by Eva Gates
“Gee, Teddy, lighten up. I tried, didn’t I?” When I was in town earlier, scooping up flashlights, I’d popped into a costume jewelry store and bought a pair of earrings about the size and shape of chandeliers—not to mention the weight. I’d gathered up my hair and plopped my elaborate Victorian-era hat on top of it. I completed the costume with a floor-length skirt I sometimes used as a beach wrap, and a long, fringed shawl. Nothing award winning, but it would do for tonight and for Halloween day itself, when the staff were planning to wear costumes.
“You look very … literary, Lucy,” Theodore said.
“Literary Lucy, that’s me. Turn around; you’ve got a tag still attached to your collar.” I pulled the offending item off. A price tag. I hid a grin. Those jeans were so new, they creaked when he walked.
Lights broke through the row of tall pine trees lining the long access road to the lighthouse as book club members began to arrive.
Josie, costumed as a scullery maid from Dickens, always provided some delicious treats from her bakery, and today she’d outdone herself with cookies decorated to look like pumpkins and ghosts, and dark chocolate brownies topped with eyeball candies. The library provided pitchers of lemonade and tea. As well as stackable plastic chairs, Charlene and I had dragged a table out of the library to use as the refreshment station.
Steph came up the walkway, holding hands with Butch Greenblatt. “Hey, we’re sitting outside?” Butch said. “Great idea. It’s a perfect night for it.”
Butch and Steph were dressed in early-twentieth-century men’s suits with string ties and bowler hats. Butch had a Hitler-type mustache stuck to his upper lip and strands of long, stringy black hair protruding from his hat.
“You look great,” I said, giving them both hugs of greeting. “But I can’t guess who you are.”
“Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy,” Steph said. “The size difference was one of their gags.”
“That’s hardly literary,” I said in protest.
“It was her idea.” Butch spotted the refreshment table and left his beloved to explain.
“We’re going to another party tomorrow. The theme is historical couples. I didn’t want to make two costumes. It was hard enough to get the big lug into that one.”
I laughed. “You look great.”
And they did. The costumes were perfect for them because their differences extended to more than size. Butch is a police officer, a rugged, good-looking man at six foot five and two hundred pounds. He loves nothing more than heading out for a morning’s fishing, time spent alone on the beach or in the marsh, or playing pickup basketball. Steph is a defense lawyer with a reputation as a hard-hitter, who tips the scales at hundred pounds after a big meal. She loves opera and the symphony and European art films. They are the most opposite people I have ever met. They’re head over heels in love, but I suspect conversation on their dates can get a bit tense sometimes.
She found a seat, and Butch brought over a handful of cookies and glasses of lemonade. They scooted their two chairs closer together and sat at the edge of the circle, holding hands and smiling at each other. Butch, who was the younger brother of Josie’s fiancé, Jake, and I had flirted when I first arrived to live and work at the library, and we’d casually dated. This situation could have been awkward, but I was nothing but happy that my two friends had found each other.
Others began to arrive, and we exclaimed over each other’s costumes. CeeCee Watson was Wilkie Collins, dressed in black trousers, a checked vest, a black jacket far too large for her, necktie, and bowler hat. Grace came as Sherlock Holmes, with a cape, deerstalker hat, and pipe, and a couple of the women wore long dresses with shawls or capes. Mrs. Peterson, quick to complain that her daughters all had other things to do on a Friday night than keep their mother company, presented a puzzle.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“You have to guess,” she said. Usually Mrs. Peterson dresses like the affluent Southern matron she wants to be. Tonight she was all in orange. Orange pants, orange sweater, orange stockings, even a knitted orange cap, and streaks of orange makeup on her cheeks and beneath her eyes.
“I have no idea,” I said, mentally racing through everything I knew about classic works of literature.
“Give up?” Was that a twinkle in her eye? I looked closer. Why, yes, it was. In all the time I had known Mrs. Peterson, one of the library’s staunchest patrons, I’d never seen the slightest hint of humor or fun in her.
“I do,” I said.
