As the clock crawled toward closing time, I began to worry that I’d made a mistake asking Connor to join me for a drink with Mom. I didn’t quite know what my relationship with our handsome mayor was. He liked me; I liked him. Were we dating? We’d gone out a couple of times. We’d exchanged good-night kisses. But nothing more. I’d also gone out with Butch. Nothing more there, either. I’d been with Ricky for as long as I could remember. At the ripe old age of thirty, I was new to this dating thing, and found it quite confusing.
Although, I thought, as Connor smiled at me across the threshold of the library, I could get used to it.
I’d decided to wear the dress I’d discarded the night we’d had dinner at Jake’s. It was a cheerful yellow with short sleeves, a deep neckline, and a soft skirt that flowed around my knees. When I’d been in college, my roommate’s birthday gift to me was to have my colors done at a fashionable dress shop. I’d been told that with my black hair and a complexion that tans well, I’m a winter and thus yellow is “my” color.
Charles watched from the bed. I held up a necklace in one hand, a soft black scarf in the other. “You choose,” I said. He tilted his head to the right.
The necklace it would be. Charles had excellent taste.
Last of all I slipped on my best shoes. Black sandals, with straps the thickness of dental floss and heels so high it should be illegal to wear them. I hated them. I could barely stand upright in them, and by the end of the evening my feet are on fire. I wear them because they’re Jimmy Choos, cost me five hundred bucks (I must have been out of my mind), and make me look as though I have long, sexy legs.
“How do I look?” I asked the cat.
He washed his whiskers.
I’d left my phone on the window ledge, where it sometimes got a weak signal. As I picked it up to slip into my purse, it beeped with an incoming text.
Josie: I’m escaping the oven! Beach tomorrow?
Me: You can count on me!
During the day, Charles wanders the library, greeting patrons and accepting compliments. When I go out in the evening, I leave him in my apartment, with a clean litter box and a full food bowl. Tonight, as soon as I opened the door, he dashed between my ankles and was downstairs before I could stop him.
I teetered carefully after him.
He was at his post on the shelf closest to the door as a knock sounded.
I took a deep breath and opened the door. Connor’s eyes lit up as he saw me standing there, and I was pleased I’d gone to the trouble to dress up. He looked suitable for meeting his date’s mother, in crisply ironed gray slacks and an open-necked blue shirt.
Charles meowed. Connor gave him a scratch behind the ears in return.
I’d come to realize that Charles was a superb judge of character. He clearly liked Connor. Then again, he liked Butch, too. No help there.
The night air was warm and the sky clear, but the wind was rising. “Storm coming,” Connor said as we drove to the hotel.
We stopped at a red light, and Connor turned to look at me. “You remember the ball on Thursday?”
“Yup,” I said, frantically mentally flicking through my wardrobe. Did I have anything suitable to wear to a ball? And would it be a real ball, like something out of Pride and Prejudice, or just a fancy name for a cocktail party?
The car behind us honked to tell us the light had changed.
Mom and Theodore were seated in the hotel’s lobby bar when Connor and I arrived. Mom’s manners were always impeccable, so I was the only one who noticed that she wasn’t at all happy that I’d brought a guest of my own.
Theodore was in his full eccentric book-collector garb of belted Harris Tweed jacket and large spectacles. He leapt to his feet and said, in his proper English accent, “Connor. Delighted you could join us. Lucy, now I know from where you get your radiant beauty.”
Mom preened.
The waitress bustled over and asked what we’d like to drink. Mom chose a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Theodore asked for a pint of Guinness. Connor ordered an orange juice, explaining that he was driving, so would save himself for wine with dinner. I followed Mom’s lead and also asked for a white wine.
“Did you see Louise Jane today?” I asked Mom, sounding perfectly nonchalant.
“She phoned this morning. She seemed to have had some idea we had an appointment, and apologized for canceling.”
“That’s good.” I leaned back in my chair.
“So we arranged to get together Monday afternoon.”
“I—”
Mom changed the subject. She was good at that. “Theodore has this wonderful idea—”
“Now, now, Suzanne. Let’s not bore the young people,” Teddy, who was only slightly older than me, said.
“I don’t think book collecting is boring,” Mom said.
“I read something quite scandalous in today’s paper,” Theodore said. “Connor, you must have seen Doug Whiteside’s letter. What’s your take?”
I eyed my mother. Book collecting? Since when did Mom have the slightest interest in books? She had served on the library board in our town and was still with the Friends of the Library group. More because it was socially required for a woman of her position, I always thought, than because she cared about the library. Although she did read a fair amount. Bodice-ripper time-traveling romances when no one was looking, historical tomes when they were.
And why was Theodore not only not talking about his favorite subject but actively turning the conversation away? A nasty feeling began to creep through my bones.
“I’ve no comment,” Connor said. “Doug Whiteside is welcome to his opinion.”
“You don’t think it’s gauche of him to tie his political ambitions to his sister’s death?” Theodore asked.
