At First Sight (6 page)

They’d also been shopping for a house, and since Lexie had a pretty good idea of what she had in mind and Boone Creek didn’t have that many houses to begin with, Jeremy figured they would find the right one in a couple of days. If he was lucky, maybe even in an afternoon

He was wrong. For whatever reason, they spent three long weekends walking through every house for sale in town at least twice. Jeremy found the whole situation more disheartening than exciting. There was something about walking through people’s homes that left him feeling as if he were passing judgment, and usually not in the kindest of ways. Which, of course, he was. While the town may have been historic and the homes charming from the outside, going inside inevitably led to disappointment. Half the time it was like entering a time warp, one that led back to the 1970s. He hadn’t seen so much beige shag carpet, orange wallpaper, and lime green kitchen sinks since The Brady Bunch went off the air. Sometimes there were strange odors, a few of which made his nose curl-mothballs and kitty litter, perhaps, or soiled diapers and moldy bread-and more often than not, the furniture was enough to make him shake his head. In his entire thirty-seven years of life, he’d never once considered rocking chairs in his living room and couches on the front porch. But hey, he was learning.

There were countless reasons to say no, but even when they found something that struck their fancy and made them want to say yes, it was often just as ridiculous.

“Look,” he exclaimed one day, “this house has a darkroom!”

“But you’re not a photographer,” Lexie responded. “You don’t need a darkroom.”

“Yes, but I might become a photographer one day.”

Or:

“I love the high ceilings,” she said in wonder. “I’ve always dreamed of high ceilings in my bedroom.”

“But the bedroom’s tiny. We’d barely fit a queen-size bed in here.”

“I know. But have you seen how high the ceiling is?”

Eventually they found a place. Or rather, a place that Lexie loved; he, on the other hand, was still unsure. A two-story brick Georgian with an uncovered porch that overlooked Boone Creek, it also had an interior layout that suited her. On the market for nearly two years, the place was a bargain-by New York standards an absolute steal-but it needed quite a bit of renovation. Still, when Lexie insisted that they walk through a third time, even Mrs. Reynolds, the Realtor, knew the hook was baited and a hungry fish was circling. A thin, gray-haired lady, she wore a self-satisfied grin on her mousy face as she assured Jeremy the remodeling would cost “no more than the purchase price.”

“Great,” he said, mentally computing whether his bank account would cover it.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Reynolds added. “It’s perfect for a young couple, especially if you’re thinking of starting a family. Houses like this don’t come along every day.”

Actually they do, Jeremy thought. This house could have been purchased by anyone in the past two years.

He was about to make a crack along those lines when he noticed Lexie motioning from the stairs.

“Can I walk through the upstairs one more time?” she asked.

Mrs. Reynolds turned with a smile, no doubt thinking of her commission. “Of course, dear. I’ll join you. By the way, are you thinking of starting a family? Because if you are, you’ve got to see the attic. It would make a fantastic playroom.”

As he watched Mrs. Reynolds accompany Lexie upstairs, he wondered if she somehow realized that he and Lexie were already well past the thinking stage.

He doubted it. Lexie was still keeping the pregnancy under wraps, at least until the wedding. Only Doris knew, which he supposed he could live with, except for the fact that lately he’d found himself getting involved in the strangest conversations with Lexie, some of which he would have rather she shared with friends. She might be sitting on the couch, for instance, when she would suddenly turn to him and say, “My uterus will be swollen for weeks after I give birth,” or, “Can you believe my cervix is going to dilate ten centimeters?”

Ever since she’d started reading books about pregnancy, he’d been hearing words like placenta, umbilical, and hemorrhoids far too often, and if she mentioned the fact that her nipples would get sore while breast-feeding one more time-“even to the point of bleeding!”-he was sure he’d have to leave the room. Like most men, he had only the vaguest knowledge about how the whole “child growing inside you” thing worked and even less interest; as a general rule, he was far more concerned about the specific act that set the whole thing in motion in the first place. Now that he wouldn’t mind talking about, especially if she were staring at him over a wineglass in a candlelit room and using her sultry voice.

