Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Phoebe
I’m disappointed when I get to my desk twenty minutes later without seeing a trace of Jay. Then I’m disappointed in myself for being disappointed.
“Border collie,” I say as I deposit my bag on the desk and retrieve the envelope. I situate it on the walnut surface of the desk to photograph it before I move it into the top desk drawer to keep it safe from sudden drafts and the sun, which I love—unless I’m dealing with artifacts.
Potential artifacts? I still don’t know what this letter is, but it’s time to find out. I call my favorite expert on both my head and documents of every kind, even dead letters.
I know Francie’s office extension by heart, and it rings twice before she picks up.
“Sutton Archives.” It’s her polite tone for people who she’s preemptively annoyed with for making her answer the phone.
“Hi, is this Francie Sexton, future senior archivist and current bestie?”
“Pheeeebs,” she squeals, and I laugh at the one-eighty in her tone. “This is the future senior archivist and former bestie since you left me. ”
“What happened to supporting me no matter what and carrying the shovel when we bury a body?” I tease.
“That was before I had to work a week without you and got super bored. Tell me you miss me,” she says.
“Of course.” We were roommates for three years before Foster Martin changed my address. “It’s not as fun stealing clothes out of my own closet.”
“Ha,” she says. “You only ever borrowed my red Mary Janes, and I’ll give them to you if you’ll come home.”
“I have a museum to open first,” I say. “But snatching those shoes is the first thing I’m doing when I do move back.”
“Tell me how it is to be the whole boss, Director Hopper,” she says, and I picture her settling into her desk chair while I give her the update.
“I will, but just so you know, this is a work call. I have a question about postal regulations on dead letters. That question may only take thirty seconds for me to ask and for you to answer, but it wouldn’t be polite to jump right into it without some …” I pause, looking for the right word.
“Some collegial gossip,” she says.
“You mean collegial trade talk? I agree.” Even with Francie, I’m procrastinating an explanation of this letter’s provenance, because if she says I’ve lost my mind, I have.
“Spill it like it’s the Boston Tea Party,” she orders.
I told her in broad terms about the Martin estate after my initial visit, but now I fill her in on some of the details I’ve discovered since starting on Monday. “And get this,” I say, saving the best for last. “The library has a secret passageway, and I got to explore it.”
“I’m so jealous,” she whines.
“Don’t be too jealous.” I walk to the window and look out at the green lawn, admiring the cleverness of the landscaping. It was designed to make the Martins forget that the city had grown out to meet them and deposited a busy-ish road in front of their mansion. “The passage adventure ended with me getting groped, then launched through a wardrobe.”
There’s a beat of silence. “I know I should ask about the groping, but I feel compelled to ask about the wardrobe. Was it Narnia?”
“It does have a false back, but otherwise, not magical.”
“In that case, how dare someone grope you? Who are we suing?”
“I don’t think I can sue if he asked permission and I said yes.”
“I have so many questions. Please explain this consensual groping. I’m going to guess he went for your juicy peach of a booty.”
“Why can’t someone want me for my underwhelming cleavage?” I joke. “Anyway, it was one of the trustees?—”
“Phoebe!” she gasps.
“Who had to help me out of the secret passageway.”
“By your butt? Were your elbows too inconvenient?”
“He was behind me on the ladder in the secret passageway, and he tried to explain to me how to get from the ladder into the wardrobe. I wasn’t wrapping my head around it. I thought he was going to boost me by my foot, but suddenly I was being pushed by the peach out of the passage.”
“Poppycock.” She clears her throat. “Sorry, I got caught in the wave of alliteration. I am sorry you had old man hands on your peach.”
“Not old man hands.”
“Middle-aged?”
“Not exactly.”
“For future reference, any time a young man has hands on you for any reason, lead with that. Now, tell me all about him.”
“There’s not much to tell. ”
Francie makes a “wrong answer” buzz. “You’re trying to sound too casual, you bad liar. Tell me about the peach farmer.”
“Francie!”
“Boston Harbor. Chuck that tea.”
“This trustee is Foster Martin’s grandson. He’s irritatingly attractive.”
“Ooh, finding someone irritatingly attractive is how all my favorite romance novels begin.”
“Stop,” I say, laughing. “It’s not like that. I meant it more like he’s cute and he knows it.”
“What does he look like?” she asks. “I need a proper mental picture.”
“Henry Cavill? No. Too rugged. Oh, Timothée Chalamet on Henry Cavill’s body. And add a five o’clock shadow.”
She sucks in a breath. “So, when you say cute, what you mean is Foster Martin’s beautiful grandson had his hands on your peach?”
“Beautiful is putting it strongly.”
“Is it, though?” a male voice asks behind me.
I whirl to find Jay leaning against the doorway of the library, arms crossed over his chest, grinning at me in a very beautiful way.
Is this library cursed? It must be cursed.
I nod to acknowledge him and speak to Francie in my most businesslike tone. “That’s a good way to describe that painting.”
“Uh, what?” she asks.
“Anyway, anything you can get me on the postal regulations around opening misdirected mail would be excellent, especially if there’s a statute of limitations after which the obstruction-of-correspondence penalties no longer apply.”
“Is the peach farmer there?” Francie asks, her tone amused now .
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Text me a picture.”
“No, thank you. That will not be necessary. Have a good day.” I end the call and set my phone on the desk.
“Don’t have to wrap up on my account,” Jay says. “I want to hear more about this beautiful male.”
“It’s just an old letter,” I say, deliberately misunderstanding him. “It’s not that interesting. Good morning, by the way. Can I help you with something?”
“What about an old letter? Maybe I can help you with it.”
“Not unless you’re a mailman,” I tell him. “It’s misdelivered mail, that’s all.”
He gives me a strange look, half disbelief and half amusement. “You have no idea what I do, do you?”
“I don’t.” I remember Foster mentioning one of his grandsons was studying history, but a deep dive into the trustees’ backgrounds isn’t on my to-do list until I begin to prepare for my meeting with them next week. I don't know Jay's specialty.
“Well, Phoebe Hopper, it sounds like I’d better reintroduce myself.”