eremy glanced at his watch as he stood on the porch at Herbs, waiting for Alvin to finish his conversation with Rachel. Alvin was giving it his best shot, and Rachel seemed to be in no rush to say good-bye, which normally would have been considered a good omen. Yet, to Jeremy’s eye, Rachel seemed less interested in Alvin than in simply being polite, and Alvin wasn’t reading her cues. Then again, Alvin always had trouble reading cues.

When Alvin and Rachel finally parted, Alvin joined Jeremy, a big grin on his face, as if he’d already forgotten about the events of last night. Which he probably had.

“Did you see that?” he whispered when he was close. “I think she likes me.”

“What’s not to like?”

“Exactly my point,” he agreed. “Man, she’s something. I love the way she talks. It’s so . . . sexy.”

“You think everything is sexy,” Jeremy observed.

“That’s not true,” he protested. “Only most things.”

Jeremy smiled. “Well, maybe you’ll see her tonight at the dance. We might be able to drop in before we head out to film again.”

“There’s a dance tonight?”

“At the old tobacco barn. I hear the whole town turns out. I’m sure she’ll be there.”

“Good,” Alvin said, stepping off the porch. But then, almost to himself, he added, “I wonder why she didn’t mention it.”

Rachel absently leafed through her order tickets, as she watched Alvin leave the restaurant with Jeremy.

She’d been a little standoffish when he first took a seat beside her at Lookilu, but once he mentioned what he was doing in town and that he knew Jeremy, they struck up a conversation, and he spent most of the next hour telling her about New York. He made it sound like paradise itself, and when she mentioned that she hoped to take a trip there someday, he’d scribbled his phone number on the cover of her notepad and said to give him a call. He’d even promised to get her tickets to the Regis and Kelly show if she wanted.

As flattering as the gesture was, she knew she wouldn’t call. She’d never been too keen on tattoos, and though she hadn’t had much luck with men over the years, she had long made it a point never to date someone who had more piercings in his ear than she did. But that wasn’t her only reason for her lack of interest, she had to admit; Rodney also had something to do with it.

Rodney often visited the Lookilu to make sure that no one would try to drive while inebriated, and pretty much everyone who spent any time there knew there was a chance that he’d be dropping in sometime during the night. He’d move around the bar, say hello to various folks, and if he got the feeling that you were too far gone, he’d let you know what he was thinking and mention that he’d be watching for your car later. While it sounded intimidating—and probably was if you were drinking too much—he’d also add that he’d be happy to drive you home. It was his way of keeping drunks off the road, and in the past four years, he hadn’t needed to make a single arrest. Even the owner of the Lookilu didn’t mind him coming in anymore; oh, he’d moaned about the thought of a deputy patrolling the lounge in the beginning, but since no one seemed to mind, he’d gradually come to accept it, and he’d even begun calling Rodney when he thought there was someone in the bar who needed a ride.

Last night, Rodney had come in like he always did, and it didn’t take long for him to spot Rachel sitting at the bar. In the past, he usually smiled and would come over to visit, but this time, when he saw her with Alvin, there was a moment when she thought he looked almost hurt. It was an unexpected reaction, but almost as quickly as it appeared, it passed, and all of a sudden, he looked angry. In a way, it seemed almost as if he were jealous, and she supposed that was the reason she left the bar right after he did. During the ride home, she kept replaying the scene, trying to figure out if she’d really seen what she had, or whether she’d simply been imagining it. Later, when she was lying in bed, she concluded that she wouldn’t have been upset at all if Rodney had been jealous.

Maybe, she thought, there was hope for them yet.

After picking up Alvin’s car, which had remained parked on the street near Lookilu, Jeremy and Alvin drove to Greenleaf. Alvin took a quick shower, Jeremy threw on a change of clothes, and the two of them spent the next couple of hours going over what Jeremy had learned. For Jeremy, it was a method of escape; concentrating on work was the only way he knew to keep himself from worrying about Lexie.

Alvin’s tapes were as extraordinary as he’d promised, especially when compared with the ones Jeremy had shot. Their clarity and crispness, combined with slow-motion playback, made it easy to pick out details that Jeremy had missed in the rush of the moment. Even better, there were a few frames that Jeremy could isolate and freeze, which he knew would help viewers understand what was actually being shown.

From there, Jeremy walked Alvin through the historic time line using the references he’d found to interpret what was being seen. But as Jeremy continued to lay out the proof in intricate detail— all three versions of the legend; maps, notes on quarries, water tables, and schedules; various construction projects; and the detailed aspects of refracted light—Alvin began to yawn. He’d never been interested in the nitty-gritty of Jeremy’s work, and he finally convinced Jeremy to drive him across the bridge to the paper mill so he could see the place himself. They spent a few minutes looking around the yard, watching timber being loaded onto platforms, and on their way back through town, Jeremy pointed out where they’d be filming later. From there, they headed to the cemetery so Alvin could get some footage during the daytime.