“Anyone else want to try?”
“I can’t guess who you are, Mrs. Peterson,” Butch said, “But you look great. Like Halloween itself.”
“That’s it,” Josie shouted. “You’re the Great Pumpkin!”
Mrs. Peterson laughed. I hadn’t known she could do that.
“From Peanuts,” I said, “the cartoon strip. Definitely an American classic.”
“It was Phoebe’s idea,” Mrs. Peterson said, referring to one of her five daughters. “I do believe one of those orange cookies will accent my outfit suitably.”
Theodore hadn’t taken a seat, but paced up and down the walkway, constantly checking his watch. I could sympathize with how he was feeling, because I was equally edgy. I also glanced at my watch. Ten minutes after seven. Most of the club members had arrived. Chairs were filling and refreshments had been decimated. I’d have to call the meeting to order soon.
Theodore and I both jumped, trying not to, as a car turned into the parking area. We let out matching sighs of disappointment as we recognized Louise Jane’s rusty van.
Louise Jane stepped out of her car. Everyone sucked in a breath as she walked toward us. Although walked isn’t quite the right word. More like floated. She was dressed in a long oyster-colored satin gown with layers of petticoats beneath, a lacy neckline, and multilayered sleeves. The front of the dress touched her toes, and the back trailed behind her. Yards of white beads were wrapped around her neck, and an enormous gray wig was perched on her head. A veil fell over her face and cascaded around her head and shoulders. The light breeze lifted the edges of lace. I glanced at my book club. Butch was frozen with a brownie halfway to his mouth. Grace and Josie’s eyes almost popped out of their heads, and CeeCee’s mouth was a round O. Even Theodore had stopped his pacing to stand stock-still.
Louise Jane didn’t smile, and she said not a word. She simply drifted, very slowly, down the path toward the lights cast by our group. As she got closer, I could see that the lace hung in tattered shreds; the figure of a mouse was buried in the depths of the wig; and the edges of the sleeves, the hem of the dress, and the long train were thick with dirt.
She stopped at the edge of the circle of chairs.
“Wow!” Butch said.
“Miss Havisham,” I said.
“A living ghost,” she replied, her voice deep and unearthly.
The Bodie Island Lighthouse Library Classic Novel Book Club broke into applause. Beneath the veil, Louise Jane allowed herself a small smile.
“Are you going to wear that tomorrow when you give your talk?” Josie asked.
“I’m undecided. My lecture is about legends of the Outer Banks, shipwrecks, happenings at the lighthouse. I know of no abandoned brides.”
“Make one up then, why don’t you?” Grace said. “Maybe there was an innocent young woman on one of those ships that got wrecked. She was heading for a new life in the Carolinas to be married to the man she loved. He’d gone on ahead to get a home ready for her. But she drowned, dreaming of her wedding that was not to be.”
Louise Jane looked horrified. “I do not make things up!”
“Embellish then,” Grace said. “Now, are we going to talk about the book or not? I’ve always loved Sleepy Hollow.”
“I liked it too,” Butch said. “But I sure didn’t like that Bracebridge Hall. What a lot of nothing. I have to confess I didn’t get more than a few pages in.” Our main club selection tonight was Irving’s most famous story, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, but because
that story is very short, I’d also suggested the much longer Bracebridge Hall for those interested in further reading. I’d forgotten just how long and how dense Bracebridge is.
“You didn’t get to when they tell the story of the Flying Dutchman?” Louise Jane said. “That’s the best part.”
“I guess I gave up long before that,” he said. “Does he keep calling the young woman ‘the fair Julia’ the whole way though?”
“Every time,” I said.
Butch shook his head.
Theodore had finally taken a seat, but at the sound of a car coming down the drive, he leapt to his feet with enough force to knock the chair to the ground. My heart began to pound. It settled back into place with a disappointed thud when I recognized the bulk of a Cadillac Escalade rather than the sleek lines of Connor’s BMW.
Connor McNeil had said he’d try to make it. I knew he was busy. I knew he had a lot of things on his plate. I knew we were just a little book club. Still, I was disappointed.
