he left, after suggesting they meet for breakfast in the morning. To which Mom didn't bother to reply.

“Guess I'd better be off, too.” Karen shifted the weight of the cheap brown plastic purse on her shoulder, as though the weight of the world were in it.

Mom coughed. “Karen, I want to apologize.”

Karen's eyes narrowed. “For what?” Instead of simply accepting the apology, Karen was going to force Mom to spit it out. I turned my back and fussed over the dishes.

“I was unpardonably rude to you yesterday. At the hotel. I am sorry. I hope you'll accept my apology.”

With a cry that had me turning around, Karen launched herself into Mom's arms. “Oh, Sue. I can't tell you how happy that makes me. We were such great friends once.” Over the other woman's back, Mom's eyes were large and startled. She made vague patting gestures.

Finally Karen unwrapped herself. She wiped her eyes. “Things are so difficult sometimes. Norm and I broke up—did you know, Lucy? I always said I'd kick the drunken bum out when the kids grew up, but then there were the grandchildren and never enough money. But he lost another job, and I couldn't take it anymore. He had to go.” Karen linked her arm through Mom's. “Why don't you come over to the house tomorrow for dinner? We can have a nice long chat. I can't wait to hear all about your family. You are so lucky, Sue. . . .”

“I'm having dinner with my sister and her family tomorrow.” Mom choked again and said, “How about lunch?”

I gave her a thumbs-up.

“Lunch,” Karen said. “Must be nice to be able to go out for lunch. I only get half an hour at work, and I have
to run errands or call my daughter and make arrangements for the grandchildren, do all the things Norm, my husband, used to do. Not that he ever did much. The drunken bum. But I don't complain. Friday and Saturday are the only days I get off. I don't even get Sundays. Work at the hotel doesn't let up, even for Sunday, you know.”

I followed them through the dark and, except for Karen's droning voice, quiet main room to the front door and locked up after them. Without waiting to see their cars drive away, I switched the last of the lights off and made my way upstairs.

M
y apartment, my beloved lighthouse aerie, was located on the fourth floor. I unlocked the door, and Charles ran in ahead of me straight to the kitchen area, where he exclaimed in shock when he found his food bowl empty. The apartment was tiny, only one small room plus a bathroom, but I absolutely adored it. The single window was a tall, narrow space that gave a million-dollar view over the marshes, past the beach, and out to sea. Set into four-foot-deep stone walls, the window had a bench seat covered in blue-and-yellow cushions, making it the perfect place to curl up with a cup of hot tea and a good book. Whitewashed brick walls curved with the shape of the lighthouse tower. A white daybed, piled high with pillows and matching cushions. Two wingback chairs around a low coffee table. The kitchen contained only a microwave and a toaster oven, so it wasn't good for much cooking. But I wasn't much of a cook, so that didn't really matter.

First things first. I filled Charles's bowl. Charles was the library cat; he was supposed to spend his time downstairs and eat and sleep in the staff break room. But as
soon as I moved in, he had decided he liked my room better.

I loved having his company.

It was scarcely nine thirty and I was exhausted. Mentally more than physically. As I got ready for bed, I thought over the last couple of days. Mom could be prickly, haughty, self-absorbed, but she wasn't a mean person. She didn't exactly ooze friendliness to the hired help, but I had never before seen her behave in the outright rude way she had toward first George Marwick and then Karen Kivas.

Was there something personal about that? They both claimed to have been friends with her in her youth.

Fortunately, things with Karen had been resolved. Karen could play the martyr, but it would do Mom good, I thought, to reestablish some old friendships. I was quite proud of her for climbing down off her high horse and making the effort to be friends again.

As for George, manager, we've all had the experience of trying to get rid of an unwelcome suitor.

I sent a quick e-mail to Jake's Seafood Bar, requesting a table for five for tomorrow night, and then settled into my pillows while Charles curled up at my feet. I took one of the Fixer-Upper mysteries by Kate Carlisle (how could I resist a book with a lighthouse on the cover?) off the night table, and began to read.

*   *   *

Thick curtains cover the single window to keep out the light from the thousand-watt bulb flashing less than a hundred feet over my head, and the first thing I do on waking is pull them open to check the weather.

Today, the yellow ball of the sun was rising over the ocean in a sky of flawless blue. Another perfect Outer Banks summer day. Although here, on a razor-thin strip
of land thrust into the Atlantic Ocean, the weather could, and often did, change dramatically in minutes.

Charles pointed out that his food bowl had somehow become emptied in the night. I fed him, and then got myself groomed and ready for the day. Then, as is my custom, I pulled up a chair to my small table and opened my laptop. I read the local and Boston papers online, enjoying my first cup of coffee and munching on yogurt and granola. At eight thirty, I put the dishes in the sink, told Charles it was time we went to work, and headed downstairs. When I'd worked at the Harvard Library, every morning involved a fight through the commuter traffic. For the improved commute alone, I cherished my life at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library.

I was the first to arrive. I slipped outside before beginning work, as I usually did, to enjoy some sun on my face and get fresh sea air into my lungs.

Two cars were in the parking lot: my Yaris and a scratched, rusting, dusty Dodge Neon several yards farther away. At first I paid the Neon no attention. The lighthouse borders the marshes between Roanoke Sound and the National Seashore. Wooden walkways wind through the marsh, ending at a rough boat dock on the water. Plenty of people come at sunrise, to hike or catch birds beginning their day. It's a popular spot, and those who don't arrive by boat drive.

I greeted the morning with a few yoga moves—as Bertie, who had also become my yoga instructor, had taught me. And then I gripped first one foot behind me, and then the other, practicing my balance and getting the kinks out. It was so delightfully quiet here in the morning. Birds called as they passed overhead and the wind rustled the grasses in the marsh. I heard no voices, unlike
on other mornings when people appeared, laughing and chatting about the birds they'd seen.

I glanced at the Neon.

I'd seen Karen's car only once. I wasn't sure, but it might have been one like this. And in much the same condition.

Was this Karen's car? It was possible.

I hadn't stayed downstairs to watch Mom and Karen drive away last night. She might have persuaded Mom to take her for a spin in the SLK. Maybe they ended up at the hotel, having a drink and chatting about old times.

I swung my arms in the air, breathing deeply. The air was fresh and clean, tinged with salt. Mom wasn't much for the beach. She preferred a hotel pool, with lounge chairs, umbrellas, paying guests, and hovering waiters. I'd talk her into coming to the beach with me on Sunday.

If she was still here. She hadn't said anything at all about going home.

I was about to head back inside when my attention was caught by a group of large black birds sweeping low out of the sky. They disappeared around the side of the lighthouse to be greeted by raucous cawing from their fellows who'd arrived earlier.

Nature was lovely and all that, but it did have its drawbacks. I hoped there wasn't a dead bird or small animal on the property. We got lots of kids visiting. I'd better have a look.

I rounded the corner, holding my breath, prepared to chase off a murder of crows and see something highly unpleasant.

I yelled and waved my arms, and the birds flew away, protesting loudly. A large purse had been tossed to one
side, where it lay in the sunshine. Against the walls of the lighthouse, in deep shadow, I could see something made of denim. I blinked, my eyes focused, and I realized I was staring at legs, human legs, wrapped in jeans.