Alvin set up the camera in various locations while Jeremy paced on his own, the stillness of the cemetery forcing his thoughts back to Lexie and his worries about her. He remembered their night together and tried once again to understand what had made her rise from the bed in the middle of the night. Despite her denials, he knew she was feeling regret, maybe even remorse, about what had happened, but even that didn’t make sense to him.

Yes, he was leaving, but he’d told her repeatedly that they would find a way to make it work. And yes, it was true that they didn’t know each other well, but considering the short time they’d been together, he’d learned enough to know that he could love her forever. All they needed was a chance.

But Alvin, he thought, had been right. Whatever her concerns about Doris, her behavior this morning suggested that she’d been looking for an excuse to get away from him. What he wasn’t sure of, however, was whether it was because she loved him and thought it would be easier to distance herself from him now, or because she didn’t love him and didn’t want to spend more time with him.

Last night, he’d been sure that she felt the same way that he did. But now . . .

He wished they could have spent the afternoon together. He wanted to hear her concerns and alleviate them; he wanted to hold her and kiss her and convince her that he would find a way to make their relationship work, no matter how hard that might be. He wanted to make her hear his words: that he couldn’t imagine a life without her, that his feelings for her were real. But most of all, he wanted to reassure himself that she felt the same way about him.

In the distance, Alvin was hauling the camera and tripod to another location, lost in his own world and oblivious to Jeremy’s worries. Jeremy sighed before realizing that he’d drifted to the part of the cemetery where Lexie had vanished from sight the first time he saw her here.

He hesitated for a moment, a hunch taking root in his mind, then began searching the grounds, pausing every few steps. It took only a few minutes until he spotted the obvious. Making his way over a small ridge, he stopped at the foot of an untamed azalea bush. Twigs and branches surrounded it, but the area in front seemed to have been tended to. Squatting down, he reset the flowers she must have been carrying in her bag, and he suddenly understood why neither Doris nor Lexie wanted people trampling through the cemetery.

In the gray light, he stared at the graves of Claire and James Darnell, wondering why he hadn’t figured it out before.

On the way back from the cemetery, Jeremy dropped Alvin off at Greenleaf for a nap, then returned to the library, rehearsing what he wanted to say to Lexie.

He noticed the library was more crowded than usual, at least on the outside. People were milling on the sidewalk in groups of two or three, pointing upward and gazing at the architecture, as if getting an early jump on the Historic Homes Tour. Most seemed to be holding the same brochure that Doris had sent Jeremy and were reading aloud from the captions highlighting the unique properties of the building.

Inside, the staff seemed to be preparing as well. A number of volunteers were sweeping and dusting; two others were setting out additional Tiffany lamps, and Jeremy assumed that once the official tour began, the overhead lights would be dimmed to give the library a more historic atmosphere.

Jeremy walked past the children’s room, noting that it looked far less cluttered than it had the other day, and continued up the stairs. Lexie’s office door was open, and he paused for a moment to collect himself before entering. Lexie was bending down near the desk, which had been nearly cleared. Like everyone else in the library, she was doing her best to get rid of clutter, stacking various piles under the desk.

“Hey,” he said.

Lexie looked up. “Oh, hey,” she said, standing. She smoothed her blouse. “I guess you caught me making the place look presentable.”

“You do have a big weekend on tap.”

“Yeah, I suppose I should have taken care of this earlier,” she said, motioning around the room, “but I guess I’ve picked up a nasty case of procrastination.”

She smiled, beautiful even in her slight dishevelment.

“It happens to the best of us,” he said.

“Yeah, well, not usually to me.” Instead of moving toward him, she reached for another pile, then ducked her head beneath the desk again.

“How’s Doris doing?” he inquired.

“Fine,” she said, speaking from below the desk. “Like Rachel said, she’s just a little under the weather, but she’ll be up and about tomorrow.” Lexie reappeared, reaching for another stack of papers. “If you get the chance, you might swing by before you head out. I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”

For a moment, he simply watched her, but when he realized the implication of what she was saying, he took a step toward her.

As he did, Lexie moved around the desk, acting as if she hadn’t

noticed, but making sure to keep the desk between them.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

She shuffled a few more items on her desk. “I’m just busy,” she answered.

“I meant what’s going on with us,” he said.

“Nothing,” she said. Her voice was neutral, as if discussing the weather.

“You won’t even look at me,” he said.

With that, she finally looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time. He could sense her simmering hostility, though he wasn’t sure whether she was mad at him or mad at herself. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’ve already explained that I’ve got things to do. Believe it or not, I am in sort of a rush here.”

Jeremy stared without moving, suddenly sensing that she was looking for any excuse to start an argument.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“No, thanks. I’ve got it.” Lexie slipped another stack under the desk. “How was Alvin?” she asked, her voice rising from below.

