True Believer Part 22

"I didn't figure that part out yet."

"And where did you intend to stay while you were out here?"

"I haven't figured that part out yet, either."

"At least you're honest about it," she said, smiling. "But tell me, what would you have done if I wasn't here?"

"Where else would you have gone?"

She glanced away, liking the fact that he'd remembered this about her. In the distance, she saw the lights of a shrimp trawler moving so slowly it almost seemed stationary.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"I'm starved. I haven't eaten anything all day."

"Would you like to have dinner?"

"Do you know a nice place?"

"I have a pretty good place in mind."

"Do they take credit cards?" he asked. "I used all my cash to get here."

"I'm sure," she said, "that we'll be able to work something out."

Turning from the lighthouse, they made their way back down the beach, walking along the compact sand near the water's edge. There was a s.p.a.ce between them that neither seemed willing to cross. Instead, with their noses turning red in the chill, they moved steadily forward, as if pulled toward the place that both were meant to be.

In the silence, Jeremy mentally replayed his journey here, feeling a pang of guilt about Nate and Alvin. He'd missed the conference call-there had been no reception at all as he was crossing the Pamlico Sound-and figured that he should probably call from the landline as soon as he was able, though he wasn't looking forward to it. Nate, he suspected, had been revving up for hours and was waiting for Jeremy's call so he could finally go ballistic, but Jeremy planned to suggest a meeting with the producers next week, complete with the footage and the outlines of the story, an idea that he suspected had been the whole point of the call, anyway. If that wasn't enough to appease them, if missing a single call could end his career before it started, then he wasn't sure he wanted to work in television.

And Alvin . . . well, that was a little easier. There was no way Jeremy could get back to Boone Creek to meet Alvin tonight-he'd come to that realization by the time the boat had dropped him off-but Alvin had a cell phone, and he'd explain what was going on. Alvin wouldn't be happy about having to work alone tonight, but he'd recover by tomorrow. Alvin was one of those rare people who never let anything bother them for more than a day.

Yet, being honest with himself, Jeremy admitted that he didn't really care about any of that now. Instead, all that seemed to matter was that he was walking with Lexie on a quiet beach in the middle of nowhere and that as they trudged into the salty breeze, she quietly looped her arm through his.

Lexie led the way up the warped wooden steps of the old bugalow and hung her jacket on the rack beside the door. Jeremy hung his as well, along with his satchel. As she walked ahead of him through the living room, Jeremy watched her, thinking again that she was beautiful.

"Do you like pasta?" she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"Are you kidding? I grew up on pasta. My mother happens to be Italian."

"Good," she said. "Because that's what I planned on making."

"We're eating here?"

"I guess we have to," she said over her shoulder. "You're out of cash, remember?"

The kitchen was small, with fading yellow paint, flowery wallpaper that was peeling in the corners, scuffed cabinets, and a small painted table set beneath the window. On the counters were the groceries she'd picked up earlier. Reaching into the first bag, she pulled out a box of Cheerios and a loaf of bread. From his spot near the sink, Jeremy saw a flash of her skin when she stood on her toes to put them in the cupboard.

"Do you need a hand?" he asked.

"No, I've got it, thanks," she said, turning around. After straightening her shirt, she reached into another bag and set two onions off to the side, along with two large cans of San Marzano tomatoes. "But while I'm doing this, do you want something to drink? I have a six-pack of beer in the refrigerator if you're interested."

He widened his eyes, feigning shock. "You have beer? I thought you didn't drink much."

"I don't."

"For someone who doesn't drink, though, a six-pack can do a lot of damage." He shook his head before going on. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were planning to go on a bender this weekend."

She shot him a withering look, but, like yesterday, there was something playful in it. "It's more than enough to get me through the month, thank you very much. Now, would you like one or not?"

He smiled, relieved at their familiar exchange. "I'd love one, thanks."

"Would you mind getting it, though? I've got to get the sauce going."

Jeremy moved to the refrigerator and pulled two bottles of Coors Light from the six-pack. He twisted one cap off and then the other before setting a bottle before her. When she saw it, he shrugged. "I hate to drink alone," he said.

He raised his bottle in toast and she lifted hers as well. They clinked bottles without a word. Leaning against the counter beside her, he crossed one leg over the other. "Just to let you know, I'm pretty good at chopping if you need help."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said.

