Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Phoebe
I did it.
I freaking did it.
I impressed Catherine Crawford.
Not that she’s about to go hog wild and nominate me for Miss Serendipity or anything, but she’s likely quit revising her argument for why I should be fired. She’s filed it, not deleted it, but it’s progress, and I do a little dance when the last board member leaves the house, taking myself on a spin around the entire ballroom. I hold up the skirt of my imaginary ballgown and give a dazzling smile to all the Martin ancestors who are surely watching in satisfaction as I take my victory lap, doing something between a waltz and a line dance.
Then the idea of any ancestors watching me, even pleased ones, creeps me out ever so slightly, and I scurry back to the library to pack up.
Jay nailed it in his role of professional board member and nothing more. He didn’t give Catherine anything to suspect between us. He came off as aloof, which is exactly how two people who aren’t interested in each other should act. I can’t wait to congratulate each other, hear what he thinks of the meeting, and find out about his trip. I kept my fingers crossed for him the last two days to find the breakthrough he needs.
When I lock up and turn toward my car, ready to drop off my work bag and go catch up with Jay, I notice the cottage is dark. It’s not full night yet, but it’s dusky enough for him to need lights inside.
I pull out my phone to check my texts, but I don’t have any new ones. He’s read my last one, but now he’s offline. The first tendril of unease curls through my chest, but I take a deep breath to disperse it and blow it out slowly. It’s fine. I know he’s not that guy. He doesn’t suddenly check out. Not the here-today-engaged-to-someone-else-next-month type.
He is a guy who drove five hours to go right into a two-hour meeting. I can’t blame him for crashing, and I’d only drain him more right now with an interrogation about his research trip and an exhaustive postmortem of Catherine’s reaction to my presentation.
Maybe it’s for the best that I go home and think about it first. I’ve won Catherine Crawford’s trust. Some of it, anyway. Does that mean I can let Jay out of the friend zone? He’s at least half out already. Or does this mean that I can’t undermine Catherine’s trust by getting into a relationship with Jay?
Yeah, okay. Best to think about all this.
Doing some more detective work is a better call than running at Jay with golden retriever energy, flailing about all the things and begging to be let into Jay’s lap again.
Because that will be my impulse around him forever now that I know what it’s like to be there.
Despite the adrenaline high of scoring a victory with the board meeting, I’m able to fall asleep pretty easily. I don’t stay asleep, though.
I wake up suddenly, almost an hour before my alarm. I blink and check the time on my phone, trying to figure out what woke me. Something is off. No, not off. This isn’t a bad feeling. It’s …
I shoot straight up in bed. I know this feeling. Smitten Kitten has a letter waiting. Or I have a Smitten Kitten letter waiting for me. I’m not sure which is true anymore.
I don’t bother going to check, I’m that sure. Instead, I get up, get dressed, and head out for work, stopping by my mailbox. The envelope is visible through the glass. “Art Deco is the best deco,” I say, kissing my fingers and pressing them to the lock for extra luck. It opens right up, and I pull out the letter. I know Dear Heart’s handwriting like I know Foster’s at this point, having seen both so often.
Phoebe
Another letter. On my way over.
Breakfast and even coffee can wait. My mind hums with possibilities on the drive to the museum. At the rate the clues have unfolded, this letter could finally tell us which of our three beauty queens is Smitten Kitten—or even give us enough to find Dear Heart’s name.
I see lights on at the cottage when I pull in. The new text has been read, with no answer.
Phoebe
I will open this without you …
I watch the screen. He sees the message but still doesn’t answer. The uneasiness I tried to ignore last night comes back but multiplied. I feel stupid for texting him “good job.” The polite detachment wasn’t just a show for Catherine. Jay is upset.
Even the thought of waiting for him to come talk to me about it makes me want to climb the walls, so I back out of my space and drive over to the cottage. I don’t spend any time gathering my courage in the car because he’ll have heard me pull in. May as well knock while the guts that got me here are still being gutsy.
At the sound of my closing car door, a jackrabbit bolts from a shrub in front of the porch railing, and I say “sorry” to it on reflex. I knock, and when Jay opens the door, he leans against the doorframe and waits.
“You’re mad at me.” I don’t love stating the obvious, but since I don’t know what the problem is, it’s the only way I can think to start.
“I heard you talking to Catherine last night before the meeting.”
I do a super-speed replay. “When she asked about you.”
“Guess I got my answer about what you’ve decided about us.”
“No, come on. I wouldn’t spill anything to her without talking to you first. I was downplaying”—I swallow, finding the tiny word terrifying—“us.”
He shakes his head. “That’s what I thought at first, but it was more than that. You were downplaying me . You called me unserious and a lightweight.”
“That’s the image you try to project.” I don’t like being blamed for the persona he cultivated.
“Maybe in social situations, but this is professional.”
“I wasn’t talking about you professionally! Oh, my gosh, no wonder you’re upset. I would never say that about you. I was trying to make her think I wouldn’t date you because you’re too much of a …” I don’t finish the sentence when I realize how bad it’s going to sound.
“A player?” he guesses. He shakes his head when my silence answers for me. “I’m not.”
