Epilogue
Jay
The museum is at capacity with a line waiting to get in despite the freezing mid-February temperatures. Phoebe had the staff set up an enclosed tent with space heaters as well as free hot cocoa for opening week, but it’s still a testament to how well she’s publicized the Museum of Serendipity that over a hundred people are waiting in the bitter cold to get in.
The museum has been officially open for two weeks, and it’s a smash hit. That’s not a surprise to anyone on the board or staff. We all knew people would love it. We had the opening gala Saturday night, full of board members, their guests, and all kinds of VIPs, including Boaz and Abel Willard, who did not arrive in black tie. Not exactly, anyway. But they both attended in clean coveralls with a bow tie around the collar. All anyone could talk about were the rave reviews they kept hearing from everyone who had visited the museum so far.
I go looking for Boaz now, who volunteered himself as the docent for the quack medicine exhibit. And by volunteered, I mean he showed up the first morning, demanded a chair, and said he’d be telling people the real deal about the artifacts. Phoebe didn’t bother questioning him or arguing. She got him the chair, and he is now installed as the Grand Docent of Quackery whenever he feels like coming in.
It’s definitely drawing the biggest crowds. Could be it’s because he is so deeply knowledgeable about what makes a real remedy versus a junk one. That’s a strong possibility. Or it could be that he gives everyone who listens to his spiel a tiny plastic duck. I slide my hand in my pocket to touch the one I got—a blue duck with an eye patch.
Phoebe joins me, and I smile, because it’s a rare treat. She’s been in constant motion since we dropped the red sash and welcomed people in. She never looks flustered at all, but she doesn’t stop, moving from one exhibit to the next, answering questions, solving problems, checking on visitors, hearing their feedback.
She listens as Boaz explains how quacks claimed cures that couldn’t be proven by science, where true home remedies could be proven by science. “Now, take this brush.” He holds up a wooden hairbrush with black bristles. “It’s electric. Can’t plug it in, and it don’t take batteries. It’s made from trees that grow on the edge of the Arctic Circle, close as you can get to the North Pole and still have plant life. It makes the trees magnetized from growing so close to the magnetic field. That turns into electricity that stays in the brush. If you brush your hair with it every day, you will never have a headache, tooth pain, or need glasses. Is this quack medicine or a real remedy?”
“Quack,” says a young mother carrying a baby on her chest.
“That’s right.” Boaz hands her a duck. “Quack, quack. Now let me tell you about a real remedy. You ever seen elderberries growing around?”
Phoebe shakes her head as she moves toward the bottle room. “Who knew he’d be such a gifted history interpreter? ”
“Who knew he’d want to be?”
She holds out her palm, where a duck wearing a top hat sits. “Not to brag, but …”
I produce my own pirate duck. “We should both feel special.”
“I do.”
“Good. Because you are. And so is this. You amaze me.”
She gives me a pleased smile. “Thank you, but you and the board have a lot to do with this too.”
I shake my head. “Just executing this vision. My grandfather would be so proud if he could see this. You’ve turned it into something beyond even what he had imagined.”
Ticket sales have exceeded even our optimistic predictions. We’re sold out through mid-spring, and the demand will only increase as word of mouth kicks in about the actual experience. There’s no detail Phoebe hasn’t seen to, no part of the city’s history that isn’t represented somewhere in the house or on the grounds. And if it’s represented in a general overview format, you can bet she’s already planned the exhibition that will delve into it more deeply at some point in the next three years.
“When do you have to get back to campus?” Phoebe asks.
“I need to leave in about an hour,” I tell her. “I have office hours before my afternoon class.”
“Does Amherst realize how lucky they are to have you yet, Dr. Martin?”
I smile at her. “I guess we’ll find out when I get my first student evaluations at the end of the semester. But I’m definitely feeling lucky to teach. I knew I’d love it from my time as a TA at Harvard, but it’s even better than I could have hoped now that I get to design my courses.”
“Who wouldn’t want to take ‘Conspiracy Theories That Almost Cost Us Sovereignty’ from a pet hypnotist?”
