Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Phoebe
I get myself untangled from the ladder and land on the floor. It takes all of three seconds and isn’t nearly enough time to compose myself. Not after getting caught by anyone singing anything, ever, but especially not by some guy catching me singing about the job politics that led me out of Boston.
Singing about it badly. Operatically.
Some guy who is apparently my benefactor’s grandson?
Or so he says.
I clear my throat because opera has strained it. “Who is your grandfather?”
He tilts his head, watching me for a second like he’s deciding something. “Foster Martin. Your turn. Why are you in his library?”
Knowing who the house belongs to doesn’t necessarily make this guy a relative. It’s a well-known house.
“Can you prove you’re his grandson?”
He shrugs. “Yes. But I don’t have to. If I call the police right now, they’re questioning you, not me. Still waiting. Who are you? ”
“Phoebe Hopper, director of the Serendipity Springs Museum.”
He scans me from head to toe with a doubtful look. It would be insulting, except I get it. I’m wearing sneakers, cutoffs, and a vintage Adidas shirt that’s older than I am. My hair is in two braids to keep it off my neck in the heat, and I don’t look like the director of anything, except maybe Muppet Daycare.
“You don’t start until Monday,” he finally says.
This is definitely Foster Martin’s grandson. How else would he know that? I don’t want to antagonize him any further because I don’t want to start my tenure on the bad side of the Martin family.
“Right,” I say, fighting the urge to fidget. “I wanted to stop by and look over everything first. Which reminds me, when I came in, the back door was unlocked, and the drapes in here were open. That’s bad for the books.” See? I’m getting right to work.
“Probably not as bad as riding the ladder like Cirque du Soleil.”
Why am I trying to brazen this out? He caught me dead to rights, and there’s no point trying to turn it around on him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pinch the bridge of my nose, and take a deep breath before I force myself to relax and face him again. “You’re right. Sorry. I wanted to do it before I’m official, and it’s conduct unbecoming of a museum director. But for what it’s worth, I was careful where I placed my foot for launch.”
He smiles, and for the first time, I truly look at him. He’s tall and lean with medium-length dark wavy hair and a distinct five o’clock shadow. Together, they would say “Hollywood lumberjack,” but he’s wearing a gray Stanford T-shirt, black shorts, and black nubuck slip-on loafers that scream “I spent summers in Martha’s Vineyard but went to Stanford to rebel.”
That smile, though. That smile, in a silky whisper, spells t-r-o-u-b-l-e.
I’ve hit my limit with East Coast pretty boys. Been there, done that, not going back. At least, not going back until I have a newly opened museum on my resume to wave in front of pretty boy Hayes Bradford’s face.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less than careful foot placement from a museum director. Although if you want the best ride, it’s definitely the biography section.” He nods to the far wall of the library. “Don’t know what it is, but you can go about three feet farther from a push in that section than anywhere else.”
I relax slightly, realizing I’m not in trouble. “Thank you for that tip, uh …” I trail off because he hasn’t given me his name.
“Jay Martin,” he says. “Favorite grandchild of Foster Martin.”
“How do your cousins feel about that?”
He grins. “I’m the only grandchild.”
That makes me laugh. “You remind me of him. Of Foster.”
His smile turns wistful. “I hear that a lot.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m appalled it’s not the first thing I said when he told me who he is. “I got to know him well when he visited the Sutton, and I enjoyed his company. I’m sorry I couldn’t attend his service. I heard it was beautiful.” I’d gone home to Florida after my dad suffered a heart attack, but I couldn’t go back to Boston until I was sure for myself he was fine, and that meant missing Foster Martin’s funeral.
“Thank you,” he says. “My parents tried hard to make it worthy of him.”
There’s an awkward pause, and I decide that while I’m not sure what kind of access Jay Martin is supposed to have to the house, he has more of a right to be here than I do at the moment. “I should go,” I say, breaking the silence. Poor guy was probably here saying his last goodbye to this property, which has been in his family for generations. “I need to go get moved into my new place. I’m sorry I interrupted your day.”
He moves out of the doorway to let me pass. “Don’t worry about it. See you Monday.”
“Right, see you Monday.” I try not to show my confusion. Why will I see him Monday? I haven’t made my first official hire yet, and the only person I’m scheduled to meet with is the estate attorney. “I’ll see myself out.”
I trace my steps back to the kitchen, leaving the way I came, calling Daniel as I go. “Hey, I’m ready to go find my apartment. I need a whole new building to make a fool of myself in.”