by Eva Gates
Who were these people?
“Thank you for your time. We’ll talk again tomorrow afternoon,” Jay said.
Julia smiled at Theodore. “It was nice meeting you.”
He turned the approximate color of a ripe tomato. “The pleasure was all mine.”
“Whatever,” Greg said. He took Julia’s arm. “Let’s go.”
The three library employees and the book collector stood in a circle, watching them leave. The moment the door slammed behind them, I said, “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”
“I have to call Charlene right now,” Bertie said. “She doesn’t have much time.” The library director hurried away.
“Time to do what?” I asked. “Who is that man?”
“Jay Ruddle is a multi-millionaire and an Outer Banks native. He’s lived in New York for a long time, but he’s known to have a keen interest in North Carolina history,” Ronald said.
“Oh. I wonder why he was here.”
“I don’t know, but I can take a guess. His collection of Outer Banks historical documents is, they say, without compare. Charlene will know more, but it’s been rumored that he’s looking for a home for his collection.”
“A home? Like, a library?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. Do you suppose he’s considering giving it to us?”
“Why else would he come here and put Bertie in such a state?”
“Isn’t she charming?” Theodore said.
“Not the word I’d use,” Ronald said. “I like Bertie a great deal, but I’ve never considered her charming.”
“Julia. I meant Julia.”
“Charming. And rich,” Ronald said. “She’s Ruddle’s only grandchild.”
“Totally without pretext or airs,” Theodore said.
“If Greg is Jay’s assistant,” I said, “he might be the one who manages the collection.”
“Well, I, for one, didn’t like him,” Theodore said. “He’s a nasty piece of work. You can’t trust those handsome men with their fake charm further than you can throw them.”
Chapter Two
“That would be a heck of a coup,” Stephanie Stanton said. “Make sure you have a good lawyer go over the papers.”
“A good lawyer?” I said. “How about you? You’re a good lawyer.”
“Not me. Not my field. I can recommend someone, if you like.”
Steph was one of my best friends. Five-foot two, pale-skinned, red-haired, and freckled, she was a defense attorney, junior partner to my uncle Amos, a tiny ball of energy and, sometimes, righteous indignation.
“Early days yet,” I said. “We’re in competition with another institution, or so I was told.” The moment Jay Ruddle left, Bertie had called Charlene to ask her to come into work on a matter of great urgency. When Charlene arrived, still dressed in paint-splattered clothes, we were all called into Bertie’s office, where she told us that Jay Ruddle was searching for a home for his collection, and the Lighthouse Library had made the short list. Charlene was struck speechless.
Jay planned to return tomorrow to continue the conversation, and so Bertie and Charlene would be working long into the night to put a proposal together.
“Steph’s right,” my cousin Josie said. “Families can take strong exception to charitable donations, and the library does not want to get into a public fight.”
Grace nodded. “My mom still talks about when Old Man Farquarson left that patch of undeveloped land for a bird sanctuary, and all the trouble it caused.” Grace Sullivan and Josie had been best friends since kindergarten. I’d been pleased that they’d made room in their friendship for me when I came to live here. Stephanie had joined our circle a bit later, when she returned to her hometown of Nags Head after her mother was injured in a car accident. Between the tiny Steph and the willowy Josie, Grace and I were the medium-sized ones. “What’s wrong with leaving land for a bird sanctuary?” I asked.
“Nothing, as far as I’m concerned. But his three sons had plans to sell it to a developer who wanted to put in a golf course and five-star resort.”
“Although,” Steph said, “in the library’s case, the man himself is giving away the property, not mentioning it in his will. Obviously, there’s much less chance for a legal dispute if he’s still around. Did he seem in possession of all his mental faculties to you, Lucy?”
“Totally,” I said.
“Then you should be okay. But you still want to run everything past a lawyer before signing anything. You can be sure he’ll have top-notch legal advice.”
