Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Phoebe
Jay Martin is a charmer. I know the type. He shows up in bare feet—practically—wrinkled Nantucket Reds, a Celtics shirt, and rumpled hair, clearly only arriving on time because he apparently lives in the backyard and expects to be forgiven for his lack of preparation. Maybe even admired for it.
It doesn’t bother me. I’m just not taken in by it. The only real concern here is that if Jay Martin is the type I think he is, he will not be able to resist trying to charm me or any other human in his proximity, man, woman, or child. Which only matters because I possibly have a weakness for handsome East Coast boys with a certain old-school Kennedys-on-vacation vibe.
Knowing is half the battle. Knowing he’s my type will keep me on my toes around him, because the very last thing I need right now is a … boyfriend? Situationship? Romance? Entanglement? Any of the above. The very last thing I need right now is anything like that in the workplace.
I’m pretty good about not making the same mistake twice.
The library curtains are open again, and I shake my head, setting my bag on the large wooden desk and closing them. Then I take a seat, pull out my laptop, and run a hotspot so I can be productive until Jay returns. Not sure it’s worth the free tour if it’s going to cost me time.
I’m drafting a job listing for an archivist when Jay returns ten minutes later carrying two cups of coffee. He extends one to me. “I’m an Americano guy, but since I don’t know how you take it, there’s cream and sugar in the kitchen.”
“Thank you. That was thoughtful.” I’m not surprised. It’s Charm 101.
“You figured out the Wi-Fi?” he said.
“No, I ran a hotspot off my phone. Why don’t we start with getting me logged in for real?”
“How about if I text it to you?” he says.
I refrain from an eyeroll and rattle off my number for him. It could be a ploy to get my number, but it’s not unheard of for trustees to have the line for the museum director, especially when there’s no established landline yet. A few seconds later, a text with the network name and password comes through on my phone. I log in and find a strong signal. “Great, ready for a tour.”
“Let’s start right here,” he says. “Fun fact—the most valuable of my grandfather’s rare books are in storage because he would never let them be degraded by exposure to sunlight. If it’s on the shelf in here, it has sentimental—not monetary—value, or it’s a later edition or replica, all easy and cheap to replace.”
Instead of answering him, I walk to the drapes and open them again. I should have known Foster would have made sure his historically significant pieces would be properly cared for.
Jay smiles. I notice he still hasn’t brushed his hair, which is floppier than it was on Saturday and annoyingly adorable .
“What else should I know about the library?” I ask. Focus on business, Ms. Hopper .
“Only that it has a secret passage.”
I widen my eyes. “No.”
His smile gets bigger. “Oh, yes.”
He walks to a corner, the one that shares a wall with the butler’s pantry. He pulls out a book near shoulder height and reaches for the back of the bookcase. I hear a click, and he pulls on the side of the shelf to swing it outward, like a door.
My jaw drops. “This is literally the only thing that could be cooler than a rolling ladder.”
“Come see.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I’m halfway there before he finishes the words, and I peek around the edge to find a square shaft with bolted rungs leading up. The space is about four by four feet, but it’s too dark to see how high the ladder goes.
“I love it,” I say. “Can I climb it? Is it safe?” I’m already reaching for the first rung.
Jay laughs behind me. “No hesitation, huh?”
“Are you kidding me? When confronting my first secret passageway?”
“You can climb it,” he confirms. “I’ll be behind you. Take it all the way to the top.”
I start up, my mind racing with the possibilities for why this was installed. “When was this built?”
“My fifth great-grandmother, Sarah Cutler Foster, was a Quaker and an abolitionist. She recorded in her journal on April 3, 1862, that she refused to meet her ‘marital obligations in any form’ to her husband, Wilbur Gaines Foster, until he built a place they could hide people escaping enslavement.”
“This was a stop on the Underground Railroad?” I can’t believe I didn’t know this. But as I climb and the passage grows darker, I run through everything I know about the involvement of Massachusetts in the abolition movement, and it doesn’t compute.
“Sarah wanted it to be, but it was too far outside of the Boston network.”
