True believer - Nicholas Sparks [97]
Lexie took a mouthful of beer, savoring the taste, savoring everything about the evening: the way she looked and felt and the way he’d stared at her. She was close enough to reach out and touch Jeremy and for a fleeting moment almost did, but instead, she turned away and went to the cupboard.
She took out some olive oil and balsamic vinegar and put some of each in a small bowl, along with salt and pepper.
“Everything smells delicious,” he said.
Finished with the dressing, she reached for the olives and put them into another small bowl. “We still have an hour before dinner,” she said. Talking seemed to keep her steadier. “Since I didn’t plan on having company, these will have to do for an appetizer. If it was summer, I’d say we could wait on the porch outside, but I tried that earlier and it’s freezing. And I should warn you that the chairs in the kitchen aren’t too comfortable.”
“Which means?”
“Would you like to go sit in the living room again?”
He led the way, paused at the easy chair to pick up Doris’s book, then watched as Lexie took a seat on the couch. She put the olives on the coffee table, then shifted slightly trying to get comfortable. When he took a seat beside her, he could smell the sweet, floral scent of the shampoo she’d used. From the kitchen, he heard the faintest strains of the radio.
“I see you have Doris’s notebook,” she said.
He nodded. “She let me borrow it.”
“And?”
“I just had a chance to look over the first few pages. But it has a lot more detail than I thought it would.”
“Now do you believe that she predicted the sex of all those babies?”
“No,” he said. “Like I said, she might have recorded only the ones she was right about.”
Lexie smiled. “And the different way the entries look? Sometimes pens, sometimes pencils, sometimes it looks like she was in a rush, sometimes she took her time.”
“I’m not saying the book doesn’t look convincing,” he said. “I’m just saying that she can’t predict the sex of babies by holding someone’s hand.”
“Because you say so.”
“No. Because it’s impossible.”
“Don’t you mean statistically improbable?”
“No,” he said, “impossible.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Skeptic. But how’s your story going?”
Jeremy began picking at the label of his beer with his thumb. “Good,” he said. “If I can, I’d still like to finish looking through some of the diaries at the library, though. Maybe find something to spice up the story.”
“Have you figured it out?”
“Yes,” he said. “Now all I have to do is prove it. Hopefully, the weather will cooperate.”
“It will,” she said. “It’s supposed to be foggy all weekend. I heard it on the radio earlier.”
“Good,” he said. “But the bad part is that the solution isn’t nearly as much fun as the legend.”
“Was it worth coming down, then?”
He nodded. “Without a doubt,” he said, his voice quiet. “I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world.”
Hearing his tone, she knew exactly what he meant, and she turned toward him. Propping her chin on her hand, she put a leg on the couch, liking how intimate it felt, how desirable he made her feel.
“So what is it?” she asked, leaning forward slightly. “Can you tell me the answer?”
The lamplight behind her gave her the faintest halo, and her eyes glowed violet beneath dark lashes.
“I’d rather show you,” he said.
She smiled. “Since I’m bringing you back, anyway, you mean. Right?”
“Right.”
“And you want to go back . . . ?”
“Tomorrow, if we can.” He shook his head, trying to regain control of his feelings, not wanting to ruin this, not wanting to push too hard, but wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms. “I’ve got to meet Alvin. He’s a friend of mine—a cameraman from New York. He’s coming to get some professional footage.”
“He’s coming to Boone Creek?”
“Actually, he’s probably arriving in town as we speak.”
“Right now? Shouldn’t you be there?