Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Phoebe
“You want to have a define-the-relationship talk?” Jay repeats like he’s pretty sure he couldn’t have heard me correctly.
He did. I let myself savor seeing him off-balance for the first time. His eyes flick toward the door like he’s coming up with an excuse to leave.
“I do.” I rest my elbow on the desk, hand on my chin, like I have all the time in the world to discuss our relationship.
His hands curl around the arms of his chair, like he’s about to push himself up and leave with a polite excuse.
“Our relationship is purely professional,” I tell him.
He lets go of the chair arms.
“Purely and only professional.”
His eyes widen slightly, a good attempt at acting surprised that I’d even bring this up. “I never said it wasn’t. I’m telling you, I would have given anyone a boost in that secret passage.”
I smile at him, confident of my ground here. I’ve been dating East Coast boys since I started college. The one upside to having a weakness for Jay’s kind of looks and charm and beautiful hair and …
What are we talking about? Oh, right.
The one upside to dating the same type all the time is that I know his game inside and out. I can spot it coming before the first atoms of Polo cologne—because it’s always Polo—even reach me.
“I’ll be sure to let the other trustees know you’re offering booty boosts,” I say, and his lips twitch. “But also, you walk the line between charming and flirting so you have plausible deniability if I call you out for flirting. Do you even know you’re doing it?” I want to see if he’ll be honest.
He meets my eyes, all hint of joking gone. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” It’s not an answer, but I can also tell he means it.
“You didn’t. I’ll tell you if you do. I honestly don’t think you can even help being charming?—”
“Thank you.”
“Not a compliment. I don’t think you can help it, and I don’t mind as long as you’re very clear that this”—I gesture between us—“is never going to happen. I have a job to do here, one I’m very excited about. I’m not looking for side benefits.”
His eyebrow goes up. “So I am a benefit.”
“Not for me.”
“You’re saying I should just be me, be my beautiful self, but you’re going to ignore it. But as long as I don’t expect you to fall for this incredible charm you describe me as having, then we understand each other?”
I refuse to react when he reminds me he overheard me call him beautiful. “I’ll sum up: I will not date you.”
“That’s a shame. But your museum, your terms. I will be my usual self, and I will not ask you on any dates.”
“Good. I keep my personal and professional life separate. ”
“Whatever works for you.”
I frown. His tone is fine. Calm, reassuring. But the words are not. “I’m not being trite here. That boundary is important to me.”
He leans forward. “I will not ask you on a date. I promise. There’s probably a Gutenberg Bible in the vault I can swear on if it will make you feel better.”
“You’re acting like I’m being ridiculous.”
“You’re not. You’re acknowledging the vibe between us and stating that you don’t want to act on it. Very clear.”
“Wait, I didn’t say?—”
He pushes up from his chair. “Nope, you don’t have to say another word. I got it. I’m sorry, Phoebe, but I will not be asking you out.”
I sigh, knowing he’ll keep playing semantic games. But also maybe to keep from smiling in spite of myself.
He heads toward the hallway, whistling “Sexy Back,” and stops at the door. “Just to be clear, you do not want me, an expert historian, to come check out the building my grandfather—who I knew better than anyone—chose for you without explanation, and you also do not want me, an expert researcher, to help you track down the origins of this sixty-year-old letter?”
“Yes, Jay. I’m saying that I, as an expert curator, have the skills to wander around my own building and figure stuff out.”
“As you wish.” Then he winks and turns to leave when a chime sounds. Or something? I haven’t heard it before.
Jay turns back to me, looking puzzled. “That’s the doorbell. Are you expecting anyone?”
I get up to answer it. “No. All my appointments are calls today.”
Jay moves aside to let me lead.
When I reach the front door, he steps into the bottle room where he can listen without being seen, which I think is his way of acknowledging that it’s my job to handle whoever might be at the door.
I open it to find a woman about my mom’s age on the doorstep. She’s holding what appears to be a small moving box.
“Hello. May I help you?” I ask.
“This is going to be the museum, right?” she asks.
“Yes. I’m the director.”
She extends the box toward me, and I take it on reflex. “Donation.”
“Oh.” I look down at it. It’s an Amazon box. “What is it?”
“Tea set,” she says. “My grandmother’s. Had it in my house since she died, and I don’t want it, but it’s too old to throw away. Don’t need a receipt. I’ll just take a free ticket when you open. Margie Jarvis.” She says the last part over her shoulder as she descends the stairs.
I stare down at the box then call belatedly, “Thank you?”
When I close the door, Jay steps into the hall and offers to take the box. I let him, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. “In there, I guess?”
He sets it down on the kitchen table, and I open it. We peer inside, then lock eyes.
“Is this something?” He sounds doubtful. There’s a porcelain teapot and four cups with saucers in a pretty pattern of small blue flowers.
“I’m not up on my tea sets.” I snap a picture with my phone and throw it into a search. “Royal Vienna, vintage, not antique, listed on eBay for around a hundred bucks.”
“You good if I touch these?”
“Go ahead.”
He pulls out enough pieces to announce, “There’s no note explaining why it might be valuable.”
“Didn’t you hear? It’s too old to throw away. ”
A smile tugs at his lips. “I’ve got jeans that fit that description. Broke them in just right.”
My mind conjures an image of him in jeans and a handknit sweater, the picture of New England preppy ruggedness. Oof. Please let him be gone before the cool weather hits, because that combo is my weakness.
“This tea set will not be relocating to the Museum of Serendipity, but I'm still working on a draft of our donation policies to give to the board for a vote. I wasn't expecting people to bring things in already. What am I supposed to do with this in the meantime?” I ask. “Donate it to a thrift shop?”
Like I have time to find somewhere to donate it. “Problem for another day. I’ll put it in the butler’s pantry until I can figure out where to rehome it.”
“All right. If you’re not going to pick my enormous brain anymore on your mystery letter, I’ll get back to work.”
Right. Work. I forget he does that. “I’m good. Thanks.”
I head for the butler’s pantry, and he splits for the rear exit.
“Phoebe.”
I pause and turn. “Yes, Jay?”
“Are friendships with individuals connected to the museum considered professional?”
I frown, trying to figure out the trap.
“I’m talking about like what you and Grandad had. You had a professional connection, but wouldn’t you say you were friends too?”
My face softens. “I would.”
“So we can do that. Be friends.”
It’s not a question, which makes me want to laugh again. Just more of his charm. But his charm is effective because there’s a sincerity to it, so I smile. “Yeah, Jay. We can be friends. ”
“Excellent. Bye, friend. I need to go expose misdeeds and corruption in eighteenth-century America.”
“Bye, friend. I need to go bring your grandfather’s vision to life.”
He disappears through the door, and I put away the tea set and head to my desk. I have every intention of finishing the preliminary draft of the exhibit flow to present to the board next week, but my eyes wander to Smitten Kitten’s letter.
Who was this object of affection who lived in my apartment sixty years ago? I hope Smitten Kitten and Dear Heart end up together. It’s possible that one or both of them are still living, and if so, I’d like to know the end of their story and return this letter to its rightful recipient.
That quest will need to wait a few days. I have to prep for the museum board. I need to win them over so they’ll have faith in all my hiring choices. The less supervising they feel they have to do, the faster I can work.
I give the letter a light tap. “Don’t worry, lovers. I’ll have you sorted eventually. Something tells me after sixty years, there’s probably not a rush.”