Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Phoebe
I’m not foolish enough to think I can work at the cottage with Jay again without consequences.
Luckily, by Thursday the weather is back to normal temps, the contractor assures me the worst of the noise is done now that demolition is over, and when they need to run the saw, they do it behind the closed door of the room farthest from the library, so it’s not bad.
The estate’s former handyman, Terry, brings over his choice to replace him: a tall Black woman named Azalea who spent years in the army as a machinist. She tells me to call her Zee. Terry and I walk the property with her, and she’s quiet, mostly listening as he points out different maintenance and repair scenarios she’ll face. Terry already told me that Zee was the best student he ever had when he taught industrial tech at the high school twenty years ago, and it’s easy to believe when she’s comfortable troubleshooting every potential problem he raises.
When we return to the big house, Terry excuses himself to use the restroom, and Zee looks around the library, her eyes fixing on the rolling ladder. “Do employees ever get to ride that thing?”
I offer her the job on the spot, and she agrees to start Monday. Her only stipulation is that her husband coaches the high school girls’ basketball team, and she’s the assistant coach, so she wants to start her day earlier during the season to be at practices. A husband and wife coaching duo? Girls’ sports? It’s so wholesome that I agree only if the museum is allowed to be a corporate sponsor for the season, and Zee grins and accepts.
“The bottling plant wouldn’t adjust my schedule during the basketball season, so when Terry contacted me about this job, I was already interested. But throw in a library ladder, getting to work outdoors sometimes, and a sponsor for the team? I’m sold.”
“But it’s mainly the ladder, right?” I ask.
“It’s mainly the ladder.”
Friday, I spend most of the day at Amherst College, attending a seminar on using AI to improve accessibility in museums. It’s a fascinating and informative day, and I leave with a headful of knowledge. When I get back in my car, I text Francie, ignoring my impulse to text Jay first. I’d love to pretend I want to reach out because he’s a Martin and he’ll be interested in the update, but no. I almost texted him because I’m already in the habit of sharing cool discoveries with him as a fellow historian … and friend. But Francie is also both of those things. She should still be my go-to person to share with. She is . Jay is … proximity bias. Yeah, that’s it.
Phoebe
Is this my real life? Just went to school all day. Learned and saw so much cool stuff. BEST JOB EVER.
Francie
Slay! Will be even better when you come back to do it here.
I shake my head at her one-track mind, then put my phone away for the drive.
When I get home, I check my mailbox, but I already know there won’t be a new Smitten Kitten letter—I don’t have the tickle in my midsection—and I’m right. I find only a flyer with local coupons and two credit card offers. I feel a pang of disappointment, but that’s silly considering I haven’t even had time to chase down the possible leads from the last letter.
I wind down from the evening, and before I fall asleep, I plan my Saturday in my Notes app. I’ll focus on one of the residential neighborhoods on my grid. A weekend seems like a great time to get the vibe of a family neighborhood. I also want to talk to a couple Gloria mentioned has lived in The Serendipity since it became apartments.
If they can’t help me, I’ll take another stab at the old lease records. I’ll let Scarlett know before I go into the storage so she can send out a search party if I don’t stop by her apartment on my way out of the basement. Also, I won’t turn my back on the hair-eating bike, and I’ll shave my head to avoid mishaps.
Or maybe just rock a messy bun.
I start my morning right on time with a run at 8 AM. When I get back, I check the mailboxes to verify the unit number for the couple Gloria told me about, the Hathaways.
Their unit is on the first floor in the same corner of the building as mine, and when I knock—lightly, in case they aren’t early risers—the door opens within moments to reveal a sweet wrinkled face that might be as old as the city itself. Kind eyes smile at me from beneath a soft-looking pouf of lilac-tinged hair.
“Hello, may I help you?” the elderly woman asks.
I introduce myself, explain I’m their new upstairs neighbor, and then say, “I have an odd question for you. I keep getting old letters in my mailbox, and I believe they’re meant for someone who lived in my apartment a long time ago. My neighbor, Gloria, mentioned you may have lived here back then?”
“Ah.” Her eyes twinkle. “It’s very busy this summer.”
I don’t know what this means, and I don’t have time to ask before she’s calling over her shoulder, “Norman, pour some tea, would you, sweetheart? We’ve got company. Come in,” she says, stepping back and waving me in.
“You don’t need to entertain me,” I protest. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “It’s not an interruption. Let’s sit and visit while we wait for Norman to join us. Is tea all right? We had to give up coffee in our seventies, but I’ve come to love tea.”
I assure her tea is great, and she directs me to an armchair before she settles on the couch. For the next few minutes, she asks me questions about where I’m from and what brought me to the city, and more specifically, to The Serendipity. I’m finishing up an explanation of my lease agreement when a cute old man walks out from the kitchen, carrying a cup of tea, and it’s only then that I notice a cane beside the kitchen doorway.
“Let me help you with that,” I say, but Mrs. Hathaway is already gesturing for me to stay put. Her husband makes his way slowly but mostly steadily over to us with the cup and saucer, handing it to me before he settles on the sofa beside his wife.
Mrs. Hathaway introduces us, then says, “Norman, Phoebe here is in charge of turning the Martin house into a museum. She just moved in two weeks ago, and she’s been getting letters addressed to an old tenant. Tell us more about them, dear.”
I explain the letters I’ve gotten and the clues we’ve pieced together. “Anyway, we were hoping you might remember who was in my apartment. I know it’s a long shot, but that’s what brings me to you.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ Who is helping you with this project?” Mr. Hathaway asks.
“Jay Martin. Foster was his grandfather, and Jay is a museum trustee.”