Amherst not only brought me in as a lecturer at Dr. Martinez’s enthusiastic urging, they agreed to let me pilot two classes my first semester designed to draw non-majors into history. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had in an academic setting, even if the students have already begun grumbling that I’m “way harder than I look.” If this goes well, I can start dreaming about getting on the tenure track.
But actually, I’m lying to Phoebe. Only for a few minutes, and only for a good cause, because I don’t have class today. It’s a campus holiday because they’re liberal in their interpretation of Presidents’ Day, and it’s somehow grown to encompass a five-day weekend in February.
“How’s the Heart of Serendipity exhibit going?” I ask.
“Gangbusters,” she says. “It’s not that interesting to the kids, but the adults love it.”
As they should. Through a partnership with the library, Phoebe solicited artifacts—keepsakes, letters, mementos—of the love stories of Serendipity Springs residents, whether from their personal or their family history. It turned out that people were delighted to share their family stories, and the exhibit is now in my grandparents’ old room. Phoebe is thrilled to have material for new exhibits under the same theme every spring for the next several years.
She pursued her vision for a living archive too. Last fall, the adjoining bathroom was converted into a small recording booth with easy push-and-play instructions for visitors to record oral histories of their relationships, and over a dozen people have already submitted theirs, turning them into a permanent part of the Martin archives.
“Let’s go look.” I try hard to keep my voice normal, and maybe it works because she doesn’t look at me funny.
We climb the stairs to the first floor, and she frowns halfway up. “There should be more people here. I usually have to apologize to at least ten for going around them on the way up. ”
“Huh. Strange. Just one of those lulls,” I say.
When we get to the second-floor landing, she hooks a left to the “Heart of Serendipity Springs” gallery and stops short in the doorway. She’s quiet for a few seconds before she looks over her shoulder at me. “Jay?”
Her eyes are wide, and her face has softened from her “cheerful pro” face to a tender look she saves only for me.
“We have an appointment in the recording booth,” I tell her. I take her hand as I walk past her into the gallery, which is empty of people, but I doubt that’s what caught her eye. No, that would be the giant bouquets of sunflowers on either side of the studio door.
“An appointment, hmm?”
I love the note of excitement in her tone, the one she always gets when I suggest an adventure, big or small. This one is big. Very big.
“We do. You take the far seat.” I open the door, and she walks into the booth to take her chair. I settle into mine, which puts us both directly in front of the control panel. It’s as simple as we could make it, with large buttons and simple labels. It includes a camera and monitor for contributors who would like a visual record too. The button beneath the lens says “Press here to include video.” I do, and it automatically signals the audio system to kick on.
“I thought it was time we recorded our own story for the city history archives,” I tell her.
“Lead by example. I can get behind that.” She’s smiling, but there’s an alertness that tells me she knows there’s more than a simple recording happening, especially because we could do this any time.
“I figured we should start with the legend of the first director of the Museum of Serendipity.”
Her eyebrow goes up. “What legend is that?”
“Once upon a time,” I begin .
“About eight months ago,” she adds.
I nod. “About eight months ago, this building was a house. A house with a lot of history and memories, but still a house. And though the Martin family was friendly, the only people who ever got to experience it were the Martins and those they held as friends who were invited to visit. But Foster Martin was a generous and civic-minded Martin, and he decided to leave the estate to the city of Serendipity Springs to learn more about their own history, retelling familiar stories, and uncovering less familiar ones.”
“Your grandad was one in a billion,” she says.
“He was. And because he was, he knew when he had met another one-in-a-billion kind of human, and that person is you. So he made sure you became the first director of the Museum of Serendipity, because he couldn’t think of anyone he trusted more to bring his vision to life. And he was right to.”
The sheen of tears appears in her eyes, and she blinks them away. “Thank you.”
I shake my head. “No way. Thank you . That’s from me and every Martin who ever was or ever will be. Anyway, eight months ago, when this story begins …”
“Right, sorry.” She’s smiling, not remotely apologetic.
“Your first official day on the job, I met you down in the hallway with Harvey Bullard, Foster’s estate attorney.”
