Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Phoebe
About fifteen minutes later, after Daniel has laughed way longer than he needed to at my library misadventure, we stop in front of a four-story building with the words “The Serendipity” spelled out on a sign near its entrance.
“Just keep the engine running while I make sure I can get my keys.” I hop out and check the building manager’s email with the procedure for picking up my apartment key. He’d mailed me the building key and told me to get my unit key from my mailbox, giving me the code to open it with the ominous caveat They’re older and sometimes the combination locks require patience .
My job offer came with a year’s paid lease on an apartment here, and it’s hard to say no to free housing, even if I didn’t pick it for myself. But I like the sturdy lines of the brick building, and despite its obvious age, it’s clearly well-kept, with tidy landscaping and fresh paint on the cornice scrollwork near the roof.
I checked it out online, of course. Former tenants gave it high marks, and even though the words “quirky” and “ unusual” came up several times, the only outright negative review was from someone who said the building hated them. Okay, lol.
I climb the concrete stairs, loving the sense of well-kept age about everything from the mellow brick to the tended vines that grow across them. I can’t wait to study the architecture and layout later. I’m reaching for the building key in my pocket when I hear a click like a lock disengaging. When I try the handle, it opens. Hmm. Convenient, but I hope it’s not open all the time.
I hook a right at the front desk—empty, as the email stated it would be—and head to the bank of mailboxes. I’m surprised to see they share a wall with a kitchen. I file away a question for later about why there’s a communal kitchen. Maybe this place was converted to apartments from a hotel? That would explain the check-in desk.
The mailboxes must be original, their brass faces showing the patina of age. I love it. Everything from the crown molding to the vintage mailboxes relaxes me. I fell in love with the character of so many historic Boston buildings that it’s a bonus to live in one with the same character while I’m here.
I spot the cubby with my last name and check the combo in the email one more time. I haven’t seen this kind of lock before. It has three pairs of letters with a dial. I follow the directions exactly, but it doesn’t work. I check the code and try again. Still nothing. Hmm. I can’t say I wasn’t warned.
Even though I go slowly on my third attempt, stopping after each letter pair in the combo to check the code again, it still doesn’t open. But curators have exceptional patience with finicky antiques and even a few special strategies for getting old objects to cooperate. I’ve overheard more than one curator sweet-talking an artifact to get it to work .
I step back to study the bank of mailboxes. The building isn’t Art Deco, but the door to each cubby has a raised border in an Egyptian square motif etched around its edges, a popular pattern from the Art Deco era. I don’t see anyone near me, so I lean forward, my mouth close to the dial as if it’s a listening ear. “Hey, friend. Art Deco was the best deco.”
I am one of the curators I’ve overheard sweet-talking artifacts. We do it because it works.
Sometimes.
This time when I work the lock exactly like I did the other three times, it opens easily. “Thank you,” I tell it and peer inside to see my keys sitting on top of an envelope.
I pull them both out, thinking it’s a welcome note with further info from the manager, but it’s not. It’s a letter addressed to Smitten Kitten in 3E with the correct street address, city, state, and zip code. Must be for the former occupant in my apartment. I slip it through the slot for outgoing mail and head back outside to meet Daniel, making a note of the elevator on the other side of the building entrance. I may only own enough to fill the smallest rental truck, but that doesn’t mean I want to carry it all up three flights of stairs.
Daniel is climbing out of the moving truck when I reach the sidewalk.
“Looks quiet and not murdery,” he says, studying the building.
“I value ‘not murdery’ over everything, even closet space,” I answer, rounding to the back of the truck. “Ready to do this?”
He answers with an exaggerated stretch of his lower back and a wince.
“You okay, old man?” I ask as I slide up the rolling door.
“Shut up, Phoebe,” Daniel says without any heat. “You laugh now, but you’ll be my age in two years, and it won’t be so funny anymore.”
I fake a serious expression. “Sorry for the lack of respect to my elders. Keep giving me your wisdom on aging.”
“Brat.” He lets down the ramp. “You’re so smug because you’re in your twenties, but thirty comes for us all.”
“Not until August. I’m going to revel in my last two months of being a youth.”
“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” he mutters.
“I just said I would.” I hop straight to the deck of the truck. “I’m going to carpe the heck out of the diem for the next two months before I’m also stricken with old age.”
“You think you’ll have time?” he asks as he unstraps the dolly.
