Page 11 of True Believer

"Nope," she said. "Lived there with my boyfriend for almost a year. He worked for Morgan Stanley while I interned in the NYU library."

"I can't believe this . . ."

"What? That I lived in New York and left? Or that I lived near you? Or that I lived with my boyfriend?"

"All of it," he said. "Or none of it. I'm not sure." He was trying to fathom the thought of this small-town librarian living in his neighborhood. Noticing his expression, she had to laugh. "You're all alike, you know that?" she said.

"Who?"

"People who live in the city. You live your life thinking that there's no place in the world as special as New York and that no place else has anything to offer."

"You're right," Jeremy admitted. "But that's only because the rest of the world pales in comparison."

Glancing over at him, she made a face that clearly telegraphed, You didn't just say what I think you said, did you?

He shrugged, acting innocent. "I mean, come on . . . Greenleaf Cottages can't exactly compare to the Four Seasons or the Plaza, can it? I mean, even you've got to admit that."

She bristled at his smug attitude and began to walk even faster. She decided then and there that Doris didn't know what she was talking about.

Jeremy, however, wouldn't let it go. "Come on . . . admit it. You know I'm right, don't you?"

By that point, they'd reached the front door of the library, and he held it open for her. Behind them, the elderly woman who worked in the lobby was watching them intently. Lexie held her tongue until she was just outside the door, then she turned on him.

"People don't live in hotels," she snapped. "They live in communities. And that's what we have here. A community. Where people know and care about each other. Where kids can play at night and not worry about strangers."

He raised his hands. "Hey," he said, "don't get me wrong. I love communities. I lived in one growing up. I knew every family in my neighborhood by name, because they'd lived there for years. Some of them still do, so believe me, I know exactly how important it is to get to know your neighbors, and how important it is for parents to know what their kids are doing and who they're hanging out with. That's the way it was for me. Even when I was off and about, neighbors would keep tabs on us. My point is that New York City has that, too, depending on where you live. Sure, if you live in my neighborhood, it's filled with a lot of young career people on the move. But visit Park Slope in Brooklyn or Astoria in Queens, and you'll see kids hanging out in the parks, playing basketball and soccer, and pretty much doing the same thing that kids are doing here."

"Like you've ever thought about things like that."

She regretted the sharpness in her tone the moment she lashed out at Jeremy. He, however, seemed unfazed.

"I have," he said. "And believe me, if I had kids, I wouldn't live where I do. I have a ton of nephews and nieces who live in the city, and every one of them lives in a neighborhood with lots of other kids and people watching out for them. In many ways, it's a lot like this place."

She said nothing, wondering if he was telling the truth.

"Look," he offered, "I'm not trying to pick a fight here. My point is simply that kids turn out okay as long as the parents are involved, no matter where they live. It's not like small towns have a monopoly on values. I mean, I'm sure if I did some digging, I'd find lots of kids that were in trouble here, too. Kids are kids, no matter where they live." He smiled, trying to signal that he didn't take what she'd said personally. "And besides, I'm not exactly sure how we got on the subject of kids, anyway. From this point on, I promise not to mention it again. All I was trying to say was that I was surprised that you lived in New York and only a couple of blocks from me." He paused. "Truce?"

She stared at him before finally releasing her breath. Maybe he was right. No, she knew he was right. And, she admitted, she'd been the one who escalated the whole thing. Muddled thoughts can do that to a person. What on earth was she getting herself into here?

"Truce," she finally agreed. "On one condition."

"What's that?"

"You have to do the driving. I didn't bring a car."

He looked relieved. "Let me find my keys."

Neither was particularly hungry, so Lexie directed Jeremy to a small grocery store, and they emerged a few minutes later with a box of crackers, some fresh fruit, various kinds of cheese, and two bottles of Snapple.

In the car, Lexie set the food at her feet. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to see?" Lexie asked.

"Riker's Hill. Is there a road that leads to the top?"

