By Book or by Crook (2 page)

“So, you’re the new one, are you? Let’s have a look at you.”

“Excuse me?” I blinked. A woman was standing much too close, intruding into my private space, staring boldly into my face, her eyes dark with hostility. I’d never seen her before. The amount of
product in her hair, teased and sprayed into a stiff helmet in a shade of red not known to nature, competed with her perfume. Her fingernails were the color of the wine in the glass she gripped in her right hand. Her dress was lower cut than suited her turkey-neck throat and chest and she tottered on stiletto sandals with straps the thickness of dental floss. She had to be well into her sixties, and not going into old age gracefully. She exhaled alcoholic fumes into my face. The party was just getting under way. She must have had a couple of drinks before arriving.

“Diane, I don’t think . . .” Aunt Ellen said.

“I don’t care what you think. A
librarian
. A
young
librarian. Just what we need in this town. Another one of
them
.” She spoke as if “librarian” were another word for “ax murderer.” I had absolutely no idea what she was going on about. I was quite proud to be a librarian.

“At least,” Diane said, with a snort, “she’s not very
pretty
.”

That hit a sore spot. I might not be a beauty like my cousin Josie, but I didn’t consider myself to be a total dog, either.

“I can’t imagine where she got that dress. Her mother’s closet, perhaps?”

Another direct hit. I’d bought this dress especially for this party. It cost considerably more than I could afford, but I wanted to make an impression. Apparently I had. But not the impression I was hoping for. The dress was new, but the clerk in the store told me the vintage look was back in style. It was pale yellow, with a square-cut neckline, close-fitting bodice, tightly cinched patent leather black belt above a
flaring skirt, and a stiff petticoat that ended sharply at the knees. The shoes were also new, of the same color and material as the belt, and turning out to have been a mistake. My aching feet were reminding me that I should stick to ballet flats and sports sandals.

“Diane, you’re creating a scene.” Mr. Uppiton, the chair of the library board, took the woman’s arm.

She shook him off. She took a hefty swig of her wine. “No, Jonathan, you’re the one who made a scene. You think the whole town isn’t talking about you? About how this place, this library, is more important to you than our marriage of thirty years?”

All around us the buzz of polite conversation died as people turned to look. Diane Uppiton’s face was turning as red as her hair and nails. Her eyes filled with water that threatened to spill over and ruin her heavily applied makeup.

In the sudden silence, I could hear a ghost screaming from the depths of a castle dungeon. Or it might have been Charles the cat, expressing his opinion at being locked in the closet.

“Our marriage,” Mr. Uppiton said, with a sniff, “was a mistake from the beginning. I finally came to realize that. I decided to take the blame for its demise myself, to allow you to leave with some medium of dignity. Dignity that you, my dear, clearly have forsaken.”

Stuck-up jerk. He was speaking louder than he needed to, and although he was trying to look concerned, the corners of his mouth were in danger of curling upward. He, I realized, was playing to the audience, and thoroughly enjoying every minute of
it. My sympathy shifted and I felt very sorry for Mrs. Uppiton.

“Our marriage”—the tears began to flow—“was my world. I gave you my youth, my beauty. My life. But you, nothing mattered to you more than this cursed library. Nothing.”

“In a library, at least, one can have silence,” Mr. Uppiton said, with the exaggerated sigh of a martyr. A few people tittered, more in embarrassment than in enjoyment of the joke. But Mr. Uppiton looked pleased with himself indeed.

“Come along, honey.” Bertie plucked the wineglass from Mrs. Uppiton’s fingers and passed it to the closest person. Me.

Unfortunately that had the result of turning Mrs. Uppiton’s attention back to me. “You.” She stabbed one of those potentially lethal nails in my direction. “Stay away from my husband.”

“That’s soon-to-be-ex-husband, I’ll remind you,” he sniffed.

She ignored him. “Do you hear me? I know your kind.”

I refrained from mentioning that about the last person I’d ever want to get close to (shudder) was Mr. Uppiton. The crotchety old jerk, he’d made it plain to everyone who’d listen—and many who didn’t want to—that he didn’t like me and didn’t want me in the job. I was, according to him, a flighty debutante. I figured he meant “dilettante,” but wasn’t about to point out the difference.

“And you,” she said, spraying spittle all over her husband’s face, “you’ll get what’s coming to you. See if you don’t. I’ll dance on your grave yet.”

“Come along now,” Bertie cooed. “Let’s dry those tears.”

