Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Jay
I have no idea what I thought a museum director named Phoebe would look like. Phoebe is kind of an any-era name. I guess I imagined a middle-aged woman with sensible shoes and an air of terrifying competence.
When I caught a hottie with a nice body and long dark braids joyriding on the library ladder in cutoffs and sneakers, I did not expect her to be the new museum director. It’s a positive development, all in all. The only thing that threw me besides her ladder riding was her apparent lack of knowledge about who I am. Maybe she didn’t read the terms of Grandad’s trust that closely. It’s the only way I can see her being surprised by my presence on the property.
Well, she’ll get used to it. At least until I get this book to my publisher.
Strangely, it’s not a red flag. Not if Foster Martin handpicked her for the job. My grandfather was an excellent judge of character and an absolute history fanatic. We’ll never know if my obsession with history is nurture or nature, but either way, it came from Grandad. He spent the last fifteen years of his life preparing to pass his estate to the city. He wouldn’t have entrusted its transformation into a museum to just anyone. Phoebe Hopper is no doubt excellent in her field.
I glance at the time on my laptop screen. I’ve managed to piece together two chapters with a narrative through-line that occurred to me as I was falling asleep last night, and I think it works.
I yawn, having written through the night once the idea grabbed me. I’ve learned the hard way that I might as well get up and go with it when that happens. If I don’t and try to remember it the next morning, it will be lost in whatever dream I had, because mine are Technicolor and weird. I remember once I thought a brilliant idea had come to me, fell asleep happy, and woke up with no idea how to excavate it from a dream I’d had where I was made the king of Canada and spent the whole time trying and sentencing goose after goose to prison labor.
It’s not even helpful to keep a notebook or my phone nearby to write it down. That wakes me all the way up anyway, so I might as well work.
I yawn again, wishing I had time to make coffee, but the executor and director will be here any minute. Well, at the big house.
I save my work and slip on my flip-flops beside the door. I can only see one of my sneakers at the moment, and I’d rather show up in sandals than be late looking for a Nike.
A spotted fawn disappears into the underbrush as I start across the grounds, and I smile. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a deer around here, but it’s not a daily occurrence either. Grandad returned the back part of the property to native landscaping decades ago, and it’s always full of scurries and chirps.
Two hares race across the grass in front of me as if to make the point, and I’m smiling when I unlock the back door of the house. As I walk in, I hear the sound of the front door opening and the murmur of voices. I meet them in the foyer, and two pairs of eyes fix on me, one pair warm, one pair surprised and maybe not thrilled about it.
“Good morning, Jay,” Harvey Bullard, my grandfather’s longtime friend and lawyer, says. “How’s work?”
“Fine,” I say, more interested in Phoebe Hopper. I missed something critical about her on Saturday, and I don’t know how, because it’s her most striking feature: her eyes. They’re a color of brown I’ve never seen before, at least not in someone’s eyes. They’re light and maybe copper? Or honey? I narrow mine as I study hers, trying to think what it is they remind me of. Then it clicks. “Have you seen the bottle room?”
“Yes?” She says it with a rising inflection that asks me to explain why I want to know.
Now is probably not the time to get into her eye color. Not with Harvey there as a witness, ready to go laugh with all of Grandad’s friends about how Jay stood there mooning over the new director.
“It’s cool. The bottle room.” I’ll explain why it matters when Harvey isn’t around to watch me do my thing.
She gives me an odd look but lets it go. She is dressed in sensible shoes and an air of terrifying competence. Her hair is drawn into a low ponytail and she’s wearing a plain black cardigan, white blouse, black pants, and loafers. It’s professional, and yet … I frown. I don’t know anything about women’s fashion, but something about the cut and style and the way she’s put it all together feels more Jackie O than CEO. Huh. Interesting. Somehow she’s coloring outside the lines while wearing black and white.
“Something wrong?” Harvey asks, eyeing my expression.
I smooth it out. “Sorry, haven’t had my coffee yet. Wanted to come over to welcome the new director.”
“Phoebe Hopper, meet Jay Martin,” Harvey says. “He’s Foster’s grandson and one of the museum’s board members. I imagine you’ll bump into him quite often on the grounds while he’s in residence.”
Her lashes make the barest flutter. “In residence?”
I’m right—she didn’t read the fine print.
“I use the caretaker’s cottage from time to time,” I tell her. “It’s one of the provisions of the trust.”
“Unlimited access for as long as he wishes until such time as he may decide to sign it over to the trust,” Harvey says, his tone pleasant. “Don’t worry, he’s a good egg.”
