Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jay
Phoebe is coming to the cottage.
I hop up from the table and look around the living room to make sure it’s presentable. It is … ish.
I grab a stack of plates and crumpled paper towels from the coffee table where I eat my microwave meals and watch SportsCenter. I walk the mess fifteen feet to the kitchen, tossing the trash as I pass the garbage can before setting the plates in the sink. Not sure why I don’t just do that every time I eat, but maybe because it is such a small mess?
I work at the dining table, so I close my laptop and straighten the piles of books I’ve been using for my research.
Maybe I should take down the backdrop pinned to the curtains and put away the ring light? No on the backdrop because it took way too long to make it hang right, but I scoop up the ring light and put it in the spare room.
Back in the living room, I shove my fingers through my hair and scan for anything else that needs to be adjusted. “I should put you away, Sam. You don’t deserve to hang out with us.” When he sneers, I take his portrait off the mantel and lean it against the hearth, his face to the wall. “I keep telling you not to try me.”
Next up, a three-minute shower. Then I brush my teeth, hit my pits with some deodorant, and debate whether I should put shoes on for Phoebe. I never wear them in the house, so no.
All the rushing ends up leaving me with a bunch of time before Phoebe could conceivably get here, especially if she’s stopping to pick up tea. I can’t wait to see her. And the letter, of course. I’m invested now. I hope we’re able to learn how the story ends. I get Dear Heart. It sounds like Smitten Kitten’s assumptions about him were similar to Phoebe’s assumptions about me.
But all of that comes second to the letters giving me a chance to connect with Phoebe. Without them, I’d have to work way harder to invent excuses.
I’m trying to figure out what to do with my extra time while I wait. Write a couple more paragraphs? Sweep the porch? Do pushups until I look swole?
I do pushups.
She calls a few minutes later. “Hey, I’m at the big house.”
“Do you want me to come over there?”
“No. I had to stop because during the forty minutes I was gone, someone left another donation on the front doorstep, and now I need to deal with it.”
“Tea set?”
“I wish. Hang on.” She ends the call, then texts a picture.
I look at it for several seconds, but staring at it longer doesn’t make it make any more sense. I call her. “Is that a rhinoceros head?”
“Yes, Jay, that is a taxidermied rhino head hunting trophy, and I can assure you it is the real deal. It’s going to take a few minutes to drag this thing inside.”
“I’ll come help. ”
“No, thank you. I’ve always wanted to wrestle a rhinoceros. See you in a few.”
She drives over several minutes later instead of walking from the big house. When I hear her pull in, I open the front door and wince at how warm it already is. We don’t have brutal summers, but it feels about ten degrees hotter than usual for mid-June.
“Hey,” I say, as she gets out of her car. She’s in a dress today, red with large white polka dots. It falls below her knees and has buttons and a collar, so kind of businesslike, but no sleeves, so kind of hot, because the girl has guns. She probably chose a dress today for the same reason desert nomads do—to fight the heat.
“Thank you for inviting me over. It’s too loud in the house and the barn is too hot.”
“Good thing you had the letter to bribe me with.”
“I knew it,” she says.
I doubt she knows anything going on in my head. She’d run for the hills if she knew how happy I am to have her here. I step back and wave her in. “Welcome to the cottage.”
She walks in and looks down at my feet. “Should I take off my shoes?”
“It’s not a rule. I just prefer bare feet.”
She slips off her white leather loafers and pads barefoot to the table to set down her workbag. “This place is big. Why is it called the cottage?”
“The style, I guess? Or maybe just because it’s smaller than the big house. It’s always been the cottage.” It was built about eighty years ago at the end of the Colonial Revival style. That Martin ancestor built it so his groundskeeper could live on the property with his family and the wife could work as the housekeeper for the big house.
Phoebe looks around, and when she doesn’t say anything, I grin. “It’s only been redecorated once. You’ll never guess when.”
With a glance at the avocado green kitchen cabinets and the yellow faux-marble linoleum, she says, “1975.”
“Or maybe you’ll guess exactly right. I plan to keep it like this until it’s a perfect time capsule and it looks carefully preserved instead of super outdated.”
Her eyes stop on the pinned backdrop. “Blackout curtain?”
“Basically.”
She points to the frame leaning against the hearth. “Is that your rogue?”
I walk over and pick it up, turning the portrait so she can see him. “Samuel Davis Brown, the guy who almost tanked America.”
Her nose wrinkles. “He looks smug.”
“You have no idea.” I put him back in time-out. “Letter time. Table or sofa?”