He smiled. "How long has your family owned this place?"

"My grandparents bought it right after World War II. Back then, there wasn't even a road on the island. You had to drive across the sand to get here. There are some pictures in the living room of how this place looked back then."

"Would you mind if I took a look?"

"Go ahead. I'm still getting things ready. There's a bathroom down the hall if you want to wash up before dinner. In the guest bedroom on the right."

Moving to the living room, Jeremy examined the pictures of rustic sh.o.r.e life, then noticed Lexie's suitcase near the couch. After debating for an instant, he grabbed it and headed down the hall. On the left, he saw an airy room with a large pedestal bed topped by a seash.e.l.l-patterned comforter. The walls were decorated with additional photos portraying the Outer Banks. a.s.suming this was her room, he set her suitcase just inside the door.

Crossing the hall, he entered the other room. It was nautical in theme, and the navy curtains provided a nice contrast to the wooden end tables and dresser. As he slipped off his shoes and socks at the foot of the bed, he wondered what it would be like to sleep in here while knowing Lexie was alone across the hall.

At the bathroom sink, he peeked at himself in the mirror and used his hands in an attempt to get a semblance of control over his hair again. His skin was coated with a thin layer of salt, and after washing his hands, he splashed water on his face as well. Feeling somewhat better, he went back to the kitchen and heard the melancholy notes of the Beatles' "Yesterday" coming from a small radio on the windowsill.

"Ready for some help yet?" he asked. Beside her, he saw a medium-size salad bowl; in it were small chunks of tomatoes and olives.

While rinsing the lettuce, Lexie nodded toward the onions. "I'm almost done with the salad, but would you mind taking the skin off those?"

"Sure. Do you need me to dice them, too?"

"No, that's okay. Just take off the skins. The knife is in the drawer there."

Jeremy pulled out a steak knife, and reached for the onions on the counter. For a moment, they worked without speaking, listening to the music. As she finished with the lettuce and set it off to the side, Lexie tried to ignore how close they were standing together. But from the corner of her eye, she couldn't help admiring Jeremy's casual grace, along with the plane of his hips and legs, the broad shoulders, the high cheekbones.

Jeremy held up a bald onion, oblivious to what she'd been thinking. "Like this?"

"Just like that," she said.

"Are you sure you don't want me to dice it?"

"No. If you do, you'll ruin the sauce, and I'll never forgive you."

"Everyone dices the onions. My Italian mother Italian mother dices the onions." dices the onions."

"Not me."

"So you're just going to put these big round onions in the sauce?"

"No. I'll cut them in half first."

"Can I at least do that?"

"No, thanks. I'd hate to put you out." She smiled. "And besides, I'm the cook, remember? You just watch and learn. Right now think of yourself as . . . the prep boy."

He glanced at her. Since they'd come in from the cold, the rosiness in her cheeks had faded, leaving her skin with a fresh, natural glow.

"The prep boy?"

She shrugged. "What can I say? Your mom might have been Italian, but I grew up with a grandmother who tried just about every recipe out there."

"And that makes you an expert?"

"No, but it made Doris one, and for a long time, I was the prep girl. I learned through osmosis and now it's your turn."

He reached for the second onion. "Tell me, then, what's so special about your recipe? Aside from having onions the size of baseb.a.l.l.s, I mean."

She took the skinned onion and sliced it in half. "Well, since your mother was Italian, I'm sure you've heard of San Marzano tomatoes."

"Of course," he said. "They're tomatoes. From San Marzano."

"Ha, ha," she said. "Actually, they're the sweetest and most flavorful of all tomatoes, especially in sauces. Now, watch and learn."

She pulled out a pot from beneath the stove and set it off to the side, then turned on the gas and lit the fumes under the burner. The blue flame whooshed to life, and she set the empty pot on top of it.

"I'm impressed so far," he said, finishing the second onion and setting it aside. He picked up his beer and leaned against the counter again. "You should get your own cooking show."

Ignoring him, she poured both cans of tomatoes into the pot, then added a whole stick of b.u.t.ter to the sauce. Jeremy peeked over her shoulder, watching as the b.u.t.ter began to melt.

"Looks healthy," he said. "My doctor always told me I needed extra cholesterol in my diet."

"Did you know you have a tendency toward sarcasm?"