“That makes sense.” The route through Boston took freedom seekers to Montreal, largely. To head to Serendipity Springs would have been a time-consuming detour for anyone traveling by foot, which most people escaping slavery were. “Did Sarah record whether she was terribly disappointed by this?”
“She did not. But she did state the date of completion for this secret passageway.”
The amusement lurking in his tone gives away the punchline.
“As a student of history, I deduce that old Wilbur got it done in record time so ‘marital obligations’ would resume?”
“They did have five more children, the first born barely nine months after Sarah wrote with satisfaction that the project was complete.”
I laugh as I reach for the next rung. Women have sometimes had to be innovative in claiming their power. Above me, the barest line of dim light appears. “Do I see a door a few more rungs up?”
“You do,” Jay confirms. “Feel around for a sliding bolt on the right-hand side about a foot up from the bottom.”
“Got it.” It feels big and sturdy with the slightly rough texture of aged iron. The weak light filtering through isn’t enough for me to be sure.
“Go ahead and open it, then keep sliding. The door is actually the back of a wardrobe. Once you’re inside, you’ll probably see light coming through the doors.”
Sure enough, as soon as I slide the wardrobe panel out of the way, I can see a thin vertical band of light where the wardrobe’s front doors meet. There’s only one problem .
“Jay, is there a trick to getting inside the wardrobe?” The top rung is about two feet below the lip of the opening.
He pauses. “I’m trying to think of how to explain it. There’s no graceful way to climb out, but it’s easy if you have practice. You reach in and hold onto the walls and sort of boost yourself off the top rung.”
I feel around inside, and I get what he means. I could hook my hands on either side of the secret entrance and push-pull myself through, but I don’t love the idea of trying it for the first time when I can’t see what I’m doing.
“I should have asked more questions before I started climbing,” I say.
“I promise it’s not too bad.”
I reach to grab the inside, but the second I start to push off the top rung, I get a mental picture of how deep this ladder shaft is. I go right back to my safe rung. I clear my throat and force my voice to sound casual. “I don’t think I get it. Could you explain it a different way?”
He sighs. “I’m an idiot. I should have thought this through and gone first. If you’re okay with it, I can climb over you and help you in from the wardrobe side.”
I can’t think of anything more awkward. “How about a different way than that?”
“Let’s climb down and take the stairs to check out the wardrobe the old-fashioned way.”
There’s no judgment in his tone, but I bristle anyway. Climbing back down makes me feel prissy. It seems like if I’m going to oversee a stalwart New England historic home, I need to channel some New England stalwartness.
“It’s fine, I can do it. Taking my foot off the top unnerved me for a second, but I’ve got this.”
“Permission to give you a boost?”
“Permission granted.”
“On three. Ready? One, two, three. ”
But when I push off the top rung, instead of feeling his hands beneath my foot, stirrup-style, I feel a big, firm palm on my butt giving me a shove. I yelp, but as the momentum works, I make it into the wardrobe. I’m glad it’s too dark for Jay to see my inelegant exit, but then I’m on my feet and pressing the wardrobe doors open to let in a flood of morning light.
I whip around to glare at his head rising above the entrance. “That was inappropriate.”
“I asked permission.”
“I thought you meant my foot!”
He stays on the ladder but folds his arms on the floor of the wardrobe, like we’re having a friendly chat over a fence. “How would that work if I have to hold onto the ladder?”
“But—you—still—my—” I stop. What I should say is Duh. To myself. Of course that’s how he’d have to do it, because boosting me by the foot would take both his hands to make a stirrup.
“Do you mind moving? I’ll show you how to get in, but if you don’t give me some space, I’m going to have more to apologize for.”
I don’t even want to know what that would mean but a quick calculation says his head would end up at, uh, crotch level. I nearly fling myself out of the wardrobe and into the room. It’s about a six-inch step down, and when I land and wobble, I have to catch my balance on the door. Maybe my second official act of the day after exploring a hidden passageway should be preparing a PowerPoint for Jay Martin titled Phoebe Hopper Is Not a Klutz: A Deeper Look at the Evidence.