She nodded. "It's not much of a road. It was originally used for logging, but now it's mainly deer hunters. It's rough, though--I don't know if you want to bring your car up there."

"No big deal. It's a rental. And besides, I'm getting used to bad roads around here."

"Okay," she said, "but don't say I didn't warn you."

Neither said much as they headed out of town, past Cedar Creek Cemetery and over a small bridge. The road was soon lined with ever-thickening groves of trees on both sides. The blue sky had given way to an expanse of gray, reminding Jeremy of winter afternoons much farther north. Occasionally, flocks of starlings broke into flight as the car passed, moving in unison as if tethered together by string.

Lexie was uneasy in the silence, and so she began describing the area: real estate projects that had never come to fruition, the names of trees, Cedar Creek when it could be seen through the thicket. Riker's Hill loomed off to the left, looking gloomy and forbidding in the muted light.

Jeremy had driven this way after leaving the cemetery the first time and had turned around about here. It had been just a minute or so too soon, he learned, because she told him to turn at the next intersection, which seemed to loop around toward the rear of Riker's Hill. Leaning forward in her seat, she peered out the windshield.

"The turn is just up ahead," she said. "You might want to slow down."

Jeremy did, and as she continued to stare, he glanced over at her, noting the slight indentation of a frown line between her eyebrows.

"Okay . . . there," she said, pointing.

She was right: it wasn't much of a road. Gravel and rutted, kind of like the entrance to Greenleaf, but worse. Exiting the main road, the car began to lurch and bounce. Jeremy slowed even more.

"Is Riker's Hill state property?"

She nodded. "The state bought it from one of the big timber companies--Weyerhaeuser or Georgia-Pacific or something like that--when I was a little girl. Part of our local history, you know. But it's not a park or anything. I think there were plans to make it into a campground at one time or another, but the state's never gotten around to it."

Loblolly pines closed in as the road narrowed, but the road itself seemed to improve as they moved higher, following an almost zigzag pattern to the top. Every now and then, a trail could be spotted, which he assumed was used by hunters.

In time, the trees began to thin and the sky became more noticeable; as they neared the crest, the vegetation looked more weathered, then almost devastated. Dozens of trees had snapped in half; less than a third still seemed to be standing upright. The incline grew less steep, then flattened out as they neared the top. Jeremy pulled over to the side. Lexie motioned for him to turn off the engine, and they stepped out of the car.

Lexie crossed her arms as they walked. The air seemed colder up here, the breeze wintry and stinging. The sky seemed closer as well; clouds were no longer featureless, but twisting and curling into distinctive shapes. Down below, they could see the town, rooftops clustered together and perched along straight roads, one of which led to Cedar Creek Cemetery. Just beyond the town, the ancient, brackish river looked like flowing iron. He spotted both the highway bridge and a picturesque railroad trestle that rose high behind it as a red-tailed hawk circled overhead. Looking closely, Jeremy could just make out the tiny shape of the library and could even spot where Greenleaf was, though the cottages were lost in their surroun

dings.

"The view is amazing," he finally said.

Lexie pointed toward the edge of town and helped him zero in on where to look. "See that little house over there? Kind of off to the side, near the pond? That's where I live now. And over there? That's Doris's place. It's where I grew up. Sometimes when I was little, I'd stare toward the hill imagining that I could see myself staring down from up here."

He smiled. The breeze tossed her hair as she went on.

"As teenagers, my friends and I would sometimes come up here, and we'd stay for hours. During the summer, the heat makes the house lights twinkle, almost like stars. And the lightning bugs--well, there are so many in June that it almost looks like there's another town in the sky. Even though everyone knew about this place, it wasn't ever too crowded up here. It was always like a secret place that my friends and I could share."

She paused, realizing that she felt strangely nervous. Though why she should be nervous was beyond her.