My three close friends and I try to get together once a week for dinner to catch up on each other’s news. Tonight, at Grace’s suggestion, we were having a special end-of-season treat at Owens’, one of the Outer Banks’ top restaurants. Like many places in the area, Owens’ would be closing soon for the winter months, so we all agreed that we deserved to indulge ourselves. We usually went to Jake’s Seafood Bar, owned, not coincidently, by Josie’s boyfriend, Jake Greenblatt.
The restaurant wasn’t full tonight, but the hum of conversation and gentle laughter drifted through the main room. Candlelight glowed, wine glasses sparkled, and marvelous smells filled the air. When we came in, I’d said hello to Diane Uppiton and Curtis Gardner, sitting at a table for two in a dark corner. They’d pretended to be pleased to see me but, as usual, Diane’s eyes filled with suspicion and a touch of dislike.
Diane and Curtis were members of the library board. You’d think that anyone who joined a volunteer board would have the interests of the library first and foremost. In this case, you would be wrong. Diane’s late husband had been the chair of the board. They’d been going through a bitter, highly public divorce at the time of his death, and she still resented everything he’d cared about. Including the library. Curtis didn’t care about the library one way or another, but he’d soon taken up with Diane and was enjoying the largesse of her inheritance.
“I have some news,” Josie said, taking a sip of her wine. She tried to make the comment sound off-handed, but her beautiful, cornflower-blue eyes sparkled with such joy, I immediately guessed what the news was.
“You’ve decided to close the bakery and run away to sea?” I teased.
“What? Why would I do that? You know I love the bakery.” My cousin owned Josie’s Cozy Bakery, which had rapidly become a Nags Head institution. To prove that life was totally unfair, despite owning a bakery and being a pastry chef, at five foot ten Josie was model thin and strikingly lovely. But she was anything but spoiled. Between Jake’s restaurant and Josie’s bakery and café, the two of them worked mighty hard feeding hordes of famished tourists and starving Bankers. I couldn’t begin to imagine how they did it. In season, she worked seven days a week, getting up at four to start the baking. Jake put in equally long hours, but on an opposite schedule, often only falling into bed well after midnight. Their idea of a date night was Josie sitting on a stool in the restaurant kitchen, helping to chop vegetables. But they seemed to thrive on it, and they were very happy. I was happy for them. I adored my cousin, and Jake was a real sweetheart.
“Never mind, Lucy,” Steph said. “We all know it’s Josie’s secret dream to run away to sea. Like Tiffany Featherstone did in Ruby Passions when she pretended to be a man to flee the clutches of the evil Lord Blackheart.”
“I never,” I said. “What the heck is a ruby passion anyway?”
“It’s a book I’ve been reading. Grace passed it on to me.”
“The author didn’t really name a character Lord Blackheart, did she?” I kept one eye on Josie, knowing that teasing could only go on for so long before it became unpleasant.
“That wasn’t his real name,” Steph said. “It’s the nickname Tiffany gave him. I don’t think he was a real lord either—do you remember, Grace?”
“It wouldn’t have been much different. I don’t read bodice-ripper romances for the subtlety.” Grace laughed. “Enough. Poor Josie’s about to explode. Spill, sweetie. What’s your news?”
>
Josie beamed. She was a beautiful woman in any circumstances, and tonight she had a glow from within that lit her up. “Jake proposed.”
Although that didn’t come as a surprise to any of us, we let out a collective squeal and leapt to our feet. We hugged Josie and then folded ourselves into a circle and hugged each other. The other diners and some of the wait staff watched us with a smile.
“When’s the date?”
“Do you have a ring?”
“Can I be a bridesmaid?”
The waiter came over. “Everything okay here, ladies?”
“We need a bottle of champagne,” Grace said. “My treat.”
We sat back down and eyed the bride-to-be expectantly.
“We haven’t set a date yet,” Josie said, “but it will be sometime over the winter, when business is slow. I don’t have a ring because we want to put what money we have into building our businesses, and as for bridesmaids, I haven’t decided about that yet. We’re going to have a small, plain wedding. Family and a few close friends. Of course, you’re all invited.”
