Chapter Sixteen
Keeley
“There must be some reasonable explanation for this,” I say as I jerk the door handle, rattling it harder than I’m already rattled.
Because here we are again.
And while I know that I somewhat tempted fate earlier by imagining this very scenario, said scenario in my head did not include Beckett being bashfully humble about writing the prettiest melody I’ve ever heard. Not to mention the way he looked at me with flutter-inducing heat in his eyes as he admitted to my face that he’d been talking to my brother about me.
I’m not used to guys like this. Flirtatious and playful, yet unabashedly honest while being so.
Andrew often had me questioning if he truly liked the way I looked or the way I acted. It was subtle, never outright mean or rude or hurtful, but he’d make observations about the way I dressed or the way I did my makeup that had me second guessing myself. Would compliment me when I wore my hair the way he liked it… and give me pointed looks when I pulled it back in a messy bun or braid.
He’d also make comments about how much he liked that Lisa enjoyed going out to bars with friends on weekends. Meanwhile, I preferred to stay at home reading, hang out at the library, or visit Gramps with my brother. He and Lisa would hit the bars together; I’d stay home to do a Korean face mask and order takeout.
How blissfully unaware I was.
With the clarity of hindsight, there was always something I couldn’t put my finger on in my relationship with Andrew. Something that felt less than fully genuine, like all of his cards weren’t quite laid out on the table. Everything was semi-veiled, cloaked in shadows.
But when Beckett looks at me, it’s like someone has parted the blinds and the sunlight is streaming in. The way he’s looking at me today when I’m perfectly made-up and dressed well is the exact same way he looked at me when I was covered in ketchup, or wrapped in a towel with soaking wet rat’s-nest hair.
He looks at me like he likes what he sees.
“Let me help.” Beckett smiles oh-so-sexily as he rises from his chair.
I try to ignore the little shimmer of heat in my stomach as he crosses the room, walking with purpose as he approaches me, not stopping until he’s right in front of me, his chest inches from my face. He’s so close that I feel his body heat, smell that wonderfully intoxicating woodsy, masculine, Irish Spring-tinged scent of his. He’s wearing a black t-shirt today that’s hugging his chest and shoulders and biceps in the most enticing of ways.
As he leans forward, my heart leaps into my throat and my eyelids flutter…
He reaches right past me, and his hand lands on the doorknob behind me.
All the air leaves my lungs as reality and reason return to my addled mind. I watch him pull on the door handle as my heart pounds like an anvil in my chest cavity.
Idiot.
“Stuck,” he confirms, looking down at me with his hand still on the doorknob, effectively caging me in.
I’m burning with embarrassment, hoping Beckett doesn’t notice my body’s incredibly visceral reaction to his proximity. He doesn’t move, and we stand there for a few loaded moments, his hand outstretched behind my body, our eyes locked on each other, our breathing audible. A tableau depicting being caged, locked, stuck… but in a way I don’t hate.
Not at all.
The last thing you need is to be feeling so drawn to your new neighbor, Keeley…
The mental reminder has me stepping backwards. Only there’s nowhere to step back to , so I end up with my back plastered against the door.
Beckett’s smile grows, like he’s enjoying this as much as I’m trying not to. “Weird place, this building. Either the doors—and windows, and elevator for that matter—are very old and very broken, or the universe wants us spending time together in enclosed spaces.”
“It’s definitely the first one!” I practically yell, then cough. Lower my voice to a regular decibel level. “I mean, the apartments have been around for multiple decades now, so of course stuff is going to break. I mean, the landlord had to hire Steve full-time to take care of all the maintenance issues. Have you met Steve? Tall guy, likes a sweater vest…”
I’m babbling on in a way that I’m surprised is somewhat coherent.
The hot, flirty look on Beckett’s face morphs into one of surprise. He abruptly lets go of the door handle and steps backwards too, putting much-needed distance between us to allow my brain to function properly and stop short-circuiting. “I thought you said you didn’t know how old it was.”
