“No, it’s not boring at all. It’s interesting. Kind of like . . . reading a new book when you turn the pages and experience something unexpected.”
“Nice metaphor.”
“I thought you might appreciate that.”
“So what about you? What made you want to become a journalist?”
For the next few minutes, he told her about his college years, his plans to become a professor, and the turn of events that had brought him to this point.
“And you said that you have five brothers?”
He nodded. “Five older brothers. I’m the baby of the family.”
“For some reason, I just can’t see you with brothers.”
“Why?”
“You strike me as more the only-child type.”
He shook his head. “It’s a shame you didn’t inherit the psychic abilities of the rest of your family.”
She smiled before glancing away. In the distance, red-tailed hawks circled above the town. She put her hand to the window, feeling the cold press of glass against her skin. “Two hundred forty-seven,” she said.
He looked over at her. “Excuse me?”
“That’s how many women visited Doris to find out the sex of their babies. Growing up, I’d see them sitting in the kitchen visiting with my grandmother. And it’s funny, even now I can remember thinking that they all had this look about them: the sparkle in their eyes, the fresh glow to their skin, and their genuine excitement. There is truth to the old wives’ tale that women who are pregnant glow, and I remember thinking that I wanted to look just like them when I grew up. Doris would talk to them for a while to make sure they were sure they wanted to know, and then she’d take their hand and get really quiet all of a sudden. Hardly any of them were even showing, and a few seconds after that, she’d make her pronouncement.” Lexie let out a soft breath. “She was right every time. Two hundred forty-seven women came by, and she was right two hundred and forty-seven times. Doris kept their names in a book and wrote everything down, including the dates of the visits. You can check it out if you’d like. She still has the book in her kitchen.”
Jeremy simply stared at her. Impossible, he thought, a statistical fluke. One that pressed the limits of believability, but a fluke nonetheless. And her notebook, no doubt, would only show the guesses that had been right.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, “but you can check it out with the hospital, too. Or the women. And you can ask anyone you want, to see if she was ever mistaken. But she wasn’t. Even the doctors around town will tell you straight up that she had a gift.”
“Did you ever think that maybe she knew someone who did the ultrasounds?”
“That wasn’t it,” she insisted.
“How can you know for sure?”
“Because that’s when she stopped. When the technology finally arrived in town. There was no reason for people to come to her anymore, once they could see the picture of the baby themselves. The women visitors began slowing after that, then turned into a trickle. Now it’s maybe one or two people a year, usually folks from out in the country who don’t have medical insurance. I guess you could say her abilities aren’t in too much demand these days.”
“And the divining?”
“Same thing,” she said. “There isn’t much demand around here for someone with her skills. The entire eastern section of the state sits over a vast reservoir. You can sink a well anywhere and find water around here. But when she was growing up in Cobb County, Georgia, farmers would come to the house begging for her help, especially during the droughts. And even though she wasn’t more than eight or nine, she’d find the water every time.”
“Interesting,” Jeremy said.
“I take it you still don’t believe it.”
He shifted in his seat. “There’s an explanation somewhere. There always is.”
“You don’t believe in magic of any kind?”
“No,” he said.
“That’s sad,” she said. “Because sometimes it’s real.”
He smiled. “Well, maybe I’ll find something that changes my mind while I’m down here.”
She smiled, too. “You already have. You’re just too stubborn to believe it.”
After finishing their makeshift lunch, Jeremy slid the car into gear, and they bounced back down Riker’s Hill, the front wheels seemingly drawn to every deep rut. The shocks squeaked and groaned, and by the time they reached the bottom, Jeremy’s knuckles were white on the wheel.
They followed the same roads back. Passing Cedar Creek Cemetery, Jeremy found his eyes drawn to the top of Riker’s Hill; despite the distance, he could pick out the spot where they’d parked.
“Do we have time to see a couple of other places? I’d love to swing by the marina, the paper mill, and maybe the railroad trestle.”
“We have time,” she said. “As long as we don’t stay too long. They’re pretty much all in the same area.”
Ten minutes later, following her directions, he parked again. They were at the far edge of downtown, a few blocks from Herbs, near the boardwalk that stretched along the riverfront. The Pamlico River was nearly a mile wide and flowed angrily, the currents rippling to form tiny whitecaps as they rushed downstream. On the far side of the river, near the railroad trestle, the paper mill—a huge structure—spewed clouds from the dueling smokestacks. Jeremy stretched as he stepped out of the car, and Lexie crossed her arms. Her cheeks began to redden in the chill.
“Is it getting colder, or is it just my imagination?” she asked.
“It’s pretty cold,” he agreed. “Seems colder than it was up top, but maybe we just got used to the heater in the car.”
Jeremy struggled to catch up to her as she set off for the boardwalk. Lexie finally slowed and then stopped to lean against the railing as Jeremy gazed up at the railroad trestle. Perched high above the river to let large boats pass, it was crisscrossed with beams, resembling a suspension bridge.
“I didn’t know how close you wanted to get,” she said. “If we had more time, I would have taken you across the river to the mill, but you probably get a better view from here.” She motioned toward the other end of town. “The marina is over there, near the highway. Can you see where all those sailboats are docked?”
Jeremy nodded. For some reason, he’d expected something grander.
“Can big boats dock there?”
“I think so. Some big yachts from New Bern sometimes stop over for a couple of days.”
“How about barges?”