The point was, she threw out those words as though they were ingredients listed on a cereal box, and instead of getting him more excited about what was happening, more often than not the conversations left him feeling queasy.

Despite those conversations, he was excited. There was something thrilling about the fact that she was carrying his child. It was a source of pride to know that he had done his part to preserve the species, thereby fulfilling his role as creator of life-so much so, in fact, that half the time he wished Lexie hadn’t asked him to keep it secret.

Lost in thought, it took him a second to realize Lexie and Mrs. Reynolds were making their way back down the stairs.

“This is the one,” Lexie said, glowing as she reached for his hand. “Can we buy it?”

He felt his chest puff out a bit, even as he realized he’d have to sell a substantial chunk of his investment portfolio to make this work. “Whatever you want,” he said, hoping she could hear the magnanimous tone he used.

That evening, they signed the papers; their offer was accepted the following morning. Ironically, they would close on the house on April 28, the same day he’d be heading to New York for his bachelor party. Only later did it strike him that in the last month he’d become someone else entirely.

At First Sight

Five

You still haven’t reserved a date at the lighthouse?” Lexie asked.

It was the last week of March, and Jeremy was walking with Lexie toward the car after work.

“I’ve tried,” Jeremy explained. “But you can’t imagine what it’s like trying to get through to these people. Half of them won’t talk to me unless I fill out forms, the other half always seem to be on vacation. I haven’t even completely figured out what I’m supposed to do.”

She shook her head. “It’ll be June by the time you make the arrangements.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Jeremy promised.

“I know you will. But I’d really rather not be showing, and it’s already almost April. I don’t think I can make it until July. My pants are getting tight, and I think my butt is already getting bigger.”

Jeremy hesitated, knowing this was a minefield where he had no desire to tread. In the past few days, it had been coming up with more frequency. Speaking the truth-Well, of course your butt is getting bigger . . . you’re pregnant!-would mean sleeping at Greenleaf every night for a week straight.

“You look exactly the same to me,” he ventured instead.

Lexie nodded, still lost in thought. “Talk to Mayor Gherkin,” she suggested.

He looked at her, keeping his expression serious. “He thinks your butt is getting bigger?”

“No! About the lighthouse! I’m sure he can help.”

“Okay,” he said, stifling his laugh. “I’ll do that.”

They walked a few steps before she nudged him playfully with her shoulder. “And my butt is not getting bigger.”

“No, of course not.”

As usual, their first stop before heading home was to check on how the renovations were proceeding.

Though they wouldn’t officially close on the house until late April, the owner-who’d received the place as an inheritance but lived out of state-was willing to let them begin work on it, and Lexie had attacked the situation with gusto. Because she knew pretty much everyone in town-including carpenters, plumbers, tilers, roofers, painters, and electricians-and could see the finished home in her mind’s eye, she took control of the project. Jeremy’s role was limited to writing the checks, which considering he really hadn’t wanted to be in charge of the project seemed to be more than a fair exchange.

Even though he hadn’t known quite what to expect, it certainly wasn’t this. Entire crews had been working for the past week, and he remembered being amazed at what had been accomplished on the first day. The kitchen had been torn out; shingles were piled on the front lawn, carpeting and a number of windows removed. Huge piles of debris lay scattered from one end of the house to the other, but since then he’d come to believe the only thing the workers did was to shift the debris piles from place to place. Even when he came by during the day to check on the progress, no one ever actually seemed to be working. Standing in circles drinking coffee, maybe, or smoking on the back porch most definitely, but working? As far as he could tell, they always seemed to be waiting for a delivery or for the general contractor to return, or they were taking a “short break.” Needless to say, the majority of the workers were paid by the hour, and Jeremy always felt a tinge of financial panic whenever he headed back to Greenleaf.

Lexie, however, seemed happy enough with the progress and noticed things that he never did. “Did you see they’ve started running the new wiring upstairs?” or, “I see they got the new plumbing routed through the walls, so we’ll be able to put the sink beneath the window.”

Usually, Jeremy would nod in agreement. “Yeah, I noticed that.”

