Fifteen minutes later, after heading down an asphalt road that gave way to yet another gravel road—they sure were fond of gravel around here—Jeremy found himself parking his car in the middle of a swamp, directly in front of a hand-painted sign advertising Greenleaf Cottages. Which reminded him never to trust the promises of the local Chamber of Commerce.

 

Modern, it definitely wasn’t. It wouldn’t have been modern thirty years ago. In all, there were six small bungalows set along the river. With peeling paint, plank walls, and tin roofs, they were reached by following small dirt pathways that led from a central bungalow that he assumed to be the main office. It was scenic, he had to admit, but the rustic part probably referred to mosquitoes and alligators, neither of which summoned up a lot of enthusiasm in him for staying there.

 

As he was debating whether he should even bother checking in—he’d passed some chain hotels in Washington, about forty minutes from Boone Creek—he heard the sound of an engine coming up the road and watched as a maroon Cadillac came rolling toward him, bouncing wildly in the potholes. Surprising him, it pulled into the spot directly beside his own car, spewing up rocks as it slid to a stop.

 

An overweight, balding man burst from the door, looking frantic. Dressed in green polyester pants and a blue turtleneck sweater, the man looked as if he’d dressed in the dark.

 

“Mr. Marsh?”

 

Jeremy was taken aback. “Yes?”

 

The man scurried around the car. Everything about him seemed to move quickly.

 

“Well, I’m glad I caught you before you checked in! I wanted to have a chance to speak with you! I can’t tell you how excited we all are about your visit here!”

 

He seemed breathless as he stretched out his hand and shook Jeremy’s vigorously.

 

“Do I know you?” Jeremy asked.

 

“No, no, of course not.” The man laughed. “I’m Mayor Tom Gherkin. Like the pickle, but you can call me Tom.” He laughed again. “I just wanted to swing by to welcome you to our fine town. Sorry for my appearance. I would have had you down to the office, but I came straight from the golf course once I learned you were here.”

 

Jeremy looked him over, still a bit in shock. At least it explained the clothes.

 

“You’re the mayor?”

 

“Have been since ’94. It’s kind of a family tradition. My daddy, Owen Gherkin, was the mayor here for twenty-four years. Had a big interest in the town, my daddy did. Knew everything there was to know about this place. Of course, being the mayor is only a part-time job here. It’s more of an honorary position. I’m more of a businessman, if you want to know the truth. I own the department store and radio station downtown. Oldies. You like oldies?”

 

“Sure,” Jeremy said.

 

“Good, good. I figured as much from the moment I laid eyes on you. I said to myself, ‘That’s a man who appreciates good music.’ I can’t stand most of that new stuff everyone else calls music these days. Gives me a headache. Music should soothe the soul. You

 

know what I mean?”

 

“Sure,” Jeremy repeated, trying to keep up.

 

He laughed. “I knew you would. Well, like I said, I can’t tell you how thrilled we all are that you’re here to write a story about our fine town. It’s just the thing this town needs. I mean, who doesn’t like a good ghost story, right? It’s got folks real excited around here, that’s for sure. First the folks from Duke, then the local paper. And now a big-city journalist. Word’s getting out, and that’s good. Why, just last week, we had a call from a group from Alabama that was thinking about spending a few days here this weekend for the Historic Homes Tour.”

 

Jeremy shook his head, trying to slow things down. “How did you know I was even here?”

 

Mayor Gherkin laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, and almost before Jeremy realized it, they were moving toward the bungalow office. “Word gets around, Mr. Marsh. Passes like wildfire. Always has, always will. Part of the charm of this place. That, and the natural beauty. We’ve got some of the best fishing and duck hunting in the state, you know. Folks come from all over, even famous ones, and most of ’em stay right here at Greenleaf. This here is a little piece of paradise, if you ask me. Your own quiet bungalow, out here in the middle of nature. Why, you’ll be listening to the birds and crickets all night long. I’ll bet it makes you see those hotels in New York in a whole new light.”

 

“That it does,” Jeremy admitted. The man was definitely a politician.

 

“And don’t you worry none about the snakes.”

 

Jeremy’s eyes widened. “Snakes?”

 

“I’m sure you heard about it, but just keep in mind that the whole situation here last year was just a misunderstanding. Some folks just don’t have a speck of common sense. But like I said, don’t worry about ’em. The snakes don’t normally come out till the summer, anyway. Of course, don’t go poking through the brush or anything, lookin’ for ’em. Those cottonmouths can be nasty.”