The edges of Connor’s mouth turned up. “I’ll admit that it’s obvious someone else wrote that letter for him. I’ve never known good old Doug to use such formal language.”
“You mean like a campaign manager or press person or something?” I said. “That would mean he’s pretty much committed to throwing his hat into the ring.”
“Why are we talking politics?” Mom said. “Nothing drearier than politics. Particularly for the council of some insignificant small town in the back of nowhere.”
“I quite agree, Mrs. Richardson,” Connor said.
“Connor here is our mayor,” Theodore said. “Didn’t you know that, Suzanne? I should have introduced you properly.”
The waitress chose that moment to arrive with the drinks. We gratefully began rearranging napkins and cutlery. Mom’s eyes flickered between Connor and me. “The mayor,” she said once the waitress had departed. “How . . . nice.”
Theodore plunged into a discussion (lecture?) about the police investigation (incompetent), the composition of the library board (inept), the general state of literature in the modern world (tragic). Everything, in fact, except book collecting.
Mom drank wine and watched Connor. Connor tried to look fascinated by Theodore’s ramblings. I downed my own drink in record time. “Where has the time gone?” I said when I could get a word in. “We’d better be off. Thanks for the drinks, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I made a show of gathering up my purse. Connor pushed his chair back. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Richardson.”
“Shall we have another round, Suzanne?” Theodore said. He began to get to his feet. “I’ll fetch it. Oh, I keep forgetting. In America, the waiter comes to the table.” As if he hadn’t been born and raised in Nags Head and gone to UNC. He plopped back down.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, Lucille,” Mom said. “Why don’t—”
“Evening, folks.” George, manager, appeared at our table. “Everything being taken care of here?”
“Yes,” we chorused.
George smiled at Mom. “Glad to hear it. I’m going off duty now, and wanted to make sure you’re happy, Sue, before I head off for my dinner.”
“Dinner,” Mom said, leaping to her feet. “What a delightful idea. Won’t you join us, George? You’ve met my daughter, Lucy. And her . . . uh . . . friend.”
“Mr. Mayor,” George said.
“George,” Connor said.
Neither of them was rude enough to mention that the last time they’d spoken was when my mother had created a scene with Karen Kivas in the hotel lobby.
“The restaurant here is superb,” Mom said. “No need for us to go out. Table for five?”
George, manager, looked as though he’d just had a visit from the tooth fairy. “It would be my pleasure to dine with you nice folks.”
“I’m not sure,” Theodore said. “I might . . . uh . . . have an appointment.”
Mom linked her arm through George’s. “Come along, everyone. Dinner’s my treat.”
“I’ve remembered,” Theodore said. “That appointment is tomorrow night.”
“Theodore, why don’t you escort Lucy through to dinner? Oh, dear. We seem to be unbalanced in terms of gender. Can’t be helped. Come along, everyone.”
Theodore held out his arm. I glanced at Connor. He threw me a quick wink. Mothers! it seemed to say.
The Ocean Side Restaurant is all starched white linens, polished silver, sparkling glassware, and soft candlelight. The low lighting went a long way toward hiding the chipped baseboards, peeling plaster, and tattered rugs. The room looked full to me, but at one word from his boss, the maître d’ whisked us to a large round table by a window. George beamed from ear to ear. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mom, as if he was amazed that this woman was on his arm. Mom looked pretty good in high-heeled silver sandals, a shimmering silver sheath with matching jacket, diamonds in her ears, and a long silver chain around her neck.
Theodore and I followed Mom and George, and Connor brought up the rear. I felt as if I were in a George Bernard Shaw play, the understudy thrust onto the stage at the last minute, who’d forgotten who she was supposed to be.
“Your mom’s very nice,” Theodore said in something resembling his own North Carolina accent.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Having dinner,” he said.
“I mean meeting with my mother. I can’t think that you have anything in common.”
“Over there, isn’t that Bertie waving at us?”
I looked. The woman trying to catch the waiter’s attention was about twenty years old and looked as much like Bertie as I did.
When we arrived at the table, Mom directed everyone to their seats. She insisted that I take the best view, out the wide French doors overlooking the softly lit boardwalk that led through swaying ocean grasses toward the beach. Theodore was told to sit on my right. Mom took the chair at my left, placing herself between Connor and me. George sat across from me.
As we unfurled our napkins and accepted menus, George told us that the hotel would be having a memorial service for Karen tomorrow. “Not everyone can take the time off to attend the funeral, so I thought something small and intimate here, for her hotel family, would be appropriate.”
“That is so thoughtful of you, George,” Mom said. She gave him her full-voltage smile. I wondered if he would melt under the strength of it. “Lucy, why don’t you come with me?”
“I don’t—”
“Theodore will be coming, of course. He can pick you up and bring you.”
“What?” Theodore pulled himself out of his inspection of the menu.
“We’re not part of Karen’s hotel family,” I said.
Mom waved that inconsequential detail away. “We’ll have a bottle of red wine. George, why don’t you select something? I’m partial to an Oregon Pinot Noir.”