She gives her head a small shake. “I’m sorry, somehow I missed that. I take responsibility. Mr. Martin’s documents were comprehensive, and your explanation was thorough. My apologies for overlooking that.”
“Understandable,” Harvey says. “It’s two sentences in a thirty-page section in the will, and you’ve had a lot of information to digest. He’ll be a good resource for you until you build up your own staff of experts.”
“That’s the first order of business,” she says. “My highest priority is staffing. I’ve prepared a phased plan for a smooth hiring and onboarding experience. Today will be about a careful inspection of assets and property, so I can draft appropriate job postings for an archivist and curator. I have several contacts I want to reach out to for direct recruiting as well.”
Hmm. She’s much more formal when she’s not riding the library ladder.
“No contacts from the Sutton, of course,” Harvey Bullard says.
Now it’s Phoebe’s turn to frown. “I don’t intend to do any recruiting from the Sutton for my own reasons, but why would you make that specific provision? Surely their staff is all highly qualified.”
“Of course, but one of Foster’s board choices can’t accept the appointment if we recruit from the Sutton. ”
I swear she tenses, her body going still, her eyes wary as she asks, “Who is it?”
“Catherine Crawford.”
I don’t know who Catherine Crawford is, but the effect her name has on Phoebe is fascinating. Grandad hand-selected the board he wanted to oversee the birth of his dream. Some of them he informed of his wishes before his passing. Others, Harvey has had to track down and solicit, waiting patiently for them to make a decision. Catherine Crawford must be one of those.
A slight flush rises in Phoebe’s cheeks, but her voice is even when she repeats, “Catherine Crawford is on the board?”
“Yes, just agreed last week,” Harvey says. “Oh, that’s right, you must know her already from the Sutton.”
“She’s a trustee there,” Phoebe says. “I’ve worked with her.”
She’s not giving away whether this is good or bad.
“I was not aware trustees could serve on multiple museum boards,” Phoebe continues. Her voice stays neutral.
“Generally, they can’t,” Harvey says. “She has to be able to fulfill a duty of loyalty to both institutions. In this case, there will be no competing collections since the purpose of each museum is different and each serves different communities. But it does mean that Catherine must avoid the perception of siphoning talent from the Sutton staff.”
“She’ll have no cause for concern,” Phoebe says.
“Good. We’ll go over the other new trustees as well, but it’s your world now, Ms. Hopper, and we’re simply living in it.” Harvey gives an expansive wave of his hand, as if to encompass the entirety of the house and grounds. “Where does Madam Director choose to begin?”
She hitches the laptop bag on her shoulder. “I’d like to deposit my things somewhere, ideally in an appropriate work space. ”
So stiff. Wow. It can’t be good to be wound so tight. “Harvey, why don’t I do the tour? No use charging the estate your extortionate hourly billing.”
Harvey chuckles, but Phoebe answers. “That’s considerate of you, Jay, but I’ll need a great deal in the way of technical specs. Plus, I had a tour when I was here before.”
“You’ll want Jay to give you a tour anyway,” Harvey says. “He knows every inch of this property, and he won’t bill you for the tour. Besides, it will give you a chance to get to know the vice chair of the board.”
Phoebe blinks, looks at my flip-flops, and gives me a polite smile. Her mouth says, “That sounds efficient,” but her eyes say Vice chairs don’t wear flip-flops.
“Excellent. I’ll head over to my office and let some other clients overpay me,” he says with a wink. “Phoebe, call me if you need anything. You have my number.”
“Thank you, Harvey.” Her eyes follow him as he shows himself out before she turns back to me. When she does, her shoulders relax and she slides her hands into the pockets of her suit pants, head tilted like she’s out observing something interesting in nature.
“Vice chair of the board, huh? You didn’t mention that on Saturday.”
“I forgot when I was overcome by your opera performance.”
She nods. “That tracks. It was pretty stunning.”
Ha. Her starch disappeared with Harvey out the door, apparently. “Ready for the tour?”
“Don’t rush. We have time for you to brush your hair.”
There is the tiniest whiff of a smirk about her when she says it, and I smother a grin. She’s paying me back for catching her joyriding.
“I wouldn’t mind making some coffee. Until you decide where you want your office, why don’t you set up in the library for now? I believe you know how to find it. Overly sunny with a rolling ladder?”
She’s fighting a retort, and I hope she loses. I want to hear it.
She sticks her tongue out, then composes her face like it never happened and turns down the hall toward the library.
Ah, there she is. I grin all the way out the back door.