“I know. I didn’t say that to her. I wouldn’t say that to her. I only wanted her to stop looking for signs it would be too easy to find.”
He chews on his bottom lip, watching me before he drops his arms and walks out on the porch, crooking his head at the bench in an invitation to sit. I do, and he takes a seat too, but he leaves enough space to speak for itself.
He braces his arms on his knees, scrubbing his hands over his face. “It’s hard with the two Phoebes. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I get it.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds, looking over the reclaimed acreage. “It still sounds like you made a decision about us.”
“Us” feels so big and scary coming out of my mouth, but when he says it, it makes me feel fluttery, not panicky.
“I didn’t,” I say. “Not really, but only because I want two things equally that are mutually exclusive, and I don’t know what to do about that. What would you think about … I mean, if we maybe tried to …”
I trail off as he looks over at me. I try again. “What if we tried this”—I gesture between us—“and give it time? See what it is. Make sure we even have anything to report before we bring it up to the board?”
“You mean keep us quiet until you’re sure you’ve won over Catherine?” I hear no judgment in his tone.
“That’s another way to look at it.”
“Would it solve anything? Or would you lose her trust again as soon as you tell her when this all started?”
It’s a good question, and he’s right to ask it. I don’t see it going over well. I give a tired laugh. “When did all this start, anyway?”
I mean it rhetorically, but he catches my eye and answers. “When I caught you on the ladder.”
Oh . That catches my breath. What do you say to something like that? I can’t come up with anything because all I can think about is how much I want to taste those words as he says them.
He straightens and resettles on the bench so he’s facing more toward me. “We’d have to tell Catherine now, assuming you want something with me. Do you, Phoebe?”
It’s not hopeful or pleading. It’s tired, and this is the first time I’ve sensed that with him. Jay’s energy is like these late June days, warm and sunny. It’s the kind of energy you feel when you’re relaxed but you know an adventure is waiting, like walking down a quiet road knowing something cool is around the bend. Maybe a patch of wild blackberries or a swimming hole, but something good and happy.
That’s Jay in a nutshell, except he’s so much more than a single metaphor can hold.
“I don’t know how not to want something with you,” I answer.
For the first time, the tired lines around his mouth deepen into smile lines, and his eyes soften as he looks at me.
“I get that.”
A movement catches my eye, and I gasp. He looks alarmed until he follows the direction of my pointing finger to a small baby deer stepping out of the brush to nibble on the lawn, about fifty yards away.
“Haven’t seen him since the day you started here.” He keeps his voice low.
“It’s a boy?” I whisper even though it can’t possibly hear us.
He looks thoughtful. “I don’t know. I assumed. Maybe it’s a fawn. A doe? What do you call girl deer?”
I watch the sweet little thing tug at the grass, its white spots adorable on its reddish coat. I look around, trying to peer past the underbrush. “I think any baby deer is called a fawn. But look, that’s the mom over there.”
Jay squints and smiles when he spots the mother’s head watching from inside the brush line. “I see her.”
“Pretty sure females are does. And males are …” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to come up with the word. “Stags? Is that right?”
“Hart?” Jay asks. “That’s also a name for a male deer. Why are there so many names for de?—”
He startles when I shoot off the bench, fumbling to pull my cell phone from the pocket of my slacks. It startles the fawn too, who darts back into the trees. I’m sorry to see it go, but this can’t wait.
“Hart. Another one. Yes, deer name.” I’m aware I’m barely making sense as I try to tap in a search, but Jay gives a small jolt, and I realize he gets it.
“Deer hart, like yours always, Dear Heart?” he asks, going for his phone too.
“Maybe?” I say, but it is. I know it is. “What are all the names for male deer? Okay, fawn for both. Stag, hart …” I’m scanning through the definition. “Buck.”
Jay stops what he’s doing. “Buck is a name for a man. A human man.”
My heart is racing. “Yes, yes, yes, it is. Is it a nickname, or …”
“William,” he says, scanning his screen. “Buck is a common nickname for William.”
I look from him to where the deer have disappeared and back. “Could the writer be Buck or William? Or maybe something like Buck Hart or William Hart?”
He’s off the bench and grabbing my hand, turning toward the house even before he answers. “Laptop.”
I close the door behind us and he heads straight for his laptop, typing before he’s totally seated.
“What if Smitten Kitten is a name pun too? Kitten, kitten, here, kitty-kitty.”
His head shoots up again. “Kitty, like short for Katherine.”
“Katherine Dailey! ”
He mumbles as he searches. “Buck Hart MIT 1965, no. William Hart, no. Buck Aerospace Corporation MIT …”
He stops talking to read. The longer he’s silent, the tighter my nerves stretch until I can’t take it. “Did you find him?”
He lifts his eyes from the screen to meet mine. “I found a William who went by Buck who graduated from MIT in 1966 and worked for the Aerospace Corporation before starting his own extremely successful aerospace company in the mid-1980s.”
“That’s him, right? That has to be him. We found Dear Heart? Did he marry Katherine Dailey?”
“He died last year. His company was called Crawford Technologies, and his obituary says he is survived by his wife?—”
“Cathy,” I finish. “His wife, Catherine McCormick Crawford.”