I turn around to watch Jay demonstrate proper exit technique. He grips the inside walls and vaults himself into the wardrobe, landing in a crouch. A suspicious crouch.
“Are you doing a Spiderman impersonation?” I ask .
“Yes.” He grins and straightens. “I decided to give it some flair since I have an audience.”
Yeah, that fits. “That’s not fair. I kind of want to redo mine.”
He steps out of the wardrobe and waves me toward it in a gallant gesture. “As you wish.”
I smooth the front of my cardigan and sniff. “It’s beneath my dignity as a professional museum director.” As if I have any left after a trustee fully palmed one of my cheeks.
“But library ladders …?”
“Not beneath my dignity—if I’m not the official director yet. Didn’t I already explain this all to you?”
He gives me a fake solemn nod. “You did. My apologies. I should have taken notes.”
“Do better next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He slides his phone from his pocket and types. “Do … bet … ter … next … time.”
I turn toward the exit before he can see me be the first to break. “Can we get on with this tour, Mr. Martin?”
“Absolutely, your royal directorness.”
“I am special by title, not birth. The correct form of address is your noble directorness.”
“I’m embarrassed on behalf of all Americans. Please accept my apologies, your majestical directorness.”
This is way too easy. This rapport with Jay Martin. But that only reminds me to be extra careful about blurring any lines. I’m not a guarded person, and I couldn’t act distant or standoffish if I tried. I am a lifelong golden retriever with no chance of being a black cat. But after the disastrous way everything played out this winter at the Sutton, I have been working on being at least a border collie. It still has all that friendly energy, but the border thing is important. So important. Border collies stay in the border. They keep all their stuff in the border. They keep other stuff out of the border .
I might need to spend time with a border collie to figure out how they do it.
We continue our tour of the third floor, which doesn’t take long as it’s mostly used for storing antique furniture.
The house was built by an architect who developed his own version of the Georgian style, refining some of its more ornate elements to give them greater delicacy and symmetry. It became known as the Federal style.
Federal homes are laid out as a rectangle. On the ground floor here, the east wing is the library and kitchen. The west wing is a ballroom.
Yes, a ballroom. At least, that’s what it was built for. But Foster renovated the floor to become a shuffleboard court after playing it on a cruise and deciding he loved it. It’s odd to see the green lanes and white triangles painted on the floor under the watchful eye of the Grecian columns and the ornamental frieze moldings with their garlands of plaster honeysuckle and vases.
Neither of the wings have floors above them, and the west wing with the ballroom has especially high ceilings. The central section of the rectangle rises three stories, but these are mainly bedrooms and bathrooms, and each floor covers less square footage than the one below it. That’s not to say it’s small; remove the ground floor wings and you’re still dealing with a mansion.
We descend to the second floor and Foster’s suite, a well-appointed room with handsome antique furniture and beautiful woven rugs. On the other side of the central staircase, two more bedrooms share a bathroom and offer a warm, inviting space for company to nest.
“I don’t mean to pry,” I say as we take the back staircase down to the east wing, “but you haven’t talked about your grandmother much. Foster mentioned she passed a while ago, but I’m wondering how much of the house was her touch versus Foster’s.”
“I’m happy to tell you about her.”
I lead us back to the library, and Jay takes one of the seats across the desk, leaving the big leather office chair for me. I like that he doesn’t feel the need to pull any power moves, like taking the executive chair to defend his territory. If I’d grown up spending time in this house, it would be hard for me not to feel protective of it.
“My grandmother died ten years ago,” he says. “She was awesome. She had so many traditions, and she made everything fun. I never knew what she was going to put me up to when I came to visit.”
“It must be hard to have lost both of them,” I say.
“It was harder when my grandmother died. She was seventy-five, but somehow that still felt too young.” He sighs, but it’s not sad or heavy. It’s almost content. “It would probably have felt that way if she’d died at a hundred. She was a Martin by marriage, but she was the heart of this house. She’s the one who taught me the best way to ride the library ladder.”