 

“Uh,” Jeremy said, trying to summon a response in the midst of the vision that had been conjured up in his mind. He hated snakes. Even more than mosquitoes and alligators. “Actually, I was thinking . . .”

 

Mayor Gherkin sighed loudly enough to interrupt Jeremy’s answer, and looked around, as if making sure Jeremy noticed how much he was enjoying the natural setting. “So tell me, Jeremy . . . you don’t mind if I call you Jeremy?”

 

“No.”

 

“That’s mighty kind of you. Mighty kind. So, Jeremy, I was wondering if you think one of those television shows might follow up on your story here.”

 

“I have no idea,” he said.

 

“Well, because if they do, we’d roll out the red carpet. Show ’em some genuine southern hospitality. Why, we’d put ’em up right here at Greenleaf, free of charge. And, of course, they’d have a whale of a story to tell. Much better than what you did on Prime-time. What we have here is the real thing.”

 

“You do realize that I’m primarily a columnist? Normally, I have nothing to do with television . . .”

 

“No, of course not.” Mayor Gherkin winked, obviously in disbelief. “You just do what you do, and we’ll see what happens.”

 

“I’m serious,” Jeremy said.

 

He winked again. “Of course, you are.”

 

Jeremy wasn’t quite sure what to say to dissuade him—mainly because the man might be right—and a moment later, Mayor Gherkin pushed through the door of the office. If you could call it that.

 

It looked as if it hadn’t been remodeled in a hundred years, and the wood walls reminded him of what he might find in a log cabin. Just beyond the tottering desk was a largemouth bass mounted on the wall; in every corner, along the walls, and atop the file cabinet and desk were stuffed critters: beavers, rabbits, squirrels, opossums, skunks, and a badger. Unlike most of the mounts he’d seen, however, all had been mounted to make them appear as if they’d been cornered and were trying to defend themselves. Mouths were molded into snarls, the bodies arched, teeth and claws exposed. Jeremy was still absorbing the images when he spotted a bear in the corner and jumped in shock. Like the other animals, its paws were outstretched as if attacking. The place was the Museum of Natural History transformed into a horror movie and squeezed into a closet.

 

Behind the desk, a huge, heavily bearded man sat with his feet propped up, a television in front of him. The picture was fuzzy, with vertical lines passing through the screen every couple of seconds, making it nearly impossible to see what was on.

 

The man rose from behind the desk and kept on rising until he towered over Jeremy. He had to be at least seven feet tall, and his shoulders were broader than the ones on the stuffed bear in the corner. Dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt, he grabbed a clipboard and set it on the desk.

 

He pointed to Jeremy and the clipboard. He didn’t smile; for all intents and purposes, he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to pull Jeremy’s arms from his body so he could use them to beat him, before mounting him on the wall.

 

Gherkin, not surprisingly, laughed. The man laughed a lot, Jeremy noticed.

 

“Don’t let him worry you none, Jeremy,” the mayor offered quickly. “Jed here doesn’t talk much to strangers. Just fill out the form, and you’ll be on your way to your own little room in paradise.”

 

Jeremy was staring wide-eyed at Jed, thinking the man was the scariest-looking person he’d ever seen in his life.

 

“Not only does he own Greenleaf and serve on the town council, but he’s the local taxidermist,” Gherkin went on. “Isn’t his work incredible?”

 

“Incredible,” Jeremy said, forcing a smile.

 

“You shoot anything around here, you come to Jed. He’ll do you right.”

 

“I’ll try to remember that.”

 

The mayor suddenly brightened. “You hunt, do ya?”

 

“Not too much, to be honest.”

 

“Well, maybe we’ll change that while you’re down here. I mentioned that the duck hunting here is spectacular, didn’t I?”

 

As Gherkin spoke, Jed tapped his massive finger on the clipboard again.

 

“Now, don’t try to intimidate the fellow,” Mayor Gherkin broke in. “He’s from New York. He’s a big-city journalist, so you treat him right.”

 

Mayor Gherkin turned his attention to Jeremy again. “And, Jeremy, just so you know, the town will be happy to pay for your accommodations here.”

 

“That’s not necessary . . .”

 

“Not another word,” he said, waiving the rebuff off. “The decision’s already been made by the higher-ups.” He winked. “That’s me, by the way. But it’s the least we can do for such a distinguished guest.”

 

“Well, thank you.”

 

Jeremy reached for the pen. He began to fill out the registration form, feeling Jed’s eyes on him and afraid of what would happen if he changed his mind about staying. Gherkin leaned over his shoulder.

 

“Did I mention how thrilled we are to have you in town?”

 

Across town, in a blue-shuttered white bungalow on a quiet street, Doris was sautéing bacon, onions, and garlic as a pot of pasta boiled on a nearby burner. Lexie was dicing tomatoes and carrots over the sink, rinsing as she went along. After finishing at the library, she’d swung by Doris’s, as she normally did a few times a week. Though she had her own house nearby, she often had dinner at her grandmother’s. Old habits die hard, and all that.

 

On the windowsill, the radio played jazz, and aside from the perfunctory conversation typical of family members, neither had said much at all. For Doris, the reason was her long day at work. Ever since a heart attack two years ago, she tired more easily, even if she didn’t want to admit it. For Lexie, the reason was Jeremy Marsh, though she knew enough not to say anything to Doris about it. Doris had always taken an acute interest in her personal life, and Lexie had learned that it was best to avoid the topic whenever possible.

 

Lexie knew her grandmother meant no harm. Doris simply didn’t understand why someone in her thirties hadn’t settled down yet, and she’d reached the point where she frequently wondered aloud why Lexie wasn’t married. As sharp as she was, Doris was from the old school; she married at twenty and had spent the next forty-four years with a man she adored, until he passed away three years ago. Lexie’s grandparents had raised her, after all, and Lexie could pretty much condense all of Doris’s hemming and hawing into just a few simple thoughts: it was time for her to meet a nice guy, settle down, move into a house with a white picket fence, and have babies.

 

Doris wasn’t so strange in that belief, Lexie knew. Around here, anyway, that’s what was expected of women. And when she was honest with herself, Lexie sometimes wished for a life like that as well. In theory, anyway. But she wanted to meet the right guy first, someone who inspired her, the kind of guy she would be proud to call her man. That was where she and Doris differed. Doris seemed to think that a decent, moral man with a good job was all a woman should reasonably expect. And maybe in the past, those were all the qualities that someone could expect. But Lexie didn’t want to settle for someone simply because he was kind and decent and had a good job. Who knows—maybe she had unrealistic expectations, but Lexie wanted to feel passion for him as well. No matter how kind or responsible a man was, if she didn’t feel any passion, she couldn’t help but think that she’d be “settling” for someone, and she didn’t want to settle. That wouldn’t be fair to her and it wouldn’t be fair to him. She wanted a man who was both sensitive and kind, but at the same time could sweep her off her feet. She wanted someone who would offer to rub her feet after a long day at the library, but also challenge her intellectually. Someone romantic, of course, the kind of guy who would buy her flowers for no reason at all.

 

It wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

 

According to Glamour, Ladies’ Home Journal, and Good Housekeeping—all of which the library received—it was. In those magazines, it seemed that every article stated that it was completely up to the woman to keep the excitement alive in a relationship. But wasn’t a relationship supposed to be just that? A relationship? Both partners doing everything they could to keep the other satisfied?

 

See, that was the problem with many of the married couples she knew. In any marriage, there was a fine balance between doing what you wanted and doing what your partner wanted, and as long as both the husband and the wife were doing what the other wanted, there was never any problem. The problems arose when people started doing what they wanted without regard to the other. A husband suddenly decides he needs more sex and looks for it outside of the marriage; a wife decides she needs more affection, which eventually leads to her doing exactly the same thing. A good marriage, like any partnership, meant subordinating one’s own needs to that of the other’s, in the expectation that the other will do the same. And as long as both partners keep up their end of the bargain, all is well in the world.

 

But if you didn’t feel any passion for your husband, could you really expect that? She wasn’t sure. Doris, of course, had a ready answer. “Trust me, honey, that passes after the first couple of years,” she would say, despite the fact that, to Lexie’s mind, anyway, her grandparents had the kind of relationship that anyone would envy. Her grandfather was one of those naturally romantic men. Until the very end, he would open the car door for Doris and hold her hand when they walked through town. He had been both committed and faithful to her. He clearly adored her and would often comment on how lucky he was to have met a woman like her. After he passed on, part of Doris had begun to die as well. First the heart attack, now worsening arthritis; it was as if they’d always been meant to be together. When coupled with Doris’s advice, what did that mean? Did that mean Doris had simply been lucky in meeting a man like him? Or had she seen something in her husband beforehand, something that confirmed he was the right one for her?

 

More important, why on earth was Lexie even thinking about marriage again?

 

Probably because she was here at Doris’s house, the house she’d grown up in after her parents had died. Cooking with her in the kitchen was comforting in its familiarity, and she remembered growing up thinking that she would one day live in a house like this. Weathered planking; a tin roof that echoed the sound of rain, making it seem that it was raining nowhere else in the world; old-fashioned windows with frames that had been painted so many times that they were almost impossible to open. And she did live in a house like that. Well, sort of, anyway. At first glance, it would seem that Doris’s home and hers were similar—they were built in the same era—but she’d never been able to replicate the aromas. The Sunday afternoon stews, the sun-dried scent of sheets on the bed, the slightly stuffy smell of the ancient rocker where her grandfather had relaxed for years. Smells like those reflected a way of life worn smooth with comfort over the years, and whenever she pushed through the door here, she was flooded with vivid childhood memories.

 

Of course, she’d always imagined that she would have a family of her own by now, maybe even children, but it hadn’t worked out. Two relationships had come close: there was the long relationship with Avery, which had begun in college, and after that, another involving a young man from Chicago who was visiting his cousin in Boone Creek one summer. He was the classic Renaissance man: he spoke four languages, spent a year studying at the London School of Economics, and had paid his way through school with a baseball scholarship. Mr. Renaissance was charming and exotic, and she’d fallen for him quickly. She thought he’d stay here, thought he’d grow to love the place as much as she did, but she woke up one Saturday morning to learn that he was on his way back to Chicago. He never even bothered to say good-bye.

 

And after that? Not much, really. There were a couple of other flings that lasted six months or so, neither of which she thought about much anymore. One had been with a local physician, the other a lawyer; both had proposed to her, but again, she hadn’t felt the magic or thrill or whatever it was you were supposed to feel to let you know that you didn’t need to look any further. In the last couple of years, the dates had been fewer and further apart, unless you counted Rodney Hopper, a deputy sheriff in town. They’d gone on a dozen or so dates, one every other month or so, whenever there was a local benefit that she was encouraged to attend. Like her, Rodney had been born and raised here, and when they were kids, they used to share the teeter-totter behind the Episcopal Church. Ever since, he’d been pining away for her and had asked her a couple of times to accompany him for drinks at the Lookilu Tavern. Sometimes she wondered whether she should just take him up on his offers to date her regularly, but Rodney . . . well, he was a little too interested in fishing and hunting and lifting weights and not quite interested enough in books or anything going on in the rest of the world. He was a nice guy, though, and she figured he’d make a fine husband. But not for her.

 

So where did that leave her?

 

Here at Doris’s, three times a week, she thought, waiting for the inevitable questions about her love life.

 

“So what did you think of him?” Doris asked, right on cue.

 

Lexie couldn’t help smiling. “Who?” she asked, playing innocent.

 

“Jeremy Marsh. Who did you think I was talking about?”

 

“I have no idea. That’s why I asked the question.”

 

“Quit avoiding the subject. I heard he spent a couple of hours at the library.”

 

Lexie shrugged. “He seemed nice enough. I helped him find a few books to get him started, and that was about it.”

 

“You didn’t talk to him?”

 

“Of course, we talked. Like you said, he was there for a while.”

 

Doris waited for Lexie to add more, but when she didn’t, Doris sighed. “Well, I liked him,” Doris volunteered. “He seemed like a perfect gentleman.”

 

“Oh, he was,” Lexie agreed. “Just perfect.”

 

“You don’t sound like you mean that.”

 

“What else do you want me to say?”

 

“Well, was he charmed by your sparkling personality?”

 

“Why on earth would that matter? He’s only in town for a few days.”

 

“Did I ever tell you about the way I met your grandfather?”

 

“Many times,” Lexie said, remembering the story well. They’d met on a train that was heading to Baltimore; he was from Grifton and on his way to interview for a job, one that he would never take, choosing to be with her instead.

 

“Then you know that you’re most likely to meet someone when you least expect it.”

 

“You always say that.”

