Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Phoebe
I’m a pants-on-fire liar, of course. It’s not at all good to see Catherine Crawford. Especially not in this exact moment. But I try to recover anyway.
“You’re early,” I say. Sound professional, Phoebe. “Traffic must have been kind to you.”
“On time is late.” Catherine’s voice is cool as Jay climbs to his feet beside me. “Am I interrupting?”
“No, my apologies. That must have looked odd. Jay stole my cookie.” I fight a wince as soon as the words are out. I meant to explain she witnessed something innocent, not make myself sound like a junior high tattletale. “What I mean is I fell?—”
“Catherine Crawford,” Jay says, walking toward her with his hand extended. “Jameson Martin, but please call me Jay. Good to meet you in person after so many emails.”
So many emails? What are they emailing about? The museum? Or … me?
She accepts his handshake, and I walk over to join them.
“We still have several minutes for the other board members to arrive, but please help yourself to refreshments from Serendipi-Tea. You’re out of luck for cookies, sadly.”
No one smiles at my weak joke.
Catherine glides toward the table, looking as if she’s never experienced an awkward moment in her life. She’s about Foster’s age and allowing it to show, no facelift pulling her soft lines taut. Her hair shows as much silver as dark brown, yet it’s also obvious that she’s taken care of herself with expensive lotions and an expert salon cut. She looks and smells like quiet wealth.
She’s wearing a paisley silk blouse beneath a beautifully tailored jacket, and the hem of her matching skirt falls exactly to the middle of her knee. A strand of pearls hangs around her neck, as they have every time I’ve seen her, and a Chanel double-flap handbag hangs on the crook of her arm.
I shoot Jay a panicked look, and he answers with a yikes face.
I have no time to consider whether this is something I can come back from because there is no option but to come back. I take two steps toward her, praying the right words will come to me when I reach her, when I hear two more voices in the hallway, and a middle-aged woman and an older gentleman walk in.
I recognize them from their LinkedIn photos as the chair and treasurer of the board, the current head of the Chamber of Commerce and a retired physician. Michaela Berg and Dr. Robert Smithson, respectively.
“Hello,” I say, going over to introduce myself. I’ve lost my window to chat with Catherine before the meeting begins. I spend time with the new arrivals in the kind of professional small talk people exchange when you’re about to start a long-term working relationship. It’s past superficial but still not digging deeply as we all try to figure each other out beyond the bullet points provided by Foster about each selection he made.
The final board member, the secretary, a retired history professor from Spring Brook College, arrives with five minutes to spare. I transition over to the desk to make sure I’m ready as soon as they are, but I notice Jay breaks off his conversation with the chair to meet the secretary. He stays with him until they all move toward the two worktables dressed up with heavy black cloths. Each seat also has a pad of paper, my personal favorite brand of black ink pen, and a bottled water.
I’ve set them up panel-style and perpendicular to the desk to avoid a barrier between us. I take a seat across from them, making it easy for all of us to view the screen on the desk when it’s time to present.
“I call this first meeting of the Museum of Serendipity Board to order,” Michaela Berg begins. “It feels appropriate to begin by honoring the man whose legacy has brought us here, and I’d like each of us to share how we knew Foster Martin and why we chose to accept a position on this board.”
I see immediately why Foster chose Michaela. It’s the perfect way to begin, focused on the job they’ve agreed to do but also grounding it in the spirit of the benefactor who put this into motion. I watch Catherine closely as each board member takes their turn sharing. Her expression is always attentive but gives little away, even when some of the trustees share a particularly funny or sentimental memory of Foster.
Jay says, “I’m Foster’s only grandson, and that tells you all you need to know about how I ended up here.”
Everyone chuckles except Catherine, who simply watches.
Dr. Smithson shakes his head even as he smiles. “Don’t sell yourself short, son. We all knew your grandfather too well to believe he’d put you on the board if you weren’t qualified. ”
Jay smiles. “I do have the advantage of a PhD in American history, an unofficial doctorate in Martin family history, and a deep love and knowledge of every atom of this estate.”