“That’s so marvelous,” I said.
“I’ll drink to that,” Grace said as a chilled bottle of champagne, an ice bucket, and four crystal flutes arrived at our table.
“Congratulations, Josie,” the waiter said as he poured.
When the glasses, full of dancing bubbles, were handed around, I lifted mine in the air. “To Josie and Jake.”
“Happiness forever,” Grace said.
We drank. The diners at the next table applauded, and Josie blushed prettily, grinning from ear to ear.
Over our main courses—shrimp and grits for me, steak for Grace, the stuffed flounder for Stephanie, and scallops on pasta for Josie—we chatted about weddings, good and bad, we’d been to over the years. The excitement had died down, and the restaurant patrons returned to their own meals. The champagne was finished, the waiter was clearing our plates—scraped clean, and we were shaking our heads over the offer of dessert, when three people walked into the room: Jay Ruddle; his assistant, Greg; and his granddaughter, Julia.
They were shown to a table, and napkins were unfurled. Waiters descended with menus and pitchers of water. Jay made a show of an intense study of the wine list while consulting with the waiter. Julia buried her head in her menu while Greg studied the room. Another waiter brought Owens’ special tray of crackers and Melba toast with restaurant-made, traditional North Carolina pimento cheese spread, and Julia gave him a shy smile of thanks.
“Speak of the devil,” I said to my friends. “That’s Jay Ruddle himself.”
“Who’s that with him? His granddaughter and her husband?” Steph asked.
“Granddaughter and the curator of the collection,” I said. “He’s advising Jay on choosing a location for the artifacts.”
We turned our attention back to our coffee. “Now that we’re up to date on my love life,” Josie said, “what about yours, Lucy? I haven’t seen Connor around much lately. What’s happening there?”
“Nothing,” I squeaked. “I mean, all’s fine.”
She gave me a look. “If you say so.”
“I do. It’s the election, you know. Busy, busy.” Connor was the mayor of Nags Head, running for a second term. I’d told him Thursday night was my regular girls’ night out, so I couldn’t be too disappointed that he hadn’t contacted me today. Truth be told, I didn’t know if I was disappointed or relieved. I wasn’t accustomed to the dating game, and my feelings these days were a mass of contradictions. I liked Connor—I liked him a lot. But I was afraid. What I was afraid of, I couldn’t say, not even to myself.
“Has he asked you to help with canvassing or stuffing envelopes or anything?” Grace asked.
“I’ve done some of that. It was fun,” I added weakly. Yes, it had been nice to be with him when he spoke to voters, to know that I was helping him with something important. But it wasn’t the same as spending time together. We aren’t married—we don’t even live together—so he couldn’t treat me as a politician’s wife, sharing not-very-secret smiles and adoring glances, and holding hands.
Josie reached over and patted my hand. “Give it time, sweetie. He’s more than just busy with the election. He’s stressed too. The polls are showing that Doug has a shot at beating him.”
Grace snorted. “I can’t imagine what’s wrong with people. Connor’s been a good mayor. He’s tireless on behalf of the community. Everyone he meets likes him.”
“But Doug has the catchy slogans,” Josie said. “He’ll fix everything, and it won’t cost the taxpayers a penny. Isn’t that what he says?”
“He’ll give you a magnet for your fridge—can’t forget that.”
“You get a lot more than a magnet if you put up a lawn sign or help with phone calls,” Steph said.
“You mean, like a bribe?” Josie looked shocked.
“He’s paying for canvassers is what I hear.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. That Doug Whiteside is—” I broke off mid-sentence. Curtis Gardner had gotten to his feet. His face was set into hard, angry lines as he watched Jay Ruddle enjoying his evening.
“Don’t…” Diane said.
Curtis ignored her and approached the new arrivals, hand outstretched. A look passed over Jay’s face before it settled into a forced smile.
“Jay! It’s been awhile!” Curtis’s voice was loud enough to have heads turning.