I smile, imagining it. “Foster always spoke of her with so much affection. She sounds like a character.”
“She was.” His lips twist to the side and he stares somewhere over my head, but it’s an unfocused middle-distance stare. “After she died, the house started to feel different,” he says, his face relaxing as he drops his gaze back to me. “Not in a bad way. But my grandfather redirected his grief into restoring the house, getting it ready to become a museum. That was how he kept himself busy the last ten years.”
“Foster was very proud of this place. Between them, they’ve done a good job of preserving it.”
“Minus the shuffleboard room?” he asks, his eyebrow quirked .
I smile. “Minus that.”
“If it helps, he laid that floor on top of the ballroom floor, tongue and groove, no glue, specifically so the original hardwood would be protected. Maybe that’s why my grandmother didn’t mind it becoming a shuffleboard court.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I got the sense he prided himself on being a good steward of the estate.”
“Exactly,” Jay says. “Do you want to go through the rest of the main floor and the grounds, or do you need a break after the excitement of the secret passageway?”
“You mean the near-death experience in the secret passageway?”
“You did not almost die, your majesticalness.”
“I meant you when I almost killed you for touching my noble heinie. Although, to be fair, that almost gave me a heart attack, so maybe we both nearly died.”
“Still sorry, but I wasn’t going to die for real from boosting your foot instead just for manners.”
“All right. Forgiven. Let’s never speak of it again. Tell me what else I should know about the library, then we’ll go through the rest of the floor and hit the grounds.”
As we finish up the main floor, I’m impressed. Harvey Bullard gave me a tour of the estate during my informational interview, and I read everything he’d sent over to me on the Martin House plus whatever I could find in our research databases through the museum. Yet in every room, Jay still provides color and detail that’s new to me.
We’re heading into the final room on the first floor, what Jay referred to as the bottle room. When I interviewed, Harvey called it the east parlor. Like most homes from the era, the house hadn’t been built with a grand foyer. Instead, the front door opened into a hall off which visitors could enter the dining room to the left, or more commonly, the parlor to the right, where they would keep company with the family.
Windows take up two of the walls overlooking the front lawn and the terrace of the ballroom, which adjoins the parlor. But on the wall where the northern light shines strongest, an enormous display case full of glass bottles dominates the room. The cabinet stands at least a foot taller than Jay and fills nearly the entire width of the wall.
The bottles are organized by color. Amber, emerald, cobalt, iridescent, and clear. They’re different shapes and sizes. Some have faded labels, and on others, the glass is stamped or embossed. All of them were once used for medicine, a nod to the early origins of the Martin fortune.
“My fourth great-grandfather started this collection, and every Martin since has added to it. I imagine you know why?”
“Foster told me about the Martin family history, and he included the details with his catalog. He did an incredible amount of work indexing everything on the estate. His overview said the bottles are all a nod to how the Martins began building their fortune.”
“You do your homework,” he says.
“For museum nerds, reading through that stuff is a good time. Will you tell me the Martin lore as someone who descends from it?”
“Now you’re making me sound majestical.”
“Everyone sounds majestic if you say they have lore.”
“What’s yours?” he asks, his expression curious.
Nope, not going to fall under the spell of interested questions from a good-looking man. “Mine has nothing to do with the museum. Let’s go back to yours.”
“I’m not sure I can add anything to what Foster told you. Some Martins camp by the spring one night and never leave. Farm for a century. A distant cousin comes to visit, and after he drinks the spring water, a tooth that had bothered him for months stops hurting. He convinces that Martin to bottle and sell it as a tonic. That goes on for a couple of generations and does well enough for Josiah Martin to build this house in 1795.”
“Do people around here even remember that the Martins once sold magic curative water?” I ask. It’s so unlike anything I can imagine Foster doing.
“I don’t think so. And it’s interesting how it came full circle in its own way over time. You’d think people would make that connection more.”
“Except Mass Meds is straight up legitimate. I rarely think about what company makes my meds, and if I did, I wouldn’t associate Jointment with quack medicine from the 1700s.”
