Deadly Ever After Eva Gates (best free ereader txt) 📖

“Thanks,” I said. “Connor’s a fabulous man.”

“He has to be. To land you. I mean it, Lucy.”

I stopped walking and turned to face him. “Why are you here, Ricky?”

“Why? For the same reason Mom sent me to get her a glass of wine she doesn’t want. She doesn’t want to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials either. She wants you and me to get back together.”

“Is that what you want, Ricky?”

He studied my face. He was a handsome man, in that New England preppy way, the look accented by the outfit he was wearing. I hadn’t seen him for a long time, but he looked the same as I remembered, although perhaps he had a bit less hair and had put on some weight, all of it around the middle. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up with a stomach like a basketball by the time he turned forty. He was losing his hair quickly, and I knew he was self-conscious about it, but he didn’t go to great lengths to try to cover up the bald spots. Ricky and I had dated for a long time. A very long time. When he finally proposed to me, I realized that the only reason we were still together was because our parents expected it of us. The Lewiston and Richardson families go back a long way; Ricky’s grandfather founded a law firm with my grandfather. Both our fathers were partners there, and Ricky had joined the firm straight out of law school.

“I’ve thought about a lot of things over the past year, Lucy. You most of all.” He rubbed at his chin. “I was about to call several times, but …”

“But you didn’t really care, Ricky. That’s okay. I understand. That’s why I left. Because I understood that neither you nor I much cared if we got married.”

“Things change.”

“Some things change. Some things don’t.”

“If you want to get that glass of wine”—Connor slipped his arm around my shoulders but he kept his eyes on Ricky—“you’d better hurry. They’re packing up the bar.”

I glanced over to see Blair, who worked for Josie, standing by the nearly empty table, watching me with a question on his face. One bottle of white wine and several acrylic glasses were all that remained of our feast.

“Nah,” Ricky said. “We’ll go for drinks before dinner.”

“Sounds like fun,” Connor said. He didn’t add Not, but it was implied.

Ricky looked at me one more time and then headed back toward the group.

“Everything okay?” Connor asked.

“Yeah.” I wrapped my arms around his waist. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Worry? I wasn’t worried.”

Curse good manners, whether southern or Boston Brahmin. Evangeline and Ricky had come all this way to toast my engagement, and Mom wouldn’t let me back out of having dinner with them at least once. We’d been able to get out of it on Sunday on the grounds that we’d all had so much to eat and drink at the party, but somehow I got talked into joining them on Monday evening.

As I should have expected, Evangeline couldn’t let an entire day pass without reminding me of all I would be missing if I didn’t marry her son, and Monday morning she sailed into the library on a scented cloud of Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds, tottering on sandals with killer heels and draped in the latest summer wear from Dolce & Gabbana, not long after we opened for the day.

“Goodness,” she said to me, after passing her lips a few inches off my right cheek. “This library is … small. When I drove up, I thought I must be at the wrong place, but then I saw people walking out with books.”

“It is small,” I said, “but perfect. Somehow the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library seems to be able to stretch at the seams when necessary. Would you like a tour?”

“Another time, perhaps. That’s not why I’m here. Now, Lucille, we’ve known each other for a long time. I remember the day your mother brought you home from the hospital. She was so delighted to have a darling little girl at last. Of course, your father was delighted too. I—”

“This is the main level, with our fiction collection and popular-interest nonfiction. The children’s library’s on the second floor; the rare-books room is accessed by the back staircase. Our academic librarian, Charlene Clayton, is available to assist—”

She waved her hand in the air. “That’s all well and good, dear, but I would have thought a librarian as qualified, as professional, as experienced as you would get tired in this little … public space.” Evangeline glanced around, taking in the shelves groaning under the weight of popular fiction, books for cooking and gardening enthusiasts, general history; the line of computers for use by our patrons; the cardboard cutout of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in the alcove next to the table on which rested a deerstalker hat and pipe and a selection of modern Holmes pastiche novels. The display had been arranged as supplemental material for this month’s classic novel book club reading of The Hound of the Baskervilles. “And Sherlock Holmes. Could this place get more … pedestrian?”

At that moment, another one of the library employees awoke from his nap in the comfortable wingback chair next to the magazine rack. Charles yawned mightily and stretched.

Evangeline noticed him for the first time and let out a frightened squeak. “And a … cat. You allow a cat in the library? Really, Lucy. What’s next? A horse?”

“That’s an idea,” I said. “But I don’t think even this library can stretch that much. Where’s your dog?”

“Fluffy’s waiting in the car. I don’t bring her with me everywhere, dear. Don’t worry; I left the engine running to keep the air conditioning on.” Charles leapt off the chair and wound himself around Evangeline’s legs. She took a step back. He took a step forward. Like most cats, Charles knows when people don’t like cats. And, like most cats, he makes the most