Theodore, however, was not disappointed. He ran down the path and soon came back with his arm linked through Julia’s. Greg walked on her other side, not touching, but keeping proprietarily close.
Butch got to his feet.
“Oh,” Julia gasped. “You didn’t tell us you were wearing costumes!”
“As the invitation was at the last minute,” Theodore said, “I assumed you wouldn’t have the time or materials to dress up.”
She gave him a smile. “You’re so thoughtful.”
He beamed.
I made the introductions. I said our guests’ first names only and that they’d visited the lighthouse earlier. I didn’t say why they’d been in our library.
Theodore guided Julia to the refreshment table, and Greg followed.
Once Julia had a glass of tea and a napkin with a cookie and brownie, Theodore hustled her over to two empty chairs. She took one seat, and he dropped into the other. He edged his chair ever so slightly toward her.
Unfortunately for the love-struck Teddy, he’d given Julia the seat on the outside of the circle. He sat between Julia and the Great Pumpkin, aka Mrs. Peterson, but no one was on Julia’s other side. Greg picked up a chair, carried it across the circle, and put it down beside her.
“If we’re all settled at last,” Louise Jane huffed, “Sleepy Hollow is a classic American ghost story. Isn’t that right, Lucy, honey? Although we can debate whether or not it’s a real tale of the supernatural—”
“No stories of the supernatural are true,” Butch said firmly.
“Quite right,” Teddy said.
“I beg to differ.” Louise Jane said. “I myself have seen…”
Her voice drifted into the distance as I tuned out. Another car was approaching. I held my breath until I recognized Connor’s BMW.
I left Teddy, Louise Jane, and Butch squabbling over the existence of ghosts and walked down the path.
Connor greeted me with a deep kiss. “I’m sorry I’m late, Lucy. I got tied up at work and then wanted to go home and get out of my suit because you’d asked us to come in costume.”
“You needn’t have worried about that.” I straightened my hat, which had been knocked aside by the kiss. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
He put his arm around me, and we started walking up the path toward the lighthouse. Flashlights broke the dark shadows of the historic old building, showing the people gathered in a circle on the lawn. “Don’t tell me we’re sitting outside,” he said.
I stepped back and studied Connor’s costume. “Sorry,” I said with a laugh.
He wore beige shorts and a dirty white T-shirt, with flop-flops on his feet and a straw hat with a raggedy brim on his head. The shorts were torn and the shirt, full of holes.
“Robinson Crusoe, I presume,” I said.
“This is no tropical island. I’m going to freeze out here.”
“Come and show the others your costume,” I said, “and then you can have my shawl. I don’t need it.”
He pulled me close. “Never mind the shawl. You can keep me warm, Lucy.”
“Are you two going to stand there all night?” Butch bellowed. “Connor, I need someone to explain to Louise Jane here the significance of the smashed pumpkin found in the road at the end of Sleepy Hollow.”
Chapter Four
The moment my eyes opened on Saturday morning, I leapt out of bed and pulled back the drapes. I live on the fourth floor of the lighthouse, and my single window looks east, above the marshes, across the highway, over the wide stretch of beach, and out to sea. The sun was a huge orange orb touching the calm smooth waters of the ocean. Not a cloud was to be seen. For once, the weather reports had been accurate.
Charles jumped off the bed and wandered into the kitchen area. My apartment’s not very big—being in a lighthouse—but I adore it. It’s small and perfect, with curved whitewashed walls decorated with paintings of the Outer Banks. The color scheme is white, yellow, and sage green, giving the place a bright cheerful feeling. As I do first thing every morning, I filled Charles’s bowl. “It’s going to be a busy day today.”
He picked delicately at the food and didn’t say anything.
“You, however,” I said, “are not going to enjoy it.” He was a library cat, accustomed to people coming and going all day. He never tried to escape, but I’d decided that with the numbers of people we were expecting today, he’d have to be confined to the utility closet. I trusted Charles, but I didn’t trust some children not to decide they’d like to take him home.