“We have Abigail Martin to thank for that. She badly wanted to become a doctor, but that wasn’t going to happen in her lifetime. When she was twenty-six, her younger brother was old enough to start his education, and she talked him into going to medical school. More than that, she talked her father into sending her to Boston to keep a small set of rooms for her brother, Matthew, and act as his chaperone.”
“That might have been my favorite story,” I say. “How she studied with Matthew and worked beside him when he could sneak her into the laboratory after hours.”
Jay smiles. “In one of his journals, Matthew confessed that Abigail was a far more talented doctor than he was.”
“Kind of a force of nature. Didn’t she shut down the whole tonic business?”
“She did. Caused some resentment with the business partners, but she was adamant. For the next fifty years, we had doctors. The surgery was where the current kitchen is, and you don’t want to think about that too much when you’re making dinner. ”
I wrinkle my nose. No, no, I do not.
“Eventually, one of those Martins made an ointment for joint pain. Word spread, sales grew, that Martin got a patent. Then the canal opened and suddenly it was easy to ship the stuff everywhere, and he did.”
“Except Jointment works,” I say. “No quackery.”
“Would you like some real lore that you won’t see in any of the yearly earnings reports?”
“Is it something I can use for the museum?”
He pauses to consider that. “I don’t know. We’ve always kept it quiet, but at this point, you could blast it all over the internet, and I think people wouldn’t believe it. You can use your judgment as the director to decide if you want to include it or not.”
I won’t know until I hear it, so I nod. “Ready for the lore.”
“Even though the patent eventually expired, there’s still not a comparable substitute because none of our competitors use Serendipity Springs water. But even stranger, the water has to come from a section of the stream that runs through the city limits. One of my ancestors set up the factory outside of Serendipity Springs so they could access the stream more easily for production. All the land along the spring inside the town limits had been claimed for decades by then. But those batches of Jointment didn’t work. It took some testing, but as strange as it sounds, the water has to come from within the city limits for it to be effective.”
I look at him, keeping a neutral expression on my face. That sounds like a placebo effect to me, but Jay states it like it’s fact.
He smiles again. “That look you’re trying to hide is exactly why we don’t tell people. But you don’t have to believe it for it to be true. Anyway, my fourth great-grandfather found a few of the bottles used for the original tonic, and he wanted the reminder of where we came from. Martins have been collecting ever since. At least up through Grandad.”
He points to the amber bottles. “I’m making a purely objective observation. I want to be clear after the wardrobe hoist. In the sunlight, these are the same color as your eyes.”
I knew as soon as he pointed to the glass that he would say something about my eyes. I get it. They’re an odd color, a warm light brown that I inherited from my mom. People comment on them all the time.
He’s right, it’s a strictly objective comment, so there’s no need to say thank you or feel uncomfortable. I don’t, exactly. But I’m feeling some kind of way that he’s taken note of my eye color, enough to know exactly what to compare it to. I’m feeling a little too … pleased. That nonsense is stopping here. Mine, not his.
“Fun fact, Jennifer Lopez and Jennifer Garner both have amber eyes. But it’s the rarest eye color in the world, so it’s just the three of us and my mom.”
“Just you four, huh? Does Affleck know about you and your mom?”
“We think we wouldn’t like Hollywood, so we keep a low profile.”
“Understandable. Speaking of Hollywood, did you tour the gardens when you were here before?”
“It was abbreviated,” I say. “It was rainy that day, but Foster told me about the movie that was filmed here, and Harvey pointed out the spot.”
“We’ve got beautiful weather today. Let’s go look at the lie that Austen movie told you when it pretended the Martin grounds were an estate in the Cotswolds.”
I give a gasp of fake outrage. “Jane Austen would never .”
“Of course not, but Hollywood would.”
“Exactly why neither my mom nor I have married Ben Affleck. To the grounds, please. I’m excited to explore them. ”
It’s true. But what’s even more true is that I need to get out of this room before I start blabbering about how Jay Martin’s eyes are the same rich blue as the cobalt glass in the case beside the amber.
Borders.