“I didn’t. But I ran into the Hathaways just now—they’ve been here forever. They informed me that this building was converted into an apartment block in the mid 1960s.”
“Oh?” he says. Casually, in a way that sounds like he’s trying very hard to be casual when he actually has zero chill. Which is a little bit adorable. “And what was it used for before that?”
“It was a dorm building for Spring Brook College! I’m shocked I didn’t know that, seeing as I went to Spring Brook.” I pause for dramatic effect, like I’m announcing a TV show or something. “Back then, it was a women’s college, so this building housed female students.”
Beckett looks around the room, his eyes suddenly a little wild.
I raise a brow at him. I mean, I was looking for a subject change to get away from my babbling, and it seems to have worked… maybe a little too well, given Beckett’s current expression.
“I think my grandma lived here.” His voice is so low that I almost think I’ve misheard him. Until he looks right at me, his face a little pale. “How is this possible?”
“Your grandma?” I repeat, just to make sure. “Like, the one who?—”
“Yup,” he replies curtly.
My brow crinkles. “Wasn’t she Irish?”
“Yes, but she spent some time in Serendipity Springs. I didn’t even know about it until after she passed away.”
“And you think she lived here, in this apartment building?”
“No.” He takes a breath. “I think she lived in the dorms.”
Beckett pulls his wallet out of his pocket and shimmies an old, yellowed card out of it. Hands it to me.
The card is an old-fashioned student ID for one Noeleen Quinn, Spring Brook graduating class of 1960. The woman in the picture looks around nineteen or twenty, and even though the picture is wrinkled and weathered and in black-and-white, her resemblance to Becks is undeniable—the sparkling, teasing look in her eyes, the strong cheekbones, the full lips, the confident tilt of her chin.
“She’s beautiful,” I say.
He smiles fondly. “She was an incredible woman.”
I tilt my head. “Spring Brook is a pretty big college, and was so even back then. There were likely a ton of dorms around town just like this one. What makes you think she lived here?”
“I found her name on the wall in the laundry room, carved into the plaster. There were a bunch of names in a row. Estelle was on there, I think. Maybe a Margot?”
“Whoa.” I suddenly remember the look on Beckett’s face after he picked up the lid of my laundry detergent—the way his face paled, his hazel eyes wide open. I’ve seen the names written on the wall down there a few times over the years. Never thought much of them. “And she never told you she came here?”
Becks shakes his head. “That’s what’s really strange about all of this. There must be a reason she never mentioned it to me.”
I nod slowly, processing this. I can’t imagine Gramps dying and then finding out something completely unexpected about his life. I’d have so many questions… as I’m sure Beckett does. But I’m safe in my knowledge that Gramps grew up here and stayed here his whole life.
Beckett’s dark brows are drawn together, his full lips pursed in thought. I can’t help but feel for the guy.
“This must feel doubly strange, then,” I say gently. “You could be living in the same building where she lived.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then quirks a little smile, giving me a flash of his dimple. “Now, that would be very serendipitous.”
“I bet there’s a way we can find out for sure.” For some reason, I feel entirely invested in helping Beckett learn any detail he can about his grandmother’s time here in town.
Probably because he’s my friend. I want him to get whatever answers he needs.
Beckett shakes his head. “I drove out to Spring Brook the other day to see if they could run her Student ID and tell me anything about her time there, but apparently the campus out there was established after my gran attended.”
I pause for a moment. “You’re right, it’s a newer campus, separate from the college it used to be… but you’re forgetting something very important.”
“Do enlighten me.”
“We’re currently standing in one of the old campus residences.” I gesture towards the bookshelves lining the walls. “I wonder if we can find some answers in this very room.”
That wonderful, broad smile is back on his face. “Keeley Roberts, you are a genius.”
I flip my hair over my shoulder playfully. “Not just a pretty face.”
“Brