Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Jay
“You are scum, Samuel,” I inform the smirking portrait as I save my work for the day.
With traitors and profiteers like old Sam on the scene, it’s a miracle we ever won that war.
I stand and stretch, wincing when my lower back pops. An idea woke me barely before the sun came up, and I headed straight to my computer and went to work.
I heated a couple of frozen burritos and downed two cups of coffee, but those were the only breaks so far today. I have the same feeling I used to get when I was deep in the archives at Harvard for hours, emerging without a sense of time, muscles sore and eyes blurry.
A glance at the clock says it’s after lunch already, and it’s as if knowing the time gives my stomach permission to speak up. It growls. Loudly.
Food or fresh air? Why not both? I can heat up something and eat it while I walk to the big house and …
And see Phoebe, basically. That would be the whole reason for going .
It’s a pretty good reason. Unfortunately, when I check through the window, her car isn’t there.
Maybe that’s for the best. The big house is her domain now. Monday, it had felt right to welcome her as a trustee and a Martin. I probably would have done it for anyone who was hired, but it felt more imperative after our ladder meeting in the library on Saturday.
Tuesday and Wednesday, I’d been in New Haven for a lecture, then stayed to take advantage of researching the Yale Beinecke library special collections. Yesterday, I’d felt an almost irresistible draw to go see Phoebe in the big house. I was about to give in and walk over when I spotted her on the way to the vault with its engineer. Crashing that would have felt like I was micromanaging or being territorial. At worst, Phoebe would have seen right through to what was actually happening, which was that I wanted to look at her some more.
I laugh at myself. The woman won’t get a chance to miss me if I’m always around.
When even the thought of another frozen burrito makes me sad, I decide to take myself out to lunch. After a debate between Mexican or pub food, I drive over to the Lucky Springs Brewery because I’m in the mood for their fried fish sandwich. I enjoy it at a sidewalk table in the warm afternoon sunshine. Definitely my best idea today.
I’m standing to leave when the brewery door opens and out walks Phoebe, looking like dessert. Once again, she’s dressed in a slim-fitting skirt and a white blouse, but the skirt is the bright blue of a swimming pool, and she’s wearing a scarf around her waist like a belt. It’s got several different colors in it, and all together, she reminds me of a blue-frosted donut with sprinkles. I’m into it, but I’m smart enough to know women don’t generally like to be compared to round things, so I better keep that to myself .
“Hi,” I say. “You’ve found my favorite lunch place.”
“Oh, hi, Jay.” She sounds surprised but not annoyed. “I had some errands to run, so I decided to merge it with work and explore the main library after lunch.”
“What a coincidence. I’ve been meaning to do that too. Mind if I tag along?”
“Not at all,” she says easily. “If you have nothing better to do, you’re officially invited to be the guide on this field trip.”
I check out her shoe situation, so I know whether we’re walking or driving. Her toenails—painted a deep pink—are on display in sandals with straps. I have neutral feelings about feet, but there is something super attractive about shoes with straps that wrap around a woman’s ankle.
“Should I drive, or …”
“I’m walking,” she says. “Low heel. I could go all day in these shoes.”
“Let the tour begin.” We fall into step in the direction of the library. “You have two options here. Either I make up history for the many, many parts of Serendipity Springs we’ll pass that I don’t know about, which I’m fine with.”
“Or …”
“Or you could tell me more about the new director of the museum.”
“She’s amazing,” Phoebe says. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“That tracks.”
She shoots me a grin as we separate to let an older woman walking her dog pass. “What would you like to know?”
Favorite kind of first date, preferred flower, and when do you think you’ll wear cutoffs again? I don’t say any of that, obviously.
“You went to Boston College,” I say. “You did your undergrad in museum studies. Master’s in art history with an emphasis in the early American industrial period, a job in an art gallery, and almost ten years in some capacity at the Sutton, the last six full-time. ”
“I actually knew all that,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “Tell me what I wouldn’t see on your resume. Like, why history? And what drew you to museums?”
“Hmm. I don’t remember having a defining moment when I decided I wanted to grow up and work in a museum. Let me think.”
I do, enjoying the weather and the walk, but mainly the company. I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen her with her hair down. It falls below her shoulders with a wavy almost-curl like mine.
“Do you remember those Who Was books? That’s probably where it started,” she says, and I grin.
“I loved those books. My first one was about King Tut.”
“I read one about Annie Oakley in fourth grade, and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I became a history nerd and read every single one the school library had. I passed a lot of my childhood that way.”
We spend the next several minutes trading our favorite Who Was subjects, and soon enough, we’re standing in front of the main library.
“That was a good warmup conversation before coming here,” I say. “You’re a genius.”
“That happens a lot.”
“Let’s roll in on the tide of good library memories.” I hold the door for her, then lead her straight to the reference desk.
An octogenarian with a full face of makeup and enough rhinestones to bedazzle a figure skating costume—or three—glances up, and treats us to a violet lipstick smile.
“Well, look at you, cute Jameson Martin.” She gets up to come around the desk with her arms outstretched. “It’s been too long since you came in to see me.”
I return her hug and meet Phoebe’s eyes, which are watching this with amusement.
“Sissy Mayhew,” I say, drawing back. “I’d like you to meet Phoebe Hopper, the director of the new museum. Phoebe, this is Sissy Mayhew, head librarian of the Serendipity Springs main branch.”
“Delighted to meet you, honey,” Sissy says, shaking hands with Phoebe. “I’m excited to see what you have planned for Foster’s place.”
“My head is full of ideas. It’s going to be fun.”
Sissy smiles. “Is that what brings you in today? Museum business?”
“It is,” Phoebe confirms.
“Then how can I help you?” Sissy asks.
“I’ll need a dictionary first off,” Phoebe says. “But for Jay. He said he happened to be heading here to explore, but I don’t think he knows what that means. ‘Explore’ implies it would be his first time here, and somehow, I don’t think that’s the situation.”
“Guilty,” I say with no remorse. “I wanted an excuse to hang out with Phoebe.”
Sissy gives a hoot of laughter, and none of the other patrons even turn their heads. They’re used to Sissy Mayhew. “Get on out of here, Jay Martin, and let me be useful to this poor woman.”
I salute her. “Phoebe, I’ll be in the Who Was section if you need me.”
Phoebe shakes her head, but she’s still smiling when I slide my hands in my pockets and stroll away.
A half hour later, Phoebe finds me sitting on the floor in front of the Who Was books.
“What do you have there?” she asks, and I look up to find her smiling down at me. I’m going to have to learn her smiles because I don’t know if this is a pleased-to-see-me smile or if she’s trying not to laugh at me.
“Catching up on some I missed.” I hold up the book so she can read the cover .
“ Who Was Celia Cruz? Tell me in one sentence.”
“Queen of salsa music and Cuban icon.” I climb to my feet and reshelve the book. “Productive visit?”
“Very. I have an appointment with her next week to go through some of their special collections.”
“Awesome. Sissy isn’t from here, but she’s lived here long enough to know the city as well as anyone. She came out here for college, if I remember right. Ready to go?”
“I’ve got more errands to run, so this is where I leave you. But thank you for the company and the introduction to Sissy.”
“Of course,” I say, surprised by the disappointment I feel that she’s brushing me off. “Maybe I’ll see you around tomorrow.”
“Probably,” she says, “if you plan to be underfoot at the museum again.”
Ouch.
She laughs at my grimace. “I’m kidding. It’s your house; I’m just working in it. Feel free to keep teaching me its secrets. See you tomorrow, maybe.”
Then she leaves without looking to see if I follow.
Ouch again. But then I’m smiling, because it hurts so good.