 

Doris winked. “That’s only because I think you need to keep hearing it.”

 

Lexie brought the salad bowl to the table. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m happy. I love my job, I have good friends, I have time to read and jog and do the things I love.”

 

“And don’t forget you’re blessed with me, too.”

 

“Of course,” Lexie affirmed. “How could I forget that?”

 

Doris chuckled and went back to sautéing. For a moment, there was silence in the kitchen, and Lexie breathed a sigh of relief. At least that was over, and thankfully, Doris hadn’t pushed too hard.

 

Now, she thought, they could have a pleasant dinner.

 

“I thought he was quite handsome,” Doris opined.

 

Lexie said nothing; instead, she grabbed a couple of plates and utensils before moving to the table. Maybe it was better if she simply pretended not to hear her.

 

“And just to let you know, there’s more to him than you think there is,” she went on. “He’s not what you imagine him to be.”

 

It was the way she said it that gave Lexie pause. She had heard that tone many times in the past—when she’d wanted to go out with friends in high school, only to have Doris talk her out of going; when she wanted to take a trip to Miami a few years back, only to be talked out of it. In the first instance, the friends she’d wanted to join were involved in a car accident; in the latter, riots had broken out in the city and had spilled into the hotel where she’d been planning to stay.

 

Doris sometimes sensed things, she knew. Not as much as Doris’s own mother had. But even though Doris seldom explained further, Lexie was fully aware that she always sensed the truth.

 

Completely unaware that phone lines were buzzing all over as people discussed his presence in town, Jeremy was lying in bed under the covers, watching the local news while waiting for the weather report, wishing he had followed his initial impulse and checked into another hotel. He had no doubt that had he done so, he wouldn’t have been surrounded by Jed’s handiwork, which gave him the willies.

 

The man obviously had a lot of time on his hands.

 

And a lot of bullets. Or pellets. Or the front end of a pickup. Or whatever it was he used to kill all these varmints. In his room, there were twelve critters; with the exception of a second stuffed bear, representatives of the entire zoological species of North Carolina would be keeping him company. No doubt Jed would have included a bear as well if he’d had an extra one.

 

Other than that, the room wasn’t too bad, as long as he didn’t expect a high-speed connection to the Internet, or to warm the room without use of the fireplace, order room service, watch cable, or even dial out on a push-button phone. He hadn’t seen a dial phone in what? Ten years? Even his mother had succumbed to the modern world on that one.

 

But not Jed. Nope. Good old Jed obviously had his own ideas of what was important in the way of accommodations for his guests.

 

If there was one decent thing about the room, though, it did have a nice covered porch out back, one that overlooked the river. There was even a rocking chair, and Jeremy considered sitting outside for a while, until he remembered the snakes. Which made him wonder what sort of misunderstanding Gherkin had been talking about. He didn’t like the sound of that. He really should have asked more about it, just as he should have asked where he could find some firewood around here. This place was absolutely freezing, but he had the funny suspicion that Jed wouldn’t answer the phone if he tried to call the office and ask. And besides, Jed scared him.

 

Just then the meteorologist appeared on the news. Steeling himself, Jeremy hopped out of bed to turn up the volume. Moving as quickly as he could, he shivered as he adjusted the set, then dove back under the covers.

 

The meteorologist was immediately replaced by commercials. Figures.

 

He’d been wondering whether he should head out to the cemetery but wanted to find out if fog was likely. If not, he’d catch up on his rest. It had been a long day; he’d started out in the modern world, went back in time fifty years, and now he was sleeping in the midst of ice and death. It certainly wasn’t something that happened to him every day.

 

And, of course, there was Lexie. Lexie whatever-her-lastname-was. Lexie the mysterious. Lexie who flirted and withdrew and flirted again.

 

She had been flirting, hadn’t she? The way she kept calling him Mr. Marsh? The fact that she pretended to have sized him up almost immediately? The funeral comment? Definitely flirting.

 

Wasn’t it?

 

The meteorologist came on again, looking fresh out of college. The guy couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or -four and was no doubt working his first job. He had that deer-in-the-headlights-but-enthusiastic look about him. But at least the guy seemed competent. He didn’t stumble over his words, and Jeremy knew almost immediately that he wouldn’t be leaving the room. The skies were expected to be clear throughout the evening, and the man mentioned nothing about the possibility of fog tomorrow, either.

 

Figures, he thought.