He lifted his head and gave me a disapproving look. He was already mad at me, I guessed, at having to miss book club last night because it was outdoors. Charles loves book club.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s for your own good.”
He stalked off, bushy tail held high.
“Sorry,” I said again, wondering, not for the first time, why I was apologizing to a cat.
I got ready for work with a warm, happy glow. Book club last night had been a lot of fun. We had a great discussion about the work of Washington Irving, and we laughed at the antics of poor Ichabod Crane, frightened away from the pursuit of the wealthy heiress by a ghostly legend and a man on a horse with a pumpkin on his head. No one minded when Louise Jane went off at length on the story of the famous ghost ship The Flying Dutchman. The atmosphere had been perfect: Louise Jane in her wig and tattered, flowing gown, the light of the 1000-watt lamp overhead flashing in its regular 2.5 seconds on, 2.5 seconds off pattern while we huddled in a circle with our small flashlights and told frightening tales of the undead.
If Theodore occasionally shifted uncomfortably in his seat or appeared to be trying to tune the conversation out, I was the only one who noticed. Me and perhaps Greg, who kept one eye on his potential rival.
When book club ended and everyone drifted away into the night, the evening got even better. Connor came into the lighthouse, and we sat in the library for a long time, sipping our glasses of wine in the soft light from the alcove, chatting and catching up on each other’s news, me in my chandelier earrings and beach wrap, and Connor in shorts, T-shirt, and straw hat. When he got up to leave, he kissed me long and hard and said, “Only a few more days until this election is over and life can get back to normal. Can you wait that long, Lucy?”
I’d kissed him in reply.
* * *
By one o’clock on Saturday, people were beginning to arrive for Louise Jane’s lecture. Today she’d be telling stories and legends of the Outer Banks suitable for children and families.
Our original plan had been that this would be a small talk. Louise Jane would stand at the front of the room and speak to a handful of interested patrons. We’d lay out rows of chairs with a podium in front and provide a few light refreshments. But we soon came to realize the afternoon was threatening to be more popular than we’d expected. People had been calling the library all week to confirm the time, and my daily check of our website analytics showed a large uptick in visitors, most of them fo
cusing on the events page. Louise Jane reported that there was “enormous interest” in her lecture in the community. Our library, she said, was not going to be nearly big enough. She wanted us to rent a hall.
That we couldn’t do without charging for admittance.
Midweek, we checked the weather forecast and decided to risk moving it outside. The weather could be variable on the coast, and things changed fast, but if more people showed up than we could accommodate inside, we’d have to turn people away, and we always hated doing that.
Saturday morning we dragged chairs out of the storage shed onto the front lawn and laid them out in semicircular rows facing the podium. Inside the library we never worried much about sound, but once we’d decided to have the event outdoors, we realized acoustics would be a problem. Ronald called a friend who worked as a sound engineer, and he agreed to do us a favor and supply a microphone and amplifiers.
As these things do, our little event began to grow. The local independent bookstore called to ask if they could sell books at the event, and Bertie agreed (for a share of the profits as a donation to the library). They’d arrived before noon and set up a booth selling children’s books and Outer Banks history and legends. A makeup artist friend of Charlene would do face painting, and at some point a local jewelry maker arrived with a selection of goods, a folding table, an awning, and a cash box. The national political parties brought tents, material, and volunteers, but we were saved from the mayoral candidates campaigning. Doug Whiteside was a vocal opponent of the Lighthouse Library, and it would have been pretty nervy, even for Doug, to solicit votes from our patrons on our own grounds.
“I’m worried we’re not going to have enough chairs.” I stood at the window, watching the steady stream of early arrivals. “It’s already filling up out there, and we have almost an hour still to go. This might have been a mistake. In the building, we can control the numbers.”
“It’ll all work out fine,” Bertie said.
“Somehow,” Charlene said, “it always does.”
“Nothing we can do about it,” Ronald said. “Hopefully, some folks will bring blankets and not mind sitting on the grass.”