“The table makes more sense, but …”
“You’re obsessed with the sofa? Let’s do it.” The sofa, armchair, and ottoman are all heavy wood pieces covered in white velvet upholstery with a busy print of brown roses that can only be experienced, not described.
She moves her bag to the sofa and sits at one end, running her hand over the cushion. “It’s soft like a rose petal, but I didn’t know roses came in brown.”
“I believe the seventies might have been an era when the only limit to brown was your imagination.”
“You love it.” She’s smiling.
“With all my heart. Don’t get me wrong, it’s ugly as sin. But that makes me love it more.”
“Speaking of love …” She reaches into the bag and holds up an envelope and a letter opener. “Ready? ”
“To be murdered?” I eye the opener. Why do they all have strong dagger energy?
“I found it in Foster’s desk. Seems more fitting for old letters.” She slits the short end and slides out the letter, doing her usual front and back check. “January 12, 1966. Yours always, Dear Heart.”
I nod and add the date to the notes in my phone. “So we find out if he convinced her over Christmas that he loves her.”
She unfolds it and begins to read.
Dear Smitten Kitten,
You love me. You love me!
That’s all I need to remember when I feel disappointed that you didn’t let me propose. But I understand. You’re right; it will be more fun to celebrate an engagement when you’re back here in Boston for good. All that matters is that you love me too. Everything else will fall into place. That’s how it works for real love, doesn’t it?
Your school year ends about two weeks after my semester. Say you’ll be able to come for my graduation. I’ll drive out and pick you up myself. I want you by my side for every milestone from now on.
For the rest of our lives, Kitten. Isn’t that something? For the rest of our lives. Those words sound like they should feel scary, but they don’t. In my mind, they’re shiny and golden. This must be one of those signs that we’re meant to be. They’re piling up!
As for this pageant, I’m all for it. I can’t believe your cousin talked you into it. It’s nice of you to do it for moral support, but she’ll regret it when you win, because how could you not? It’ll be a kick to brag to everyone about my sweetheart, Miss Serendipity. I know you’ll get a crown, but will you get any powers? That would be the real prize. You could go around making lucky things happen. Isn’t that the whole Serendipity Springs gimmick?
I’m keeping this short today. This new professor, Dr. Bryson, is hitting us right out of the gate with impossible labs. Fluid mechanics. What does that mean, you might ask? I don’t know, but I’d better figure it out quick since it has to do with keeping mechanical things aloft in the sky. Seems important to know for working in aeronautics. Be glad you never had to deal with this in your college classes. What I wouldn’t give to spend my time in the humanities building debating which ancient amphora is the best amphora .
Keep me in your thoughts, Kitten. You’ll be the reason I push through my toughest semester with a smile on my face.
The president’s holiday seems so far away, but I’ll work extra hard in my classes to make the time speed by until I can see you again.
Yours always,
Dear Heart
Phoebe presses her lips together and sets the letter on the coffee table with a distinct amount of force.
“Presentism?” I guess.
“Presentism. But also his condescension toward humanities.” She wrinkles her nose, like the attitude physically smells bad. “I’ve never run up against it in real life. Maybe I might have if I was in STEM? I hear MIT is one of the few colleges with more men than women, still.”
Something about that tickles my brain, but I set it aside while she’s talking.
“In museum work, most of us don’t care whether a curator or conservator or supervisor is a man or woman. I don’t know of anyone who cares. Or I didn’t used to.”
“What changed?” I don’t want to push her, but I suspect if I ask in the right way, she’ll tell me more about what makes her tick.
She searches my eyes for a couple of seconds before she gives me a single head shake.
I sense a guardedness about her that I’ve only seen come up with a very specific trigger, so I take a risk. “I assume this relates to the friction between you and Catherine Crawford last night?”
“Oh, you noticed that, huh?” Her voice is heavy with sarcasm.
“I doubt the other trustees thought much about it, but I already knew she stresses you out, and I was there for the pre-show.”
She doesn’t meet my eyes, and I wonder if she’s remembering the intense seconds we were tangled up in each other before Catherine came. It’s on repeat in my mind.
She drums her fingers against the sofa arm a few times. I feel the soft vibration on my end of the couch.
“The only person who ever made gender an issue at the Sutton,” she says, “was Catherine.”
I nod and settle back against the cushions, ready to listen. “Cabbage and king time?”
“More like baggage and ring. I’m only telling you this before you hear the story somewhere else, like from Catherine herself and whatever version she’s going to give everyone.” She drums her fingers a few more times, then presses her hand flat and moves it to her lap. “It’s time you know more about why I left the Sutton.”