Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Phoebe
My suit jacket feels itchy as I finish setting up for the board meeting in Foster’s library. I’ve chosen a 1930s-style men’s suit for my presentation to the trustees, except it’s a reproduction, not real vintage. It’s tan wool with high-waisted wide-leg trousers and a roomy jacket with wide lapels. The only feminine thing about it is my white blouse with a floppy silk bow at the neck instead of a men’s tie.
Hayes hated this suit. He called it man repellent. I love this suit. I feel very Katherine Hepburn. Let other women keep their St. Laurent; this is my power suit.
Usually.
I resist the urge to scratch and tug at a half dozen spots where I suddenly don’t like how it feels, and it’s not even touching my skin. The blouse has long sleeves.
This is nerves. I’m getting in my head. I force myself to draw a calming breath. I am prepared.
I’ve made only two changes to the way I usually wear this outfit. Despite Hayes’s idiotic take, I’m not trying to minimize my femininity, not even to make Catherine Crawford take me more seriously, so I’ve switched my usual lipstick for a power red. It’s not quite Taylor-at-a-football-game red. I’ve gone a couple of shades deeper. But it’s definitely woman-in-Congress-tearing-up-a-hostile-witness red.
The second is a silver bracelet of linked sunflowers hiding beneath my cuff. I learned as an undergrad that suffragists in Kansas had adopted it as their symbol. I’ve always loved sunflowers. Vibrant. Resilient. Helpful. Things I want to be, so I adopted sunflowers for myself.
I take a long look around the library. I’ve decided to hold the meeting in here because the board currently has five members, and this is a good-sized space to feel cozy but not snug. This is also where I feel most grounded, sure of the work I’ve spent two straight weeks doing both behind that desk and all over the estate.
We’re meeting at 5:30, a half hour from now, because some of the board members have regular work hours at their own jobs and businesses. Sandwiches, fruit, and pastries wait on a catering platter from Serendipi-Tea so no one will have to listen to me present over the sounds of their growling stomachs. Soon I’ll set out fresh carafes of coffee and tea.
The chairs are grouped efficiently, I’ve brought in the large TV from the main bedroom to use as a screen, and I couldn’t forget the key points of my presentation now even under Russian Cold War tactics.
“Ready to make them feel like the luckiest trustees who ever trusted?”
At the sound of Jay’s voice, I glance up and smile as he stands in the doorway, hands in the pockets of well-tailored brown slacks. His summer-weight dress shirt in off-white with a muted brown check pattern shows off those baseball shoulders on its way to tucking in at his slim waist.
“You’re early,” I say.
He heads toward the refreshments. “I had a feeling you’d be feeding us, so I’m here for dibs on the good stuff. ”
“Go ahead, Mr. Vice Chair.”
He snags a turkey sandwich on a dinner roll. “If we have to be addressed by our titles, I’m resigning immediately.”
I set up the food at the back of the library, positioning it near the Victorian camelback sofa so the board members can relax as they eat. The sofa is an antique, not a reproduction, but Foster’s catalog noted that he’d had the stuffing and upholstery replaced twice since inheriting the house. If someone spills, the sturdy wood frame will survive it.
It even survives Jay when he drops onto it like a teenage boy at the end of a long day, landing in a slump as he downs his sandwich in three bites.
“You good?” I ask him.
“Fine.”
This is not a sincere answer, but I sense frustration more than stress, and it doesn’t seem to be aimed my way. “Work?” I guess.
“Freaking Sammy. I’m starting to loathe that guy.”
It’s absurdly cute that he takes his research so personally. I wander over to the food tray, looking for the right antidote. “There’s a chocolate chip cookie on here somewhere. You should eat it to wash away the annoyance.”
He perks up, straightening slightly. “As you may know, Martins are into home remedies.”
“This is one of the best.” I’ve left my hair down but pulled out my rarely used flat iron this morning, and some of the sleek pieces slip into my face as I study the platter. I like the straight look. It’s polished, and that’s what I want to project.
Jay doesn’t say anything, so I look up to find him watching me. He’s got the same look he wears when he’s thinking about the Smitten Kitten clues.
“What?” I tuck the rogue hair behind my ear. I forget that sometimes trying a new hairstyle for a confidence boost can backfire if you’re distracted by it the whole time. I never remember this until I’ve forgotten long enough to do it again for the next big event, when I promptly remember why it’s been so long since the last time I did it. The circle of stupidity.
“You’re going to do great, Phoebe,” he says. “The board won’t know what hit them.”
“Jay …” I inject a note of caution in my voice even as I smile at his encouragement. “The board is supposed to be pro-museum, not pro-Phoebe.”
“Nah. If the board is truly pro-museum, they’ll have to be pro-Phoebe. I’m going to enjoy watching them realize it. Especially this Catherine lady.”
I snap straight up. “Why would you bring up Catherine?”
His eyebrows rise. “Because you react like this every time someone mentions her name. She’s obviously a stress point for you.”
Right. “I don’t have a great poker face, do I?”
“Your face comes with subtitles. I like it.”
“You like my subtitles?”
“I like that you’re transparent.” I grimace, and he tries to correct himself. “Transparent in the good way, like …” He pauses, then snaps his fingers. “Like forthcoming. Forthright? Pick a synonym you like, and that’s what I meant.”
“Transparent means people can see right through me,” I say. “That’s not what I need walking into my first board meeting. Now I need this cookie more than you do.” I skirt around the table to the sofa side so I can pluck it from beneath the banana partially hiding it.
“What? No, I need it. Because of old Sam.”
“Nope. Mine.”
“Is it the only one?” he asks, staring at the platter.
“It is. Ooh, it’s chewy not crumbly.” I raise it to take a bite, but Jay snags the arm of my blazer .
“No way, that’s my medicine.” He tugs on my sleeve, but I’ve been well-trained by my thieving brother over the years.
I switch the cookie to my other hand, moving it farther out of Jay’s reach. “Gonna need every gram of sugar now that I know people can see right through me.”
Jay growls and does a half lunge up to grab it, but he doesn’t have enough momentum, and he plops backward on the sofa again. He does have enough momentum to unbalance me, though, and I tip toward him, doing a futile windmill to save myself before I land on him, but I sprawl across his lap, my knees on the cushion beside his thighs, my arms across the sofa arm.
“Ha!” I say. Because at the end of my extended arm, still out of his reach, is the cookie.
“I need it.” He shoots his hand beneath my chest and through my arms toward the cookie, barely avoiding landing us in HR-reporting territory. He clasps my wrist, twisting to bring his other arm around my far side to snatch the cookie from me that way.
His chest presses into my side as he reaches for the cookie, and I forget any survival moves I learned in sibling wrestling. Instead, I fight the urge to flip over and settle right into Jay’s lap.
“What is going on here?” a woman’s voice asks from the doorway.
I yank my wrist free and clamber to my feet. Clamber is such a good word for it too, like a clumsily puppeteered marionette straightening with clacking of limbs.
Who would be the absolute worst person to walk in on that specific three seconds?
Yeah.
“Good to see you, Catherine.”