Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Phoebe
Having Jay gone helping his dad for the next few days should give me some breathing room. A chance to get my head right. Put things back into perspective. Yes, he has layers I didn’t expect, but there is no circumstance in which I could date him that wouldn’t destroy any remaining shred of credibility I might have with Catherine.
As it turns out, Jay is not gone gone. His texts keep coming in. A picture of a boat with only the word boat to explain. A text telling me Natalie Betts is off our list, with a link to her obituary stating she was a retired nurse. A screenshot from the comment trail of one of his videos where someone says he’s so boring it put the viewer’s dog to sleep, then a screenshot of his resume where he’s listed “pet hypnotist” as one of his special skills.
When my heart revs each time I see his name on my screen, I remind myself borders, borders, borders . I enforce them by only texting back when I can eliminate one of our candidates. We can drop Joyce Kowalski Mills who is described as a “lifelong resident of Serendipity Springs.” I find two other obituaries that might belong to my candidates, but because their maiden names are common, I can’t be completely sure. Neither husband mentioned in their obituaries matches or conflicts with what I know about Dear Heart.
Still, we started with eleven possibilities, and we’re down to eight. It’s progress.
I’ve also made progress on the hiring front. Michaela Berg, Dr. Smithson, and Professor Martinez meet with the archivist candidates on Thursday. I give each one a tour of the estate before their panel interview so I can get a better feel for everything from their demeanor to how proactive each of them is and surprise myself by elevating my second choice to first. When I talk it over with the hiring committee after the interviews, they’ve reached the same conclusion.
We repeat the process on Friday. This time, Dr. Smithson favors a different candidate, but he defers to me and Professor Martinez, and we have a majority again by the end of the day. I can start checking their references on Monday, and after the board vote on Tuesday, I’ll be able to extend them job offers.
I’m getting in my car to go home when Jay’s car pulls in beside me. He stops and rolls down the passenger window to smile at me.
“You’re back,” I say. He looks as relaxed as ever, and he has more color in his cheeks, as if he’s been outside the whole three days he was gone.
“We were efficient. Even got in some sailing today. How’s it going here?”
That explains why he’s looking like a Ralph Lauren ad again. “Good. I’ll have an archivist and curator as soon as you guys vote.” I wonder if his hair looks mussed because of salt water, and I have an intense urge to lean through the window and investigate if it’s warm from the Atlantic sunshine .
“Awesome. I need to shower, but do you want to grab dinner after and tell me about it?”
I’d love to, but my hand is curled over the top of my car door, fingers digging in so hard they’re probably white as I resist the temptation to touch and smell this summer vagabond. “I can’t. I have plans tonight.”
After a tiny pause, he nods and gives me an easy smile. “Catch you soon then.”
He’s already pulling away before I get my own door closed. I drive home for my Big Plan of not making my life harder by throwing myself at Jay. The distance while he was gone worked great … ish, but in a catastrophic rebound effect, his powers seem to be twice as strong when he returns. A handsome man left on Tuesday, and I got breathing room. A devastatingly sexy man returned on Friday and took my breath away.
I can spend the weekend figuring out how to defend against that. Busy-ness will help. And not reading the sequel in that romantasy, in which the heroine’s ship has just been boarded by a roguish pirate who looks like Jay in my mind’s eye. Definitely not doing that, especially now that I know how he looks after a day on the wind-tossed sea. I don’t need pages of him looking like that, walking around in a muslin shirt with laces …
“Eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize,” I chant to myself. I come up with the most packed to-do list I can think of to keep me distracted all weekend.
I fill the night with grocery shopping and excessive meal prep, followed by so much laundry that the last load doesn’t finish drying until almost midnight, and I’m half asleep by the time I fold and put it away.
I wake up from a dream that I win a spelling bee with the word wshntzx, but the giant gold cup trophy grows an eyeball and starts chasing me around my elementary school cafeteria. I stare at the ceiling and wait for my brain to come back online. “Not what I meant by eyes on the prize,” I tell it.
At least I have my plan to keep me in line today. I’m up, dressed for a run, and about to go down the back stairs when I realize my mailbox has other plans.
I feel it when I start down the first flight of steps. The whisper-tickle-vibe thing. There’s a letter, and I’m definitely not going to ignore it. Not when I’m so close to learning who Smitten Kitten is and maybe how her relationship with Dear Heart works out.
When I hit the first floor, I head straight for the mailboxes. I see the envelope through the glass, and when I sweet-talk the lock open, I snap a picture and text it to Jay.
Phoebe
Brunch and mail tampering?
The envelope doesn’t have any extra clues when I draw it from the box. Same return address. Addressed to Smitten Kitten. No stray marks.
Jay
This morning isn’t great but could do afternoon? Mid?
That’s not the energy that had him tearing across the lawn in pajamas and bare feet for previous letters. It’s weirdly deflating that he’s not dying to open it.
Phoebe
Sure, mid
It’s both a confirmation of plans and a description of how I feel about his enthusiasm.
And yet I already have the happy feeling you get when you anticipate something fun. A birthday party. A new pair of shoes. Seeing your crush.
I leave the letter in my apartment and head for my run, wishing I could let myself enjoy the feeling of anticipation about seeing Jay. It’s not like he’s the shallow flirt I took him for a month ago. Yes, he’s charming and too aware of his own good looks. But he’s smart and funny. And deceptively laid-back. He cares deeply and about more things than I would have assumed.
I don’t think he does things out of duty—help his dad with work they could easily hire out, or serve on the museum board. He does it because he cares. He cares about history and its consequences, about sharing it, about doing it well. Beneath that boyish charm and floppy hair, he’s an old soul like me.
I could fall for him so easily if I let myself. But I can’t, because even though my perception of him has changed, my situation hasn’t. Catherine Crawford is a hard woman to impress even when you’re starting with a clean slate, and I’m not. I’m still digging out of a hole just to reach a level playing field. I believe I can win her over with time, and when I do, maybe then I’ll take a risk on exploring things with Jay. But by then, Jay will be long done with his book and back in Boston.
These thoughts chase themselves through my head my whole run, and when I get home, I’ve worked up an appetite from both stress and exercise. I shower and revise my list to include taking myself out to brunch. I check my next square on the map to find a brunch place, then I’m out the door, keys in hand, smiling that going the extra mile for my job means trying new food in cool neighborhoods, but I’m a giver.
When I walk into the restaurant and the smell of onion and garlic hits me, I’m officially starving. Several people are waiting for tables, but they’re in groups, and when the hostess says, “Table for one? I can take you right now,” I’m not embarrassed. They can pity themselves for having to wait.
No, the embarrassment strikes when she leads me to an empty table right next to an occupied table for two. Sexy Librarian from the college is sitting in one seat.
And Jay Martin is sitting across from her in the other.