That is unfortunately sexy. I make sure my expression doesn’t change even as the urge to fan myself strikes like I’m a Colonial woman in forty-seven petticoats and a wool dress and the Sixth Regiment just came to town after getting baths.
Catherine goes last, speaking of getting to know Foster on the Sutton board, then surprising me by adding that growing up, she spent part of every summer in Serendipity Springs visiting her maternal grandparents, ending with, “I’ve always felt affection for this city, and Foster knew it well enough to appeal to that sentimentality. But he was even craftier in making sure I only got his request to join the board after his death when he could depend on guilt to get me to commit at an age when making plans more than a month away feels na?ve.”
Was that a joke? Dr. Smithson and Professor Martinez, the two other oldest board members chuckle, and the rest of us err on the side of polite smiles.
When everyone has finished, Michaela Berg smiles at me. “I’d like us to read through Foster’s mission statement. Afterward, we’d like to hear from you, Ms. Hopper, about your evaluation of the estate after your first two weeks here and your preliminary estimate of an opening date.”
I incline my head. “I’m prepared to proceed at your prompting.” Why am I alliterating? Stop that .
Professor Martinez reads the mission statement aloud, the rest of us following along on the copies Michaela provides. When he finishes, she thanks him and turns to me.
“Foster was adamant about your appointment as the first director. I look forward to your assessment.”
I stand and move to present, focusing on appearing super professional. The most professional. I’m regretting my red lipstick now. Maybe it’s less than professional? But I can’t get caught in a spiral of cosmetic regret.
I turn on the screen, and my title slide appears. “Good evening, board members. The Martin estate is uniquely positioned to emerge as a premiere regional museum thanks to a confluence of factors. These include …”
I nail it. I don’t miss a single fact, figure, number, or date. I give them a timeline and estimates for the admin suite renovations and my hiring plans. They all look satisfied with the level of detail I’m giving with two exceptions. Jay looks puzzled, and Catherine Crawford finally reveals an emotion: skepticism.
Forcing myself not to let either of their reactions get in my head, I hit them with the surprise A-plus content that shows I’m proactive and coming in with ideas and a vision.
“The final section is a preview of the direction I see for the museum. I’ve been studying the collections and visualizing a series of exhibitions. This floor plan shows which ones will be permanent as well as spaces for rotating exhibits that will keep our content fresh.”
Jay leans forward, eyes wide with interest, and I don’t let myself look at Catherine Crawford. I go through slides showing a well-curated visitor experience, from the placement of a small gift shop—critical revenue for any museum—to the staging of the ballroom so that it can easily be converted into a meeting or wedding venue. I overview my plans for temporary exhibits for the first year, like landscape paintings of central Massachusetts, and a profile of accomplished figures in city history.
“I’ll be meeting with the Hassanamisco Nipmuc Band council next month to learn how to partner with them, and shortly after that, the foremost scholar of the architect who designed the Martin House and pioneered Federal-style architecture throughout the region.”
I’ve given them far more than they asked for and way ahead of schedule, but when I scan the board, I see two impressed faces, two pleased ones, and then Catherine Crawford’s. Her expression has deepened to concern.
Don’t panic . Do not try to guess what her problem is and over-explain.
“Foster Martin would want this museum to be prestigious. Reputable. To garner the respect the Sutton has earned over the years with careful acquisitions and the wise guidance of trustees like Foster himself. I designed this preliminary plan with that in mind, and I’m so honored that he trusted me to do it.” That last part is a veiled reminder to Catherine Crawford. I would never let him down. I set down the clicker and smile at them.
They applaud, even Catherine, though hers is restrained.
“You have exceeded expectations, indeed,” Dr. Smithson says. “Remarkable work, Director Hopper.”
Professor Martinez nods. “An auspicious beginning. I’m happy to connect you with local experts through the college who can consult and advise.”
“That would be greatly appreciated,” I tell him.
He gives me a wry smile. “That’s what Foster hauled me in for.”
