True believer - Nicholas Sparks [24]
In the main area, however, he felt a surge of disappointment. Beneath bright fluorescent lights were only six shelves of books, set relatively close together, in a room that wasn’t much larger than his apartment. In the nearest two corners were outdated computers, and off to the right was a sitting area that housed a small collection of periodicals. Four small tables were scattered throughout the room, and he saw only three people browsing the shelves, including one elderly man with a hearing aid who was stacking books on the shelves. Looking around, Jeremy had the sinking suspicion that he’d purchased more books in his lifetime than the library had.
He made his way to the reference desk, but not surprisingly, there wasn’t anyone behind it. He paused at the desk, waiting for Lex. Turning around to lean against it, he figured that Lex must have been the white-haired man putting the books away, but the man didn’t make a move toward him.
He glanced at his watch. Two minutes after that, he glanced at it again.
Another two minutes later, after Jeremy had cleared his throat loudly, the man finally noticed him. Jeremy nodded and waved, making sure the man knew he needed help, but instead of moving toward him, the man waved and nodded before going back to stacking books. No doubt he was trying to stay ahead of the rush. Southern efficiency was legendary, Jeremy observed. Very impressive, this place.
In the small, cluttered office on the upper floor of the library, she stared through the window. She’d known he would be coming. Doris had called the moment he left Herbs and told her about the man in black from New York City, who was here to write about the ghosts in the cemetery.
She shook her head. Figures that he would have listened to Doris. Once she got an idea about something, she tended to be pretty persuasive, with few concerns about the possible backlash an article like this could cause. She’d read Mr. Marsh’s stories before and knew exactly how he operated. It wouldn’t be enough to prove that ghosts weren’t involved—and she had no doubt about that—but Mr. Marsh wouldn’t stop there. He’d interview people in his own charming way, get them to open up, and then he’d pick and choose before twisting the truth in whatever way he wanted. Once he was finished with the hatchet job that would pose as an article, people around the country would assume that everyone who lived here was gullible, foolish, and superstitious.
Oh, no. She didn’t like the fact he was here at all.
She closed her eyes, absently twirling strands of her dark hair between her fingers. The thing was, she didn’t like people traipsing through the cemetery, either. Doris was right: it was disrespectful, and ever since those kids from Duke came down and the article showed up in the paper, things had been getting out of hand. Why couldn’t it have just been kept quiet? Those lights had been around for decades, and though everyone knew about them, no one really cared. Sure, once in a while, a few people might head out to take a look—mostly those who’d been drinking at the Lookilu, or teenagers—but T-shirts? Coffee mugs? Cheesy postcards? Combining it with the Historic Homes Tour?
She didn’t quite understand the whole reason behind the phenomenon. Why was it so important to increase tourism around here, anyway? Sure, the money was attractive, but people didn’t live in Boone Creek because they wanted to get rich. Well, most of them, anyway. There were always a few people out to