Aside from checks to the contractor, he still wasn’t writing yet, but on the plus side, he was fairly sure he’d figured out the reason. It wasn’t so much a mental block as it was a mental overload. So much was changing, not only the obvious, but little things, too. Like what to wear. For instance, he’d long believed that he had a fairly innate sense of style, albeit one with a distinct New York flair, and his many ex-girlfriends had often complimented him on his appearance. He was a longtime subscriber to GQ magazine, favored Bruno Magli shoes and tailored Italian shirts. But Lexie apparently had a different opinion and seemed to want to change him entirely. Two nights ago, she’d surprised him with a gift-wrapped box, and Jeremy had been touched by her thoughtfulness . . . at least until he’d opened it.

Inside was a plaid shirt. Plaid. Like the kind lumberjacks wore. And Levi’s jeans. “Thanks,” he forced out.

She stared at him. “You don’t like them.”

“No, no . . . I do,” he lied, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “It’s nice.”

“You don’t sound like you mean it.”

“I really do.”

“I just figured you might want to have something in your closet that might help you fit in with the guys.”

“What guys?”

“Guys in town. Your friends. In case . . . I don’t know, you want to go play poker or go hunting or fishing or something.”

“I don’t play poker. Or hunt or fish.” Or have any friends, either, he suddenly realized. Amazing that he hadn’t even noticed.

“I know,” she said. “But maybe one day you’ll want to. It’s what guys do down here with their friends. I know, for instance, that Rodney gets together to play poker once a week, and Jed is probably the most successful hunter in the county.”

“Rodney or Jed?” he asked, trying and failing to fathom spending a few hours with either of them.

“What’s wrong with Rodney and Jed?”

“Jed doesn’t like me. And I don’t think Rodney does, either.”

“That’s ridiculous. How could they not like you? But tell you what, why don’t you talk to Doris tomorrow? She might have some better ideas.”

“Poker with Rodney? Or hunting with Jed? Oh, I’d pay to see that!” Alvin howled into the receiver. Because Alvin had filmed the mysterious lights in the cemetery, he knew exactly whom Jeremy was talking about, and he still remembered them vividly. Rodney had thrown Alvin in jail on trumped-up charges after Alvin had flirted with Rachel at the Lookilu, and Jed frightened Alvin in the same way he frightened Jeremy. “I can just see it . . . sneaking through the forest in your Gucci shoes and lumberjack shirt. . . .”

“Bruno Magli,” Jeremy corrected. At Greenleaf for the night, he was still thinking about the fact that he hadn’t made any friends.

“Whatever.” Alvin laughed again. “Oh, that’s just great . . . city mouse goes country, all because the little woman made him do it. You’ve got to tell me when this happens. I’ll make a special trip down there with my camera to record it for posterity.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll pass.”

“But she has a point, you know. You do need to make some friends down there. Which reminds me . . . do you remember that girl I met?”

“Rachel?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Do you ever see her?”

“Sometimes. Actually, since she’s the maid of honor, you’ll see her, too.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Believe it or not, she’s actually dating Rodney.”

“The muscle-bound deputy? She could do better. But hey, here’s an idea. Maybe you and Lexie could double-date. Lunch at Herbs, maybe a little porch sitting . . .”

Jeremy laughed. “You sound like you’d fit in well here. You know all the exciting things to do.”

“That’s me. Mr. Adaptable. But if you see Rachel, tell her I said hi and that I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”

“Will do.”

“How’s the writing going? I’ll bet you’re getting antsy to chase another story, huh?”

Jeremy shifted in his seat. “I wish.”

“You’re not writing?”

“Not a word since I’ve been down here,” he admitted. “Between the wedding and the house and Lexie, I hardly have a spare minute.”

There was a pause. “Let me get this straight. You’re not writing at all? Even for your column?”

“No.”

“You love writing.”

“I know. And I’ll get back to it as soon as things settle down.”

Jeremy could sense his friend’s skepticism at his answer. “Good,” Alvin finally said. “Now, about the bachelor party . . . it’s going to be awesome. Everyone up here is on board, and as I promised, it’s going to be a night you’ll never forget.”