“Really, my dear,” Mr. Uppiton sniffed as his sobbing wife was escorted to the ladies’ room. “Credit me with a medium of taste.” I suspect he meant “modicum.” Again, I declined to correct him.

Since starting work here, I’d come to realize that Bertie had eyes in the back of her head. As she led Diane away, without even glancing over her shoulder she shouted, “Charlene, don’t you dare touch that CD player!”

The reference librarian leapt away from the machine, a look of total innocence on her face.

Charles reminded us he was still trapped in the closet.

I
’d been worried about getting to know everyone who was someone at the Lighthouse Library.

Now everyone knew me. Although they all pretended they hadn’t actually been listening to that ugly confrontation.

The partygoers turned back to their drinks and conversation. There was a sudden rush on the bar and the dessert buffet. Mr. Uppiton looked quite pleased with himself, but I sensed the majority of the room was not on his side. Most of them were women of a certain age. The right age to be dumped by a longtime husband in favor of a pretty young girl.

Not that that girl was me.

Mr. Uppiton had been the first to arrive for the reception, and he’d come alone. He was the library chair, and had stalked into the lighthouse as if he owned the place, ordering the lighting in the alcove to be adjusted, demanding that more room for the bar be created, even though we had no place to put the printer. He’d disapproved of the collection of vocal jazz CDs Bertie had selected for tonight’s
background music, and took a stack of Mozart and Beethoven out of his cavernous, ever-present briefcase. Bertie whispered to me that if she’d chosen Mozart, Mr. Uppiton would have produced Diana Krall.

His love of the library, Bertie had warned me on my arrival, was sometimes a bit . . . excessive.

You’d think he and I would get on well. I also loved libraries, and had loved this one in particular since I’d first seen it when vacationing on the Outer Banks. But no, Mr. Uppiton was also a stickler for numbers, and if the library budget didn’t allow for another staff member, no matter how desperately one might be needed, that was all there was to it. That Bertie had found the money to employ an extra staffer through our busiest time of year, the summer, by going directly to the town council, was of no consequence to Mr. Uppiton.

The door opened, bringing in a gust of cold, wet fog, and all thoughts of seeking new employment come fall, of library budgets and board members, even of Jane Austen and that first edition of
Sense and Sensibility
so tantalizingly close, fled.

“Your Honor!” Mr. Uppiton boomed. “So glad you could make it.” He pushed and shoved his way across the room to get to the new arrival. He pumped the man’s hand with an excess of enthusiasm, not giving him the chance to wipe sea spray and mist off his face and hands first. “Welcome, welcome to our little sobriety.”

“Is that anything like a soiree?” Josie whispered to me. “Love, love, love that dress, by the way. It is absolutely perfect on you. Next time you wear it, I’ve got a brooch that’ll be a perfect match. You really do
need to wear bright colors more often, Lucy. You’re a winter, you know.”

“Oh, good. The mayor’s here,” Bertie said. “I was hoping he’d come.”

“What’d you do with Diane Uppiton?” Josie asked.

“Left her reapplying her makeup. I suggested she go home, but she would have none of that. I could hardly tie her up and carry her out the door over my shoulder, now, could I? I’ll make sure she doesn’t try to drive home. Poor thing. Despite her rudeness, I do feel sorry for her.”

I scarcely heard her. I stood, fixed to the spot, as Mr. Uppiton dragged the mayor around the room, introducing him to everyone of importance and ignoring those who were not. That the mayor of such a small town would probably know everyone quite well didn’t seem to matter to our library chair.

“And now how about a look at our piece of resistance?” Mr. Uppiton boomed, once the mayor had a bottle of beer in his hand and had managed to dry off somewhat.

“Your what?”

“He means, of course, the Austen collection,” Bertie said. She held out her hand. “Welcome, Connor. It’s nice to see you.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “It’s a real coup for the library, and for the town, that you were able to get it here, Bertie. My congratulations.”

Mr. Uppiton tried to edge the mayor away from our little group, but Bertie stood firm. “First, I’d like to introduce you to our newest librarian. This is my assistant . . .”

“Lucy,” he said, with a huge smile. “It’s been an awful long time.”

My heart pounded in my chest. Connor McNeil. Even handsomer than I remembered.

“You know each other?” Mr. Uppiton said.

“Sure do. Lucy and I were kids together. Right, Lucy?”