Jeremy scratched the back of his head. “He’s not mad anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good,” she said. “Did you two get your work done?”

“For the most part,” he said.

She popped up again, trying to appear rushed. “I pulled the diaries out for you again. They’re on the desk in the rare-book room.”

Jeremy gave a weak smile. “Thanks,” he said.

“And if you can think of anything else that you might need before you leave,” she added, “I’ll be here for at least another hour or so. The tour starts at seven, though, so you should plan on being out of here no later than six-thirty, since that’s when we turn off the overhead lights.”

“I thought the rare-book room closed at five.”

“Since you’re leaving tomorrow, I figured I could relax the rules just this once.”

“And because we’re friends, right?”

“Sure,” she said. She smiled automatically. “Because we’re friends.”

Jeremy left the office and made his way to the rare-book room, replaying the conversation in his head and trying to make sense of it. Their meeting hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. Despite the flippancy of her final comment, he hoped that she would follow him, but somehow knew she wouldn’t. The afternoon apart hadn’t helped to mend things between them; if anything, they’d gotten worse. If she seemed distant before, she now seemed to view him as radioactive.

As much as her behavior bothered him, on some level he knew it made sense. Maybe she shouldn’t have been quite so . . . cold about it, but everything came back to the fact that he lived in New York and she lived here. Yesterday at the beach, it had been easy to fool himself with the belief that things would magically work out between them. And he had believed it. That was the thing. When people cared about each other, they always found a way to make it work.

He realized he was getting ahead of himself, but that’s what he did when confronted with a problem. He looked for solutions, he made suppositions, he tried to analyze long-term scenarios, in order to carefully assess the potential outcomes. And, he supposed, that’s what he expected of her as well.

What he didn’t expect was to be treated like a pariah. Or for her to act as if nothing had happened between them at all. Or to act as if she believed that last night had been a mistake.

He glanced at the stack of diaries on the desk as he took his seat. He began separating the ones that he’d already skimmed from the ones that he hadn’t, leaving four to go. To this point, none of the other seven had been particularly helpful—two had mentioned family funerals taking place at Cedar Creek—so he reached for one that he hadn’t examined. Instead of reading from the first entry, he leaned back in his chair and skimmed passages at random, trying to determine whether the diarist typically wrote about herself or the town she lived in. It was written from 1912 to 1915 by a young teenager named Anne Dempsey, and for the most part, it was a personal account of the day-to-day events in her life over that period. Whom she liked, what she ate, her thoughts about her parents and friends, and the fact that no one seemed to understand her. If there was anything remarkable about Anne, it was that her angst and worries were the same ones characteristic of young people today. While interesting, he set it aside, along with the others he’d rejected.

The next two diaries he perused—both written during the 1920s—were largely personal accounts as well. A fisherman wrote of tides and catches in almost minute detail; the second, by a chatty schoolteacher named Glenara, described her budding relationship with a young visiting doctor over an eight-month period, as well as her thoughts about her students and people she knew in town. In addition, there were a couple of entries concerning the town’s social events, which seemed to consist largely of watching sailboats on the Pamlico River, going to church, playing bridge, and promenading along Main Street on Saturday afternoons. He saw no mention of Cedar Creek at all.

He expected the last diary to be another waste of time, but calling it quits would mean leaving, and he couldn’t imagine doing so without trying to talk to Lexie again, if only to keep the lines of communication open. Yesterday he could have strolled right in and said the first thing that came to mind, but the recent zig and zag of their relationship, combined with her clearly agitated state, made it impossible to figure out exactly what he should say or how he should act.

Should he be distant? Should he try to talk to her, even knowing that she was itching for a fight? Or should he pretend he hadn’t even noticed her attitude and just assume that she still wanted to see how the mysterious lights really came about? Should he ask her out to dinner? Or just take her in his arms?

See, that was the problem in relationships when emotion began muddying the waters. It was as if Lexie expected him to do or say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, whatever that was. And that, he decided, wasn’t fair.

Yeah, he loved her. And yeah, he, too, was concerned about their future. But where he wanted to try to figure things out, she was acting as if she was willing to throw in the towel already. He thought again about their conversation.

If you get the chance, you might swing by before you head out . . .

Not, “if we get the chance.” If you . . .

And what about her final comment? Sure, she’d said, because we’re friends. It had been all he could do to bite his tongue at that. Friends? he should have said. After last night, all you can say is that we’re friends? Is that all I mean to you?

It wasn’t the way you talked to someone you cared about. It wasn’t the way you treated someone you hoped to see again, and the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to respond in kind. You’re pulling back? I can do that, too. You want to have an argument? Here I am. He hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. What happened the night before had as much to do with her as it had with him. He’d been trying to tell her how he felt; she hadn’t seemed to want to hear it. He’d been promising to try to make it work; she’d been dismissive of the idea all along. And in the end, she’d led him to the bedroom, not the other way around.