“I suppose they could. The river is dredged to allow for some of the logging barges, but they usually stop on the far side. Over there”—she pointed to what seemed to be a small cove—“you can see a couple there now, all loaded up.”
He followed her gaze, then turned around, coordinating locations. With Riker’s Hill in the distance, the trestle and the factory seemed perfectly aligned. Coincidence? Or completely unimportant? He stared in the direction of the paper mill, trying to figure out whether the tops of the smokestacks were lit at night. He’d have to check on that.
“Do they ship all the logs by barge, or do you know if they use the railroad, too?”
“I’ve never noticed, to tell you the truth. I’m sure it would be easy to find out, though.”
“Do you know how many trains use the trestle?”
“Again, I’m not sure. Sometimes I hear the whistle at night, and I’ve had to stop more than once in town at the crossing to let the train pass, but it’s not as if I could tell you for certain. I do know they make a lot of shipments from the mill, though. That’s where the train actually stops.”
Jeremy nodded as he stared at the trestle.
Lexie smiled and went on. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that maybe the light from the train shines as it goes over the trestle and that’s what’s causing the lights, right?”
“It did cross my mind.”
“That’s not it,” she said, shaking her head.
“You’re sure?”
“At night, the trains pull into the yard at the paper mill so they can be loaded the following day. So the light on the locomotive is shining in the opposite direction, away from Riker’s Hill.”
He considered that as he joined her at the railing. The wind whipped her hair, making it look wild. She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets.
“I can see why you liked growing up here,” he commented.
She turned so that she could lean back against the railing, and stared toward the downtown area—the neat little shops festooned with American flags, a barbershop pole, a small park nestled at the edge of the boardwalk. On the sidewalk, passersby moved in and out of the establishments, carrying bags. Despite the chill, no one seemed to be rushing at all.
“Well, it is a lot like New York, I have to admit.”
He laughed. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that my parents probably would have loved to raise their kids in a place like this. With big green lawns and forests to play in. Even a river where you could go swimming when it gets hot. It must have been . . . idyllic.”
“It still is. And that’s what people say about living here.”
“You seem to have thrived here.”
For an instant, she seemed almost sad. “Yeah, but I went off to college. A lot of people around here never do. It’s a poor county, and the town has been struggling ever since the textile mill and phosphorous mine closed, and a lot of parents don’t put much stock into getting a good education. That’s what’s hard sometimes—trying to convince some kids that there’s more to life than working in the paper mill across the river. I live here because I want to live here. I made the choice. But for a lot of these people, they simply stay because it’s impossible for them to leave.”
“That happens everywhere. None of my brothers went to college, either, so I was sort of the oddball, in that learning came easy for me. My parents are working-class folks and lived in Queens their whole life. My dad was a bus driver for the city. Spent forty years of his life sitting behind the wheel until he finally retired.”
She seemed amused. “That’s funny. Yesterday I had you pegged as an Upper East Sider. You know, doorman greeting you by name, prep schools, five-course meals for dinner, a butler who announces guests.”
He recoiled in mock horror. “First an only child and now this? I’m beginning to think that you perceive me as spoiled.”
“No, not spoiled . . . just . . .”
“Don’t say it,” he said, raising his hand. “I’d rather not know. Especially since it isn’t true.”
“How do you know what I was going to say?”
“Because you’re currently oh for two, and neither was particularly flattering.”
The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did,” he said with a grin. He turned around and leaned his back against the rail as well. The breeze stung his face. “But don’t worry, I won’t take it personally. Since I’m not some spoiled rich kid, I mean.”
“No. You’re an objective journalist.”
“Exactly.”
“Even though you refuse to have an open mind about anything mysterious.”
“Exactly.”
She laughed. “What about the supposed mysteriousness of women? Don’t you believe in that?”
“Oh, I know that’s true,” he said, thinking of her in particular. “But it’s different than believing the possibility of cold fusion.”
“Why?”
“Because women are a subjective mystery, not an objective one. You can’t measure anything about them scientifically, although, of course, there are genetic differences between the genders. Women only strike men as being mysterious because they don’t realize that men and women see the world differently.”
“They do, huh?”
“Sure. It goes back to evolution and the best ways to preserve the species.”
“And you’re an expert on that?”
“I have a bit of knowledge in that area, yes.”
“And so you consider yourself an expert on women, too?”
“No, not really. I’m shy, remember?”
“Uh-huh, I remember. I just don’t believe it.”
He crossed his arms. “Let me guess . . . you think I have a problem with commitment?”
She looked him over. “I think that about sums it up.”
He laughed. “What can I say? Investigative journalism is a glamorous world, and there are legions of women who yearn to be part of it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease,” she said. “It’s not like you’re a movie star or sing in a rock band. You write for Scientific American.”
“And?”
“Well, I may be from the South, but even so, I can’t imagine your magazine is deluged with groupies.”
He gazed at her triumphantly. “I think you just contradicted yourself.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re very clever, Mr. Marsh, don’t you?”
“Oh, so we’re back to ‘Mr. Marsh’ now?”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.” She tucked a blowing strand of hair behind her ear. “But you missed the fact that you don’t have to have groupies to . . . get around. All you need is to hang out in the right kind of places and pour on the charm.”
“And you think I’m charming?”
“I would say some women would find you charming.”
“But not you.”
“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you, and right now you’re doing your best to change the subject. Which probably means that I’m right but that you don’t want to admit it.”