I found my tongue at long last. “I’m surprised you remember me, Connor. I was only a summer visitor and it was a long time ago.”

“I remember all our visitors. Wouldn’t be much of a mayor if I didn’t.” His eyes were the color of the ocean on a sunny day, and as welcoming and friendly. “But you I remember in particular. Very fondly.”

My face has a horrible habit of showing exactly what I’m feeling at any given moment. Waves of heat were rising. My petticoat crinkled noisily as I wiped my palms on my skirt. Josie was looking at me, her beautiful eyes full of questions. Aunt Ellen had a slight smile on her face. Most of the onlookers nodded politely.

Mr. Uppiton chafed at losing his moment in the spotlight. “This way, Mr. Mayor,” he said, extending his arm in a flourish. “Theodore Kowalski, get out of the way and let His Honor have a look.”

Throughout the party, every time I’d glanced toward the alcove, Theodore had been bent over the books, peering through his plain-glass spectacles, ungraciously allowing others close enough to have a look and practically shoving them aside when he figured they’d had long enough. At least he kept the
gloves on and turned the pages carefully and with the reverence they deserved.

Connor’s lips moved. “We’ll catch up later,” they seemed to say. And then he allowed Mr. Uppiton to escort him to the Austen collection.

“There’s a story here,” Josie whispered, “and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

Connor McNeil. The first boy I’d ever kissed. I’d been fourteen years old. The first summer I’d been allowed to visit Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos without my parents or bothersome brothers. A beach party, a roaring bonfire shooting sparks into the night air, laughing kids, waves crashing on the unseen shore, a blanket of stars overhead.

A walk along the beach in the dark. A kiss.

It had been a light kiss, an innocent fourteen-year-old girl and a well-brought-up fifteen-year-old boy.

I went home to Boston the next day, vacation over. But that kiss remained, all these years later, the best kiss I had ever had. I’d spent the whole year dreaming of him and had been shattered the next summer when I came back and heard that his father had found him a summer job in Ocracoke on a fishing charter boat.

Connor had been a cute boy. He’d grown up to be a handsome man. Dark hair, curling now in the damp mist, lovely blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, good skin with a trace of stubble breaking through.

“Lucy?”

I shook my head. “Sorry—what was that?”

“I said, ‘I’m going into the back to replenish the buffet. Do you want anything?’”

“I think I’ll have one of those pecan tarts after all.”
I plunged through the crowd. I like the occasional glass of wine, but tonight I was sticking to mineral water; I knew I needed to keep my wits about me when meeting a room full of strangers. Influential strangers at that. I had nobly kept my distance from the buffet table, but seeing Connor again had thrown me for a loop and I told myself I needed sustenance in order to keep calm. Chocolaty, nutty, gooey sustenance.

Heck, the tarts were quite small. Two wouldn’t hurt. And since I hadn’t had a serving of fruit all day, I’d better take one of the lemon squares at the same time. By the time I finally made up my mind I had a nice little pile of treats on my plate.

I found a place against the wall and stood, munching happily, watching the room. Ronald had been backed into a corner by Mrs. Peterson, who was still talking and gesticulating wildly. Theodore was attempting to shrink his six-foot frame in order to slink around Connor and Mr. Uppiton and get back at the books. Connor was nodding at whatever Mr. Uppiton was saying, and all the while his eyes moved around the room. He caught me watching, gave me an almost imperceptible wink. I ducked my head, heat rushing back into my face. Josie, helped by Charlene, was bringing out more food. Aunt Ellen chatted to a group of Friends of the Library, and Bertie stood by the door, greeting latecomers as they arrived.

Mrs. Uppiton had returned. She’d scrubbed her face, dried her eyes, and slathered on another layer of mascara and eye shadow. She was, I noticed, heading directly for the self-serve bar. Her head was
high and she pointedly did not look at her husband as she passed.

“Nice party,” a deep voice said.

I turned around and came face-to-face with a man I’d noticed when he’d entered the room. Who wouldn’t? Since he’d made a beeline for Josie, I—telling myself I was not at all disappointed—had tried to pay him no further attention.

He held out a massive paw. I choked down a piece of pecan and offered my hand. It was swallowed up, like a minnow disappearing into a whale’s mouth. “Butch Greenblatt,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m . . .”

“Lucy, the new assistant librarian. I made a point of finding out.” His smile was full of white teeth and a healthy dose of humor.

I smiled back.