"I remember this one time when a big thunderstorm was expected. My friends and I got one of the boys to drive us up here in his truck. You know, one of those big-tired things that could make it down the Grand Canyon, if need be. So we all came up here to watch the lightning, expecting to see it flickering in the sky. We didn't stop to consider that we'd put ourselves at the highest spot in any direction. When the lightning started, it was beautiful at first. It would light up the sky, sometimes with a jagged flash, other times almost like a strobe light, and we'd count out loud until the thunder boomed. You know, to see how far away the lightning was. But the next thing we knew, the storm was on us. I mean, the wind was blowing so hard that the truck was actually rocking, and the rain made it impossible to see anything. Then the lightning started striking the trees around us. Gigantic bolts came down from the sky so close that the ground would tremble, and then the tops of pines would just explode into sparks."

As she spoke, Jeremy studied her. It was the most she'd said about herself since they'd met, and he tried to imagine what her life was like back then. Who was she in high school? One of the popular cheerleaders? Or one of the bookish girls, who spent her lunches in the library? Granted, it was ancient history--I mean, who cared about high school?--but even now, when she was lost in the memories, he wasn't quite able to put his finger on who she'd been.

"I'll bet you were terrified," he said. "Lightning bolts can reach fifty thousand degrees, you know." He glanced at her. "That's ten times hotter than the surface of the sun."

She smiled, amused. "I didn't know that. But you're right--I don't think I've ever been so terrified in my entire life."

"So what happened?"

"The storm passed as they always do. And once we collected ourselves, we drove back home. But I remember Rachel was holding my hand so hard that she left fingernail marks in my skin."

"Rachel? That wouldn't happen to be the waitress at Herbs, would it?"

"Yeah, that's the one." Crossing her arms, she looked over at him. "Why? Did she put the move on you at breakfast this morning?"

He shifted from one foot to the other. "Well, I wouldn't call it that. She just seemed a little . . . forward is all."

Lexie laughed. "It doesn't surprise me. She's . . . well, she's Rachel. She and I were best friends growing up, and I still think of her as a sister of sorts. I suppose I always will. But after I went off to college and New York . . . well, it wasn't the same after I got back. It just changed, for lack of a better word. Don't get me wrong--she's a sweet girl and she's a lot of fun to spend time with and she hasn't got a mean bone in her body, but . . ."

She trailed off. Jeremy looked at her closely.

"You see the world differently these days?" he suggested.

She sighed. "Yeah, I suppose that's it."

"I think it happens to everyone as they grow up," Jeremy responded. "You find out who you are and what you want, and then you realize that people you've known forever don't see things the way you do. And so you keep the wonderful memories, but find yourself moving on. It's perfectly normal."

"I know. But in a town this size, it's a little harder to do. There are only so many people in their thirties here, and even fewer who are still single. It's kind of a small world down here."

He nodded before breaking into a smile. "Thirties?"

She suddenly remembered that he'd been trying to guess her age yesterday.

"Yep," she said with a shrug. "Getting old, I guess."

"Or staying young," he countered. "That's how I think of myself, by the way. Whenever I get worried about aging, I just start wearing my pants lower, flash the waistband of my boxers, wear my ball cap backward, and walk around the mall listening to rap."

She gave an involuntary giggle at the image. Despite the chill in the air, she felt warm with the recognition, unexpected and yet strangely inevitable, that she was enjoying his company. She wasn't sure she liked him yet--in fact, she was pretty sure she didn't--and for a moment, she struggled to reconcile the two feelings. Which meant, of course, that the whole subject should best be avoided. She brought a finger to her chin. "Yes, I can see that. You do seem to regard personal style as important."

"Without a doubt. Why, just yesterday, in fact, people were particularly impressed with my wardrobe, including you."

She laughed, and in the ensuing silence, she glanced at him. "I'll bet you travel a lot for your job, don't you?" she asked.

"Maybe four or five trips a year, each lasting a couple of weeks."

"Have you ever been in a town like this?"