They exchange a look. I’ll bet they can read each other like a book after a lifetime together, but I can’t interpret the look at all, although a smile tugs at the corner of Mr. Hathaway’s mouth.
Mrs. Hathaway makes a delicate throat-clearing sound. “Has anyone told you that this building has a … personality?”
“I’ve been warned about some of its quirks and found a couple on my own,” I say.
Mrs. Hathaway nods. “You know the building is fed by Serendipity Spring itself?”
“Yes,” I say, wondering what this has to do with the letters.
“And as a historian, you’ve surely heard the peculiar stories about Serendipity Springs? About its, er …”
“Serendipitousness,” Mr. Hathaway supplies.
“Yes, serendipitousness,” Mrs. Hathaway agrees.
“I have. Small but significant luck, healing of vague maladies, a general prosperity compared to surrounding towns.”
“The Serendipity itself has its own stories,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “Quite a few people have ended up finding their match after the building …” Again, she looks at her husband as if she’s searching for the words.
“After the building meddles.”
She nods.
“The building meddles?” I repeat.
“It once trapped Norman and me in the elevator to force us to meet,” she says. “And we’re not the only marriage it arranged that way.”
“From what we understand about its time as a women’s dorm,” Mr. Hathaway says, “young men would come calling on the young ladies who lived here, and many romances formed. Our theory is that the building missed that when the new dorm was built, so it conspires to keep people falling in love.”
This is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard, and I hope when I’m in my nineties that I’m as romantic as these two are.
“You’re telling me I’d better be careful about speaking to any men in the building?” I joke.
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “The building has already gone to work on you. It’s sending you those letters.”
I don’t have the heart to tell them that the only men I’ve interacted with are the parrot guy and Peter, who I hear is very taken. If these letters are the building’s matchmaking, its magic is misfiring.
“Thank you for the warning. I’ll be on guard.”
“Don’t bother,” Mr. Hathaway says cheerfully. “If it’s found your match, it’s your time whether you know it or not.”
That sounds ominous, and I’m ready to leave the subject of magic aside. “As I mentioned, I was wondering if you might remember who lived in my apartment back then. We think it was two women—cousins. They were both schoolteachers. I’d like to return the letters to their owner or her descendants.”
“That’s kind of you,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “Let’s see, did I know 3E when I first moved in? ”
Mr. Hathaway is already shaking his head. “I don’t recall. I met Jane shortly after moving in. People were always moving in and out, even back then.”
Mrs. Hathaway sighs. “Same, I’m afraid. Maybe if I knew this kitten’s real name, it would ring a bell, but I can’t recall who specifically had that apartment.”
I nod, disappointed but not surprised. Most historical mysteries are difficult to solve, if they ever get solved at all. They’re mysteries because information is missing, and it can’t always be recovered.
I set my teacup on the coffee table and stand, insisting they stay seated when they move to get up as well. “Please, sit and relax. I need to tackle the rest of my day, and I can see myself out. But thank you so much for your hospitality this morning.”
They wave and wish me good luck on my quest. It is a quest, I decide, one that feels more pressing to complete with each letter that arrives. Since the letter on Wednesday, I’ve wanted to race over to the college library and lose myself in the microfilm newspaper archives. But it wouldn’t be right without Jay, and I need distance from him, so I’ve ordered myself to prioritize my job and spend my free time exploring the city.
After this chat with the Hathaways, the quest is calling to me again, and I go down to the basement to look at more of the old lease records. It’s not like I’m leaving Jay out of the library research, so I choose not to feel guilty about it.
Three hours in the basement doesn’t turn up anything either. The records stop around 1978, and when I do a public records search on the title history for the building, I see that’s when it was sold to the owner before the Galentine lady, and the only owner before that bought the building from the college. Another dead end.
I leave the cool basement for the warm outdoors, happy the temperature is back to hovering below eighty degrees. It’s the kind of day that makes me wish I had a bicycle with fat tires and a comfortable seat so I could cruise on it through the neighborhoods on my route today. They’re still lovely on foot, and I explore for a couple of hours.
Like most cities, the neighborhoods closest to downtown have older homes, and I entertain myself by guessing which homes belong to older owners and which belong to younger families. Those aren’t too hard to guess. Bicycles in the yard, small shoes on the porch, or chalked sidewalks usually give them away.
On Sunday, I check out a pretty church I noticed on one of my walks earlier in the week, which happens to be a Catholic church. Our Lady of Czestochowa? I need to look her up.
When I take a seat in the last pew a minute before the mass begins, I realize why I haven’t heard of her. No one is speaking English. A visit to the church’s website informs me I’ve wandered into a Polish service.
It raises a million questions. How have I missed that a sizable Polish population lives—and thrives—in Serendipity Springs, what brought them here, which neighborhoods do they mostly live in, and where is the pierogi shop? Because there has to be at least one epic pierogi shop.
Since I’m not Catholic, I don’t know what’s happening in the mass, but I like the pretty chapel, and the look of contentment on the parishioners’ faces is universal. I spend my time enjoying the music and reading about their saint. I love stories of the saints because they are wild . Or maybe “miraculous” is the technical word? This one involves a monastery and a painting and invading Hussites and some heavenly smiting of the invaders. Excellent.
I like Serendipity Springs more with each new part of it I experience, and I’m putting Our Lady of Czestochowa near the top of the list. I’ve started a new list of potential exhibits and lesser-known periods of the city’s history to explore, and today’s discovery will fit right in.
Unfortunately for Catherine Crawford, her criticism has sent me barreling down a path that is leading to so many ideas for the museum that I’m going to be ouster-proof in no time at all.