Jay catches my eye and smiles and nods, and I appreciate it as a friend, but it gives me an extra level of pride that he’s pleased with the way I’m executing his grandfather’s vision.
“I commend your extra work here, but I have some reservations.”
Pfft . Just like that, Catherine blows out my warm glow.
“I expect you’ll be open to input,” she continues. “I see some areas worth deeper discussion before we begin setting budgets and installing display cases. ”
“Certainly,” I say. “May I inquire as to the nature of your concerns?”
I see Jay’s forehead furrow again in my peripheral vision, but I don’t break eye contact with Catherine. Maybe she’ll respect a show of strength.
“We can get into specifics at our next meeting. For now, I’d sum it up as questions regarding the overall tone you’re striving for.”
Is this doublespeak? Is she referring to my personal tone? Or is she really confining her critique to my plans? She’s being so vague that I have no idea if I’m offended or not.
Jay clears his throat. “Part of my role is to represent our family’s interest, and I’m pleased and impressed with your progress and plans.”
I know he’s trying to help, but he is the one person I don’t want to speak up for me in front of Catherine Crawford, given her particular issues with me and men, specifically handsome men my age. I give Jay a slight nod but address Catherine. “I welcome your thoughts, Mrs. Crawford. Is it regarding the multiuse spaces or?—”
“Truly,” she says with a firm smile that doesn’t reach her cool gaze, “it can wait. Chairwoman Berg, I’d love for us to set a precedent of efficient meetings, especially for those of us returning to Boston this evening. I can drive at night, but I don’t like to, and I dislike hearing my children fuss at me for doing it even more.”
I return to my seat and try not to think of it as slinking away from a scolding.
“Agreed,” Michaela says. “This has been a promising first meeting, but we’re at a good stopping point. Director Hopper, the hiring committee will be comprised of myself, Professor Martinez, and Dr. Smithson. We’ll conduct panel interviews and make our recommendations to you. Once we’ve had a chance to confer with you as a hiring committee, you will be free to extend job offers.”
“Thank you.”
She does all the proper parliamentary procedure to set the next meeting. Once she officially adjourns this one, it’s like a spell breaks as everyone relaxes into more natural smiles and stands to stretch or chat with their neighbor. They begin drifting toward the exit, apparently each eager to get on with the rest of their evenings.
I am not. I am seething, in fact. It took me a few seconds to realize I was boiling mad as Michaela finished up the meeting, but I am. I’m not sure how many times I’m supposed to let Catherine Crawford swipe at me while I take it with a polite smile, but it’s clear that she’s decided her sole purpose in life right now is to block me at every turn.
She’s settling her handbag on her arm, already turning toward the door, and I hurry to catch her before she leaves.
“Catherine, could I speak to you for a moment?” I keep my voice low, but Jay glances over with a sharp look. What I really want him to do is get everyone away so they can’t hear our conversation, but I don’t know how to signal him without Catherine taking it the wrong way. I ignore him and focus on her.
This talk has to happen. I have to nip her obstructing tendencies in the bud. Except it’s been blooming since she blocked my promotion this spring, so this is a deadheading. It may be the single most important thing I’ve done since starting.
“I do need to get on the road, Phoebe.” She doesn’t even pretend to use my title as a courtesy.
“This won’t take long.” I can’t let her call all the shots.
Jay seems to sense I need privacy, so he turns to Professor Martinez and starts asking him a question while walking toward the door. “Professor, I wanted to ask you what you know about …”
The rest of the question is muffled as they turn into the hall.
“What can I do for you?” Catherine asks.
“I’d like to know what kind of footing we’re starting on.” Might as well lay it out plain. “I’m aware you opposed my promotion at the Sutton. I suspect you would have tried to talk Foster out of making me the director here if you knew that’s what he was planning.”
“I accepted this appointment only because you’re the director. The other trustees aren’t aware of how much supervision you’ll need.”