"No," he said, "not really. Every place I go has its own charms, but I can say with all honesty that I've never been to a place like this. How about you? Other than New York, I mean."

"I've been to UNC, in Chapel Hill, and spent a lot of time in Raleigh. And I've been to Charlotte, too, when I was in high school. Our football team made the state championship my senior year, so pretty much everyone in town made the road trip. Our convoy stretched four miles down the highway. And Washington, D.C., on a field trip when I was little. But I've never been overseas or anything like that."

Even as she spoke, she knew how small her life would seem to him. Jeremy, as if reading her mind, flashed a hint of a smile.

"You'd like Europe. The cathedrals, the gorgeous countryside, the bistros and city squares. The relaxed lifestyle . . . you'd fit right in."

Lexie dipped her eyes. It was a nice thought, but . . .

And that was the thing. The but. There was always a but. Life had a nasty tendency to make exotic opportunities few and far between. It simply wasn't a reality for most folks. Like her. It wasn't as if she could take Doris or take off much time from the library. And why on earth was he telling her all this, anyway? To show her that he was more cosmopolitan than she was? Well, I hate to break it to you, she thought, but I already know that.

And yet, even as she digested those thoughts, another voice piped in, telling her that he was trying to flatter her. He seemed to be saying that he knew she was different, more worldly, than he'd expected her to be. That she could fit in anywhere.

"I've always wanted to travel," she admitted, sort of hedging the conflicting voices in her head. "It must be nice, having that chance."

"It is, at times. But believe it or not, what I most enjoy is meeting new people. And when I look back on the places I've gone, more often than not I see faces, not things."

"Now you're sounding like a romantic," she said. Oh, he was difficult to resist, this Mr. Jeremy Marsh. First the ladies' man and now the great altruist; well traveled but still grounded; worldly but still cognizant of the things that really mattered. No matter whom he met or where he was, she had no doubt that he had an innate ability to make others--especially women--feel as if he was in kinship with them. Which, of course, led directly back to her first impression of him.

"Maybe I am a romantic," he said, glancing over at her.

"You know what I liked about New York?" she asked, changing the subject.

He w

atched her expectantly.

"I liked the fact that there was always something happening. There were always people hurrying down the sidewalks and cabs buzzing by, no matter what time it was. There was always someplace to go, something to see, a new restaurant to try. It was exciting, especially to someone who'd grown up here. Like going to Mars, almost."

"Why didn't you stay?"

"I suppose I could have. But it wasn't the place for me. I guess you might say that my reason for going there at all kind of changed. I went to be with someone."

"Ah," Jeremy said. "So you'd followed him up there?"

She nodded. "We met in college. He seemed so . . . I don't know . . . perfect, I guess. He'd grown up in Greensboro, came from a good family, was intelligent. And really handsome, too. Handsome enough to make any woman ignore her best instincts. He looked my way, and the next thing I knew I was following him up to the city. Couldn't help myself."

Jeremy squirmed. "Is that right?"

She smiled inwardly. Men never wanted to hear how handsome other men were, especially if the relationship had been serious.

"Everything was great for a year or so. We were even engaged." She seemed lost in thought before she let out a deep breath. "I took an internship at the NYU library, Avery went to work on Wall Street, and then one day I found him in bed with one of his co-workers. It kind of made me realize that he wasn't the right guy, so I packed up that night and came back here. After that, I never saw him again."

The breeze picked up, sounding almost like a whistle as it rushed up the slopes, and smelling faintly of the earth.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, wanting to change the subject again. "I mean, it's nice visiting with you out here, but if I don't get some nourishment, I tend to get grumpy."

"I'm starved," he said.

They made their way back to the car and divided up the lunch. Jeremy opened the box of crackers on the front seat. Noticing that the view wasn't much, he started the car, maneuvered around the crest, then--angling the car just right--reparked with a view of the town again.

"So you came back here and began working at the library, and . . ."

"That's it," she said. "That's what I've been doing for the last seven years."

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