Free True Believer by Nicholas Sparks Page A

realized the library was dispersed through both stories, since the stairs were accessed in the rear of the building, near the children’s room. One of the drawbacks to having the library housed in a former residence was that the architecture wasn’t designed for public traffic. But the place suited her.
Her office upstairs was almost always quiet, and it was close to her favorite part of the library. A small room next to hers contained the rare titles, books she’d accumulated through estate and garage sales, donations, and visits to bookstores and dealers throughout the state, a project her mother had started. She also had a growing collection of historic manuscripts and maps, some of which dated from before the Revolutionary War. This was her passion. She was always on the lookout for something special, and she wasn’t above using charm, guile, or simple pleading to get what she wanted. When that didn’t work, she stressed the tax deduction angle, and—because she had worked hard to cultivate contacts with tax and estate lawyers throughout the South—she often received items before other libraries even found out about them. While she didn’t have the resources of Duke, Wake Forest, or the University of North Carolina, her library was regarded as one of the best small libraries in the state, if not the country.
And that’s how she viewed it now. Her library, like this was her town. And right now a stranger was waiting for her, a stranger who wanted to write a story that just might not be good for her people.
Oh, she’d seen him drive up, all right. Seen him get out of the car and head around front. She’d shaken her head, recognizing the confident city swagger almost immediately. He was just another in a long line of people visiting from someplace more exotic, people who believed they had a deeper understanding of what the real world was like. People who claimed that life could be far more exciting, more fulfilling, if only you moved away. A few years ago, she’d fallen for someone who believed such things, and she refused to be taken in by such ideas again.
A cardinal landed on the outside windowsill. She watched it, clearing her head, and then sighed. Okay, she decided, she should probably go talk to Mr. Marsh from New York. He was, after all, waiting for her. He’d come all this way, and southern hospitality— as well as her job—required her to help him find what he needed. More important, though, she might be able to keep an eye on him. She’d be able to filter the information in a way that he’d understand the good parts about living here, too.
She smiled. Yes, she could handle Mr. Marsh. And besides, she had to admit that he was rather good-looking, even if he couldn’t be trusted.
Jeremy Marsh looked almost bored.
He was pacing one of the aisles, his arms crossed, glancing at the contemporary titles. Every now and then he frowned, as if wondering why he couldn’t find anything by Dickens, Chaucer, or Austen. If he asked about it, she wondered how he would react if she responded with “Who?” Knowing him—and she readily admitted she didn’t know him at all but was simply making an assumption here—he’d probably just stare at her all tongue-tied like he had when she saw him earlier in the cemetery. Men, she thought. Always predictable.
She tugged at her sweater, procrastinating for one last moment before starting toward him. Keep it professional, she reminded herself, you’re on a mission here.
“I suppose you’re looking for me,” she announced, forcing a tight smile.
Jeremy glanced up at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, he seemed frozen in place. Then all at once he smiled as recognition set in. It seemed friendly enough—his dimple was cute—but the smile was a little too practiced and wasn’t enough to offset the confidence in his eyes.
“You’re Lex?” he asked.
“It’s short for ‘Lexie.’ Lexie Darnell. It’s what Doris calls me.”
“You’re the