"I've heard that," he said, raising his bottle. "But thanks for noticing."

"Are you done with the other onion yet?"

"I am the prep boy, aren't I?" he said, handing it over.

She split that one as well before adding all four halves to the sauce. Stirring for a moment with a long wooden spoon, she let it come to a boil, then set the heat on low.

"Okay, then," she said, satisfied, returning to the sink, "we're done for now. It'll be ready in an hour and a half."

As she washed her hands, Jeremy peeked into the saucepan, frowning. "That's it? No garlic? No salt and pepper? No sausage? No meatb.a.l.l.s?"

She shook her head. "Three ingredients only. Of course, we'll pour it over linguine and top it with some fresh-grated Parmesan cheese."

"This isn't very Italian."

"Actually, it is. It's the way they've made it in San Marzano for hundreds of years. That's in Italy, by the way." She turned the faucet off, shook her hands over the sink, and dried them on a dish towel. "But since we've got some time, I'm going to clean up before dinner," she said. "Which means you'll be on your own for a bit."

"Don't worry about me. I'll figure out something."

"If you'd like, you can take a shower," she said. "I'll set some towels out for you."

Still feeling the salt on his neck and arms, it took only an instant for him to agree. "Thanks. That would be great."

"Give me just a minute to set things up for you, okay?"

She smiled and grabbed her beer as she squeezed past him, feeling his eyes on her hips. She wondered whether he was feeling as self-conscious as she was.

At the end of the hall, she opened the closet door, grabbed a couple of towels, and put them on his bed. Beneath the sink in his bathroom were a.s.ssorted shampoos and a new bar of soap, and she set those out as well. As she did, she caught a reflection of herself in the mirror and had the sudden image of Jeremy wrapped in a towel after showering. The image made something jump inside. She drew a long breath, feeling like a teenager again.

"h.e.l.lo?" she heard him call. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the bathroom," she answered, amazed by how calm her voice sounded. "Just making sure you have everything you need."

He came up behind her. "You wouldn't happen to have a disposable razor in any of those drawers, would you?"

"No, sorry," she said. "I'll look in my bathroom, too, but . . ."

"No big deal," he said, running his hand over his whiskers. "I'll just go with the scruffy look tonight."

Scruffy would be just fine, she decided, feeling herself blush. Turning away so he wouldn't notice, she motioned to the shampoos. "Use whichever one you want," she said. "And keep in mind that it takes a while for the hot water to come out, so just be patient."

"Will do," he said. "But I did want to ask if it's okay to use your phone. I have to make a couple of calls."

She nodded. "The phone's in the kitchen."

Edging past him, she sensed him watching her again, though she didn't turn around to check. Instead, she went to her room, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it, embarra.s.sed at the foolish way she'd been feeling. Nothing had happened, nothing would happen, she told herself again. She locked the door, hoping it would be enough to block out her thoughts. And it worked, at least for a moment, until she noticed that he'd placed her suitcase in her room.

Knowing that he'd been in here moments before gave her such a rush of forbidden antic.i.p.ation that, even though she willed her mind blank, she had to admit that she'd been lying to herself all along.

By the time Jeremy returned to the kitchen after his shower, he could smell the sauce as it simmered on the stove. He finished his beer, found the garbage can below the sink, and threw the bottle away, then got another from the fridge. On the shelf below, he saw a fresh block of Parmesan cheese and an unopened jar of Amfiso olives; he debated sneaking one before deciding against it.

Locating the phone, he dialed Nate's office number and was put through immediately. For the first twenty seconds, he held the receiver away from his ear while Nate went off the deep end, but when he finally calmed down, he reacted positively to Jeremy's suggestion about the meeting next week. Jeremy ended the call with a promise to talk to him again tomorrow morning.

Alvin, on the other hand, was impossible to reach. After dialing the number and getting his voice mail, Jeremy waited for a minute and tried again with the same result. The clock in the kitchen showed that it was almost six, and Jeremy figured that Alvin was somewhere on the highway. Hopefully, they'd have a chance to talk before he went out tonight.

With nothing else to do and Lexie still nowhere in sight, Jeremy slipped out the back door and stood on the porch. The chill had deepened. The ever-increasing wind was cold and sharp, and though he couldn't see the ocean, the waves rolled continuously, the sound rhythmic, lulling him into an almost trancelike state.