“Just remember . . . no dancing girls. And I don’t want some lady in lingerie jumping out of a cake or anything like that.”

“Oh, c’mon. It’s a tradition!”

“I’m serious, Alvin. I’m in love, remember?”

“Lexie worries about you,” Doris said. “She cares about you.”

Doris and Jeremy were having lunch the following afternoon at Herbs. Most of the lunch crowd had finished eating, and the place was clearing out. As usual, Doris had insisted that they eat; whenever they got together, she claimed Jeremy was “skin and bones,” and today Jeremy was enjoying a chicken pesto sandwich on pumpernickel bread.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he protested. “There’s just a lot going on, that’s all.”

“She knows that. But she also wants you to feel like you belong here. That you’re happy here.”

“I am happy here.”

“You’re happy because you’re with Lexie, and she knows that. But you have to understand, deep down Lexie wants you to feel the same way about Boone Creek that she does. She doesn’t want you here just because of her, she wants you here because this is where your friends are. Because this is where you feel like you belong. She knows it was a sacrifice for you to move from New York, but she doesn’t want you to think of it that way.”

“I don’t. Believe me, I’d be the first to tell her if I felt that way. But . . . c’mon . . . Rodney or Jed?”

“Believe it or not, they’re good guys once you get to know them, and Jed tells the funniest jokes I’ve ever heard. But okay, if you don’t relax the way they do, maybe they’re not the right ones.” She brought a finger to her lips, thinking. “What did you do with friends in New York?”

Went to bars with Alvin, flirted with women, Jeremy thought. “Just . . . guy stuff,” he said instead. “Went to ball games, shot pool every now and then. Just hung out, mainly. And I’m sure I’ll make friends, but as I said, I’m busy right now.”

Doris evaluated his answer. “Lexie says you’re not writing.”

“I’m not.”

“Is it because of . . . ?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “It has nothing to do with feeling out of place or anything like that. Writing isn’t like other jobs. It’s not just about showing up and going through the motions. It’s more about creativity and ideas, and sometimes . . . well, you just don’t feel creative. I wish I knew how to tap into my creative source whenever I wanted, but I don’t. But if I’ve learned anything about writing in the last fifteen years, it’s that I know the inspiration will eventually come.”

“You can’t come up with an idea?”

“Not an original one. I’ve printed up hundreds of pages from the library computer, but every time I come up with something, I realize that I’ve already covered it before. Usually more than once.”

Doris thought about it. “Would you like to use my journal?” she asked. “I know you don’t believe what’s in it, so maybe you could . . . I don’t know, write an article about your investigation into it.”

She was referring to the journal she’d compiled in which she claimed to be able to predict the sex of babies. Hundreds of names and dates were included in the pages, including the entry that had predicted Lexie’s birth and the fact that she was a girl.

To be honest, Jeremy had considered it-Doris had made the offer previously-but although he’d rejected it initially because he knew her abilities couldn’t be real, lately he’d rejected it because he didn’t want his true feelings to cause a rift with Doris. She was going to be family.

“I don’t know. . . .”

“I’ll tell you what. You can make your decision later, after you’ve studied it. And don’t worry-I promise that I’ll be able to handle being famous if you do end up writing about it. You don’t have to worry. I’ll still be the same charming woman I’ve always been. It’s in the office. Wait here.”

Before Jeremy had the chance to object, she was rising from the table and heading for the kitchen. In her absence, the front door opened with a squeak and Jeremy saw Mayor Gherkin enter.

“Jeremy, my boy!” Gherkin exclaimed, approaching the table. He slapped Jeremy on the back. “I didn’t expect to find you here. I thought you might be out pulling water samples, searching for clues regarding our latest mystery.”

The catfish.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Mayor. How are you?”

“Good, good. But busy. Town business never stops. There’s always so much to do. Barely sleep at all these days, but don’t bother worryin’ none about my health. Haven’t needed more than a few hours of sleep ever since the dehumidifier almost electrocuted me a dozen years back. Water and electricity don’t mix.”