Josie slid up beside him. She playfully bumped her hip against his, and he put his arm around her shoulders. I tried not to groan in disappointment. Another Josie conquest. Since I’d arrived in North Carolina, we hadn’t had much of a chance to talk, but I’d thought she was dating a chef, some guy named Jake. Apparently Jake, like so many men before him, had been discarded.

“I see you two have met,” she said. “I’m glad.”

I gritted my teeth. Jodie attracted men like her pecan tarts attracted flies if left uncovered on a hot, sunny day. I’d just have to get used to it if I wanted to live happily in the Outer Banks.

She slipped out of Butch’s arm and glanced at the wineglass in his hand. His fist was wrapped around the stem and it looked as if it was about to snap in
two. “I do believe there’s a beer or two in the fridge. Can I get you one?”

Relief crossed his face. “That would be great. Yes, please.”

She laughed. “Be right back.”

He watched her go, a smile on his face.

“You’re good friends with my cousin,” I managed to choke out.

“More than friends, I hope.”

“How nice.” I glanced around the room, seeking escape. Right now, a visit to the dentist would be a welcome escape.

“I’m expecting my brother to pop the question any day now. If he doesn’t, I’m going to do it for him. He’d be a fool to let that girl go.”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah. He’s a cook—a chef, I guess I should say. Back in Nags Head after ten years learning the ropes in New York City. He’s opened a restaurant of his own. Jake’s Seafood Bar. It’s already being called the best fish place on the Outer Banks. Course that’s my mom saying that, but others will be, too, soon enough.”

Josie was back. She plucked the wineglass out of Butch’s paw and placed a bottle of the Outer Banks Brewing Station’s stout in its place. He nodded his thanks.

“The reviews of the restaurant have been great,” Josie said. “We’re so excited! Oops, looks like we’re running out of napkins.”

“Have you been there yet?” Butch asked me.

“I haven’t been much of anywhere. There’s so
much to do. Settling in, getting familiar with the job.”

“Perhaps you’d like . . .”

“Butch, my boy! I’ve something I want to talk to you about. You know that nephew of mine? Keeps getting himself into trouble. I figure you’re the one to give him an awful good talkin’-to. You don’t mind if I borrow this big fellow for a few minutes, do you, little lady?”

Butch threw a smile over his shoulder as he allowed himself to be led away.

I glanced at my watch. Seven forty-five. My feet were killing me, and it felt as if my smile were pasted on my face with superglue. Bertie had said she had an important announcement to make at eight, something to do with the Austen collection. Even I didn’t know what that was. Surely everyone who was interested would be here by now. All the people I’d met since starting the job had arrived, except for . . .

Curses!
As if my thoughts had summoned her themselves, the door flew open, bringing in more cold, damp air, along with the one person I was hoping I wouldn’t see. Louise Jane McKaughnan. Wanna-be librarian. Louise Jane had volunteered at the library a few times, filling in here and there for vacations, and she thought that qualified her for a full-time position. That Louise Jane had neither education in library science nor any experience other than shelving books and checking them out seemed not to matter to her one bit. She wanted the new job, and she had no qualms expressing her displeasure at it being given to—
horrors
—an outsider. I slunk behind a cabinet displaying books of nautical charts and a
scale model of an eighteenth-century sailing ship, wondering whether I could hide out here for the rest of the night.

Until Butch was free, anyway.

Bertie, as could be expected, greeted Louise Jane warmly, as if they had not exchanged bitter words behind the head librarian’s closed office door only this morning. Louise Jane pointedly ignored her, and marched into the room as though she were a general leading her forces into battle.

In her wake followed not an army, but Poor Andrew MacGillacuddy. No one ever called Andrew just “Andrew,” and certainly not Mr. MacGillacuddy. He was always Poor Andrew. For reasons unknown to everyone in town, Poor Andrew adored Louise Jane and trotted in her wake, begging for scraps of attention. Louise Jane treated him with mild contempt, when she could be bothered to notice him at all.

From my hiding place I heard Andrew say, “Can I get you something to drink, Louise Jane?” in a high-pitched, almost pleading voice. Andrew was close to six feet tall, but I’d have been surprised if he weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. Which, come to think of it, he was right now. A lock of blond hair flopped over his forehead and he lifted a hand to push it back. His eyes were a nice shade of pale blue, and would have been attractive if not for the look of intense adoration they had when looking at Louise Jane. Which they almost always did. Then those longing eyes would put a six-week-old puppy to shame.