She looks confused that Harvey Bullard has made an appearance in our love story, but his cameo is far from over.
“We haven’t talked to or about Harvey much since, have we?” I smile when she shakes her head. “So imagine my surprise when Harvey called me into his office last month.”
“He did?” Now she looks surprised.
“He did. It turns out there was another clause in my grandfather’s will that it was time for him to exercise, one he’d never mentioned before.” I don’t know if I can make it through this next part without making a fool of myself on camera, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever happens next, however I may say it, it’s real.
I pull a paper from inside my jacket pocket, folded into thirds. “When I sat down in Harvey’s office, he asked my pardon for getting in my business, but he wondered if I could confirm whether the rumors of our relationship were true. I said they were. Then he said, ‘Son, I know I sound nosy, but I promise I am only attempting to fulfill the wishes of your grandfather as his attorney and as his friend.’ Then he asked me if I love you. And I had to admit, Phoebe Hopper, that I do. Very much.”
She leans forward to press a soft kiss to my lips. “I love that you tell me you do all the time, and I love you too.”
“Good. Maybe that will help my case.” I unfold the paper and hand it to her. “Harvey said if you took the job, and if Harvey were to determine at some point that you and I had fallen in love, there is a codicil to my grandfather’s will.”
“You’re kidding.” She sounds as stunned as I felt, and I wonder if the enormity of Harvey’s revelation can possibly have hit her.
If it hasn’t, it will in a minute. “I’m going to have you read this aloud if you don’t mind. It’s only fair that you get to have the same experience I did.”
She takes it and begins to read. “I, Foster Parnassus Martin, residing in Serendipity Springs, Massachusetts, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby declare this to be the first codicil to my Last Will and Testament, dated …”
I meet her disbelieving eyes and nod. “He made that a full year before he died. I think that was about two years into your lunch dates.”
She shakes her head and returns to the paper. “I hereby add the following provision to my Last Will and Testament: if Phoebe Hopper accepts the position as director of the Museum of Serendipity, and my grandson, Jameson Paul Martin, is smart enough to fall in love with her, it would have given his grandmother no greater joy than for him to use her engagement and wedding rings to propose to Phoebe Hopper when Jay feels the time is right.”
There’s more—stuff about how Phoebe is free to reset the large solitaire or choose a different ring altogether with my grandmother’s rings to be held for a future Martin heir that might want it for him or herself. But there’s time for that later.
I take the paper from her hands—easy since it slips right out of them, slack as they are with more surprise—and set it on the desk.
Then—in a move I practiced—I slide the ring box from my trouser pocket as I kneel in front of the most incredible woman I’ve ever known, holding open the box. Phoebe’s hands fly up to cover her mouth, and she doesn’t even glance at the ring, her eyes fixed on me.
“Phoebe Jane Hopper, the only regrets I’ve had since Grandad passed were not being able to ask him why he’d never introduced us to each other, followed by wondering what he would think of us falling in love. But I should have known.” A surge of love for Grandad cuts off my words for a second.
Phoebe reaches out to cup my cheek, her way of telling me she understands.
I press a kiss against her palm and continue. “I should have known Foster Martin had a long-term perspective, content to let events play out in their own time. I love that he trusted me to figure out what he clearly always knew: we’re made for each other. I love you. I know you only signed up for a museum job, but would you accept a permanent position as a Martin and become my wife?”
She leans forward to kiss me in a way that has me thinking we might need to edit this video before it goes into the permanent archive.
When she pulls back, she smiles. “Yes on the condition that it’s forever.”
“How about forever and a day?”
“It still won’t be long enough, but I accept.”
The door to the booth flies open to reveal Boaz Willard.
“I’ll officiate,” he says. Then he hands me bride and groom ducks and wanders off again.
Phoebe watches after him. “At least we can be sure our wedding will be wart- and mosquito-free.”
Maybe there’s no better way to start off our engagement than laughing until we cry, but I do know one thing for certain: we’ve begun this part of our lives together exactly as we mean to go on.