“I don’t know, to be honest. Getting the museum open is my priority.” Along with redemption and revenge in the form of succeeding where too many people expect me to fail. “Even if I found free time, I don’t know anyone in Serendipity Springs to carpe any diems with.”
“Try me,” a female voice says behind us.
Daniel and I turn to see a tall woman about my age coming up the sidewalk. She waves, and we wave back.
“You must be the new tenant,” she says. “I’m Scarlett. I know your last name is Hopper because it’s been on your mailbox since Wednesday.”
“Phoebe Hopper,” I offer, “and this is my elderly brother, Daniel.” Daniel rolls his eyes. “He’s helping me move in.”
“I’ll help too,” she says.
Daniel raises his eyebrows. “Friendly. That’s a nice change.”
“Boston isn’t unfriendly,” I say, feeling defensive. “Daniel flew in from Tampa, and he’s not an East Coast guy. He’s never understood my love for Boston.”
“What brings you to Serendipity Springs?” Scarlett asks .
“I was hired as the new director of the city museum.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “We have a museum? I love history, and I swear I would have noticed a museum.”
Daniel can’t hide his pride when he says, “You don’t yet, but you will when Phoebe is done. Some dead guy poached her from the Sutton Museum in Boston.”
“Rude, Daniel,” I say.
“What?” he asks. “It’s not rude to say someone is dead. They’re dead. They don’t care.”
“What my brother means to say,” I tell Scarlett, “is that Foster Martin left his home and grounds to become a museum after his passing. I’ve been hired to make it happen.”
“That’s so cool,” Scarlett says. “I had no idea we’re getting our own museum. Welcome! You’ll love The Serendipity. This building has a lot of character. Perfect for a museum boss. Now, what can I help you bring up?”
Daniel and I each grab a box from the truck and follow Scarlett as she leads the way to the elevator, and she peppers me with a mixture of facts about the building and questions as we rise.
“We were wondering who would end up with that place,” she says when we step into the third-floor hallway. “It’s been empty for almost two years, and I tried to rent it, but someone was paying for the lease and keeping it vacant, so I’m in the basement instead. A new owner bought The Serendipity this spring, but a condition of the sale was that he couldn’t lease that unit, so I still couldn’t get it. I don’t know the details, but I’ve been dying of curiosity since your name went up on the mailbox.”
“Sorry I kept you out of it. I didn’t even know about it until a couple months ago.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’ve made the basement my jam. I wouldn’t want to trade now. ”
“I hope that’s how I feel about my place. I haven’t seen it yet,” I tell her.
She stops and causes a chain reaction as we stop behind her. “You didn’t check it out before you signed the lease?”
I shake my head. “I saw pictures. A one-year paid lease here is part of my salary package, and since it didn’t look like a meth house, I figured I’d be an idiot not to take it.”
“That means a lot coming from Phoebe,” Daniel says. “She knows her meth houses.”
“Get wrecked,” I say sweetly.
“Let’s find out for sure,” Scarlett says. She leads us down the hall and stops to the side of a door with 3E on it. “Welcome home.”
For a year, anyway . But I keep that thought to myself. I’ll be here long enough to make a point to my former boss, but when the lease runs out on this place, I’m going back to the Sutton, where I’ll get a new title and more respect than I left with.
I step into my new apartment, glancing around the empty space. Like the rest of the building I’ve glimpsed, it boasts sturdy 1930s construction and design with thick walls, original wood floors, and high ceilings with crown molding. Midmorning sunlight floods through the east windows, and the greenery from the park next door immediately gives me an earthy, homey feeling.
Daniel steps in and sets his box down. “This one says living room, so I’ll leave it here.”
“Explore,” Scarlett says after setting down her box. “We’ll go get some more boxes while you check it out.”
I appreciate her thoughtfulness in letting me meet my new place without an audience. I can already sense that I’m going to like it here, but it’s nice to not have to “perform” how much I like it for my new neighbors.
It’s laid out well, oriented more deep than wide. The front door opens into the living room space with a dining area bigger than I need for my two-person café table. I walk down the short hallway, passing the first empty room to find my new bedroom at the end. It’s more than enough space for my queen-sized bed and dresser, and the closet is adequate. The natural light is nice, and I like the way it feels in here.
But when I walk into the kitchen, I encounter the ghost of Foster Martin.