It’s not just blunt; it’s rude, but I won’t let her see me lose my temper. “This is why I wanted to clear the air. I understand why you were concerned by my response to Hayes at the gala?—”
“Your response ,” she says. “You mean your inappropriate public meltdown?”
I draw a careful breath through my nose. “I understand why you saw it that way, but truly, that scene was limited only to the people sitting right there.”
“And whoever they gossiped to.”
“Granted, but the vast majority of people didn’t hear anything about it. Even my boss didn’t hear about it until you called him the next morning and made it an issue.”
“It would have been inappropriate in any social or professional environment no matter the visibility.”
“Hayes deserved it.” My voice is flat. That is the truth, and I’m not debating it. “On another note, I want to make sure you didn’t reach the wrong conclusion when you first walked in today. I know how it looked, but Jay and I?—”
“Were fighting over a cookie. That was obvious,” she says. “ Your position wouldn’t have been remotely comfortable if either of you had other ideas.”
I don’t expect her to concede that, and my eyebrows go up. “Thank you. I appreciate the benefit of the doubt.”
“Oh, you don’t have that from me because I doubt you’d have ended up in a fight for a cookie with anyone else on this board. Somehow, it was once again a handsome, connected young man.”
Everything inside me recoils at her use of the word “connected.” It’s a gross implication. “Jay and I are friends. Nothing more.”
Catherine sighs. “I know you don’t believe me, but it will give me great pleasure if you succeed.”
“But you don’t think I will.”
Her silence is loud.
Again, I push down my anger. “If you’re sincere in wanting me to succeed, I’d love for you to spell out your reservations about the plan I presented.”
She considers me, and I’m glad I haven’t shown any cracks in my composure, because I suspect it’s what tips her to tell me.
“I said it was about tone. Your plans don’t capture the spirit of what Serendipity Springs is. You’re missing the target.”
It feels like a criticism of my preparation. “I’ve read extensively on the history of Serendipity Springs, and I consume every new book and article I find about its past. I’m telling you with all sincerity that I’ve gone far beyond the minimum in learning about the city’s roots.”
“I’m aware of your academic strengths, Phoebe. I’ve seen you present to the Sutton board several times. But I know the city well enough to recognize that you’re missing something. I’m not even sure I could put a finger on it, to be honest. ”
Is she kidding? I’m supposed to magically figure out what she can’t even explain?
“I love art,” she says.
What? What does that have to do with anything?
“But I’m only an adequate painter. If I had true talent, I’d spend all my time making art. But my gift is recognizing talent when I see it, so I spend my time elevating the art of others to help as many people as possible benefit from it.”
She nods to the screen showing my opening slide. “You gave us a presentation about facts. You presented a carefully considered and well-organized vision for the museum. But it’s not the soul. I disagree that it fulfills Foster’s vision.”
No one wants to hear that they’ve presented sterile facts without any soul, especially not me, someone who has led with my heart my entire life. It cuts deeply.
“If I can pin it down more, I will,” she says. “But that’s what the right director for this museum is supposed to do: see the thing I can’t explain. Find a way to make the museum a vital part of the community. That’s going to take more than being … how did you put it? Prestigious. Reputable.” She shakes her head. “Those were not Foster’s driving motivation.”
“But you’ll know it when you see it.” I keep the frustration at this unmeetable metric out of my voice.
She lifts her chin, unapologetic. “Yes.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
Her lips twitch as if she suspects what I want to say is I’d like to push you under a bus . I would never … say that aloud.
“Good luck with the hiring,” she says. “You’ve identified some excellent candidates. I’ll look forward to confirming them at the next meeting.”
She walks out of the library, and I wonder if she thinks her parting statement is a peace offering or reassuring in some way. To me, it comes off almost as if she’s surprised I’ve gotten that part right.
I’m standing there, seething and trying to organize my thoughts, when Jay reappears.
“Phoebe? Michaela asked me to bring this in.” He looks down at the box and presses his lips together before meeting my eyes.
“Don’t tell me.” I’m torn between laughing and groaning.
“She’s donating a tea set.”
The groan wins.