Jay stood up. The two men shook hands.
“How you been?” Curtis asked.
“Well, thank you. Don’t let me interrupt your dinner.” Jay sat back down. He put his napkin on his lap. The action was rude and dismissive, but Curtis didn’t seem to take the hint.
“What are you looking at?” Josie asked me.
“Trouble, looking for a place to happen,” I answered.
“I’ve been trying to contact you,” Curtis said.
“I’ve been busy,” Jay replied.
“So it would seem. But as you’re here now”—Curtis plopped himself down in the fourth chair at their table; Julia’s eyes were open wide, and Greg perched on the edge of his seat, ready to move—“we can discuss our business.”
“I never discuss business over dinner, and certainly not in the presence of my family. I never did, but even more so now that I’m retired. If you have concerns, contact the office during business hours.” Jay turned his attention to the wine menu and the hovering waiter. “I’m going to have a steak, so a Spanish Rioja would be good. Julia, do you know what you want yet?”
Curtis leaned forward, putting himself in Jay’s space. “Look. You might say you’re retired, but everyone knows you’re the one pulling all the strings. I need to know what you think you’re up to, and I need to know now.”
Greg got to his feet. “Time for you to leave, buddy. Call the company office in the morning like Mr. Ruddle said.”
“I keep calling!” Curtis yelled. “I leave message after message, but no one ever calls me back.”
Jay sipped from his water glass. The hostess hurried over to their table. “Is everything all right here?”
“No, it is not,” Greg said. “This gentleman refuses to return to his own table.”
Diane downed the last of her wine and got to her feet. She wobbled slightly on her stiletto heels as she crossed the room. She plucked at Curtis’s sleeve. “Come on, honey, let’s go.”
He shook her off. “I want an answer.”
“Sir,” the hostess said, “if you don’t return to your table, I’ll have to call security.”
Jay Ruddle slowly turned his upper body toward Curtis. He spoke in a low hiss that somehow could be heard throughout the entire room. “Have you never heard of the expression ‘Silence was the loud reply’?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Curtis said. His words were slurred, and his hands were shaking.
“It means that you are a foolish little man who got himself in way over his head.” Jay looked at Diane for the first time. A sneer cros
sed his face. “Probably to impress a foolish woman.”
“Hey,” she said.
“Perhaps you should call the police,” Jay said to the hostess. “That way they can take care of two matters at the same time. Business is business, Gardner. If you can’t manage your stores, don’t blame the competition. You make any more threats and I’ll see you in court.”
Greg had rounded the table, and he stood behind Curtis’s chair. He made no move to touch the man, clearly not wanting to give anyone cause to file a complaint.
“Sir?” the hostess said. “Please come with me.”
Curtis stood up so quickly, his chair toppled backward. It would have hit the floor had Greg not been standing there.
Everyone in the room was no longer pretending not to notice.
“Men like you think you own everyone and everything. Well, you don’t own me, Ruddle. I’ll see you dead before I hand over my company to the likes of you.” Curtis turned and stormed out of the room.
Diane, in her too-tight skirt and too-high heels, tottered in his wake.
“That was better than a night at the movies,” Josie said.
“Or a Lord Blackheart novel,” Grace said.
Chapter Three
I have the world’s best commute.
I live on the fourth floor of the library building in a charming (although tiny) apartment I call my Lighthouse Aerie. Most days I’m the first to arrive at work, but on Friday morning, by the time I descended the spiral iron stairs, Bertie and Charlene were huddled around the computer at the circulation desk.
“Morning,” I said.
Charlene lifted an arm and gave me a backward wave. Bertie didn’t even do that.
“It looks impressive,” Bertie said.
“We have the advantage of local and public. You should press that.”
“Press what? Why?” I said.
Bertie blinked. “Oh, good morning, Lucy. Is it opening time already?”
“Soon. How long have you two been here?”
“Hours,” Charlene said. “And we didn’t leave until almost ten last night. We’re working out our plan of attack.”
