True believer - Nicholas Sparks [29]
“You think it’ll take that long?”
“You wanted historical references and the article, right? I’d love to tell you that all the information has been indexed, but it hasn’t. You have a bit of tedious research ahead of you.”
“There aren’t that many books to peruse, are there?”
“It’s not just books, although we have plenty of those you might find useful. My suspicion is that you’ll find some of the information you’re looking for in the diaries. I’ve made it a point to collect as many as I can from people who lived in the area, and there’s quite a collection now. I’ve even got a few dating back to the seventeenth century.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have Hettie Doubilet’s, would you?”
“No. But I do have a couple belonging to people who lived in Watts Landing, and even one by someone who viewed himself as an amateur historian on the local area. You can’t check them out of the library, though, and it’ll take some time to get through them. They’re barely legible.”
“I can’t wait,” he said. “I live for tedious research.”
She smiled. “I’d be willing to bet you’re quite good at it.”
He gazed at her archly. “Oh, I am. I’m good at a lot of things.”
“I have no doubt about that, Mr. Marsh.”
“Jeremy,” he said. “Call me Jeremy.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Oh, it’s a great idea,” he said. “Trust me.”
She snorted. Always on the make, this one. “It’s a tempting offer,” she said. “Really. And I’m flattered. But even so, I don’t know you well enough to trust you, Mr. Marsh.”
Jeremy watched with amusement as she turned away, thinking that he’d met her type before. Women who used wit to keep men at a distance usually had a sharp edge to them, but somehow with her, it came across as almost . . . well, charming and good-natured. Maybe it was the accent. The way she sang her words, she could probably talk a cat into swimming across the river.
No, he corrected himself, it wasn’t just the accent. Or her wit, which he enjoyed. Or even her startling eyes and the way she looked in her jeans. Okay, that was part of it, but there was more. It was . . . what? He didn’t know her, didn’t know anything about her. Come to think of it, she hadn’t said much of anything about herself. She talked a lot about books and her mother, but he knew nothing else about her at all.
He was here to write an article, but with a sudden sinking sensation, he realized that he’d rather spend the next few hours with Lexie. He wanted to walk with her through downtown Boone Creek or, better yet, dine with her in a romantic, out-of-the-way restaurant, where the two of them could be alone and get to know each other. She was mysterious, and he liked mysteries. Mysteries always led to surprises, and as he followed her toward the rare-book room, he couldn’t help but think that his trip down south had just become a lot more interesting.
The rare-book room was small, probably a former bedroom, and was further divided by a low wooden wall that ran from one side of the room to the other. The walls had been painted desert beige, the trim was white, and the hardwood floor was scuffed but unwarped. Behind the wall were tall shelves of books; in one corner was a glass-topped case that looked like a treasure chest, with a television and VCR beside it, no doubt for tapes that referenced North Carolina’s history. Opposite the door was a window with an antique rolltop desk beneath it. A small table with a microfiche machine stood just off to Jeremy’s right, and Lexie motioned toward it. Going to the rolltop desk, she opened the bottom drawer, then returned with a small cardboard box.
Setting the box on the desk, she riffled through the transparent plates and pulled one out. Leaning over him, she turned the machine on and slid the transparency in, moving it around until the article was front