The meal dragged endlessly on. The food varied between delicious (the lamb shanks) and barely edible (the overboiled frozen vegetables). Mom turned to Connor and kept up a stream of mindless chatter. Any good dinner party hostess would know to lean back in her chair so as to not block the people on either side of her with her body. Mom seemed to have forgotten that rule tonight. I was left to talk to Theodore and George.
I was annoyed, but I understood why Mom wanted to separate me from Connor. If I was dating Connor, I’d be less likely to return to Boston and the hypothetically waiting arms of Ricky. But I could not comprehend why on earth she seemed to be trying to shove me in Theodore’s direction. Unless he had convinced her he was a man of money and influence. I didn’t see him doing that. Teddy might enjoy playing the distinguished scholar, but that was as far as his pretense went. He never pretended to have money he didn’t. I knew he’d recently had to sell a much-loved set of first-edition James Bonds because he was short of funds.
The penny dropped. I interrupted him in midsentence. “Do you have your eye on any new books?”
“As a matter of fact I do.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sure you remember that unfortunate incident with the Ian Flemings.”
He was referring to the time I had accused him, in front of a prospective buyer, of stealing several Jane Austen first editions. Nice of him not to mention that. “Yes.”
“They’re on the market again. At a reduced price. The gentleman who purchased them from me has found himself temporarily embarrassed, financially speaking.” His eyes drifted over my shoulder. They settled on my mom, laughing at some pearl of wisdom from George, manager. “I’m raising the funds to buy them back.”
Funds. My mother.
Okay, that explained what Theodore was doing here. It didn’t explain why Mom would let him believe for a second that she’d lend him money to buy rare books. At that moment she turned to me with a beaming smile. “Enjoying yourself, dear?”
I couldn’t say no, now, could I? “This lamb is beautiful.”
“Our chef sources everything locally,” George said, glad to be allowed the chance to say something. “We’re very lucky to have her.”
“I’m sure,” Mom said, “luck had nothing to do with it. Good management is never a matter of luck.” She lifted her wineglass in a private toast.
I refrained from saying that those vegetables might have been local, but if they were, they’d been shipped halfway across the country to a factory, then processed and returned as a frozen lump.
George beamed. Yup, the tooth fairy was smiling on George, manager, tonight.
A heck of a lot more was going on at this table than I could follow.
At last the endless meal was finished. I refused dessert, hoping to get the heck out of there. But Theodore indulged himself with a towering slice of four-layer chocolate cake, meaning the rest of us had to wait until he’d finished. Then mom ordered cappuccinos for everyone. She was getting around to asking if we wanted liqueurs, when I pushed my chair back. “That was great. Thanks, Mom. Shall we go, Connor?”
“Why don’t you let Theodore drive you home, dear? No need to take Connor out of his way.”
Theodore broke away from his examination of the port and whiskey menu. “What?” He also lived in Nags Head. The lighthouse was as much out of his way as Connor’s.
“Be a dear and drive Lucy home, won’t you? You don’t mind, do you, Connor?”
What could Connor say? He threw me a confused look. “No. I don’t mind.”
Between them, George and Mom had finished off two bottles of wine. I’d had one glass. Connor had ordered a single beer to accompany his appetizer of calamari. Teddy had kept to his original pint of Guinness, sipping slowly. I suspected he didn’t like the thick, dark beer much, but as he considered it part of his persona, he endured it.
Reluctantly Theodore put down the drinks menu. Poor guy, he’d been looking forward to a glass of postprandial port throughout the entire meal. I wondered if he liked port any more than he liked Guinness. “Shall we?” he said to me, graciously.
Connor stood up also. “Good night, Mrs. Richardson. Thank you very much for the evening. Most enjoyable.”
Mom smirked. “Lovely meeting you.”
I left the restaurant between my two escorts, feeling like Lizzy Bennet, with a mother as manipulative as Mrs. Bennet. Unfortunately I had no idea what she was trying to manipulate me to do.
As we walked through the lobby, a figure rose from one of the slightly worn wingback chairs. It was the woman who kept hanging around the library by herself. The one I had come to think of as the Gray Woman. She looked from Connor to Theodore to me. Back to Connor.
“Hi,” I said.
She walked away.
“I keep seeing that woman,” I said. “Here and at the library. I’m starting to get the feeling she’s watching me. Do you know who she is?”
“A tourist,” Theodore said, without much interest.
“No,” Connor said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
We hesitated on the hotel steps.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Connor.
He laughed. “Don’t apologize. I liked your mother very much. She’s a woman who knows her own mind and ensures everyone else knows it, too.”
I shuddered. “Oh, gosh. What did she say?”
“She told me your fiancé is pining away back in Boston.”
“In her dreams. Not in his.” I’d told Connor about Ricky, and why I’d left Boston and my job at Harvard so suddenly.
“That,” he said, “I’m glad to hear. Night, Teddy.”
“Night, Mr. Mayor.”