He stared out the window, his lips pressed together. No, he thought, he wasn’t going to play her game anymore. If she wanted to talk to him, fine. But if not . . . well, then, that was the way it was going to be, and honestly, he couldn’t really do anything about it. He wasn’t about to go crawling back to beg and plead with her, so whatever happened next was in her hands. She knew where he was. He decided that he’d leave the library as soon as he was finished and head back to Greenleaf. Maybe it would give her the chance to figure out what she really wanted while letting her know he wasn’t prepared to stick around and be mistreated.

As soon as he left, Lexie cursed herself, wishing she had handled things better. She’d thought that spending time with Doris would have clarified things, but all it had done was to postpone the inevitable. The next thing she knew, Jeremy came waltzing in, acting as if nothing had changed. As if nothing were changing tomorrow. As if he wouldn’t be gone.

Yes, she had known he would be going back, that he would leave her behind just like Mr. Renaissance, but the fairy tale he’d started the night before nonetheless continued to linger, fueling fantasies in which people lived happily ever after. If he could find her at the beach, if he had enough courage to say the things he’d said to her, couldn’t he also find a reason to stay?

Deep down, she knew he was nurturing the hope that she would come with him to New York, but she couldn’t figure out why. Didn’t he understand that she cared nothing about money or fame? Or about shopping or going to shows or being able to buy Thai food in the middle of the night? Life wasn’t about those things. Life was about spending time together, about having the time to walk together holding hands, talking quietly as they watched the sun go down. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was, in many ways, the best that life had to offer. Wasn’t that how the old saying went? Who, on their deathbed, ever said they wished they had worked harder? Or spent less time enjoying a quiet afternoon? Or spent less time with their family?

She wasn’t naive enough to deny that modern culture had its own seductions. Be famous and rich and beautiful and go to exclusive parties: only then will you be happy. It was, in her opinion, a bunch of hogwash, the song of the desperate. If it wasn’t, why were so many rich, famous, and beautiful people taking drugs? Why couldn’t they seem to hold a marriage together? Why were they always getting arrested? Why did they seem so unhappy when removed from the spotlight?

Jeremy, she suspected, was seduced by this particular world, as much as he didn’t want to admit it. She had guessed this about him from the moment they’d met and had warned herself not to get emotionally involved. Nonetheless, she regretted the way she’d behaved just now. She hadn’t been ready to deal with him when he showed up at her office, but she supposed she should have simply said as much, instead of keeping the desk between them and denying that anything was wrong.

Yes, she should have handled it better. Whatever their differences, Jeremy deserved at least that much.

Friends, he thought again. Because we’re friends.

The way she said it still galled him, and absently tapping his pen against his notebook, Jeremy shook his head. He had to finish up here. Rolling his shoulders to ease the tension, he reached for the final diary and scooted his seat forward. After opening it, it took only a few seconds for him to realize that this one was different from all of the others.

Instead of short, personal passages, the diary was a collection of dated and titled essays written from 1955 to 1962. The first had to do with the building of St. Richard’s Episcopal Church in 1859 and—while the site was being excavated—the discovery of what appeared to be an ancient Lumbee Indian settlement. The essay covered three pages and was followed by an essay on the fate of Mc-Tauten’s Tannery, built on the shores of Boone Creek in 1794. The third essay, prompting Jeremy to raise his eyebrows, presented the writer’s opinion as to what had really happened to the settlers on Roanoke Island in 1587.

Jeremy, vaguely recalling that one of the diaries belonged to an amateur historian, began flipping through the pages more quickly . . . scanning the headings, looking through the articles for anything obvious . . . turning the pages fast . . . skimming . . . stopping suddenly when he realized he had seen something and flipping the pages back, only to freeze when he realized that what he’d seen . . .

He leaned back in his chair, blinking as he moved his fingers down the page.

Solving the Mystery of the Lights in Cedar Creek Cemetery

Over the years, some residents of our town have made the claim that ghosts are present in Cedar Creek Cemetery, and three years ago, an article was published regarding the phenomenon in Journal of the South. Though no solution was offered, after conducting my own investigation, I believe I have solved the riddle of why the lights seem to appear at certain times while not at others.

I will say definitively that ghosts are not present. Instead, the lights are actually those of the Henrickson Paper Mill and are influenced by the train as it crosses the trestle, the location of Riker’s Hill, and the phases of the moon.

As Jeremy continued reading, he found himself holding his breath. Though the writer hadn’t attempted an explanation as to why the cemetery was sinking—without which the lights would probably not be visible at all—his conclusion was otherwise essentially the same as Jeremy’s.

The writer, whoever it was, had nailed it almost forty years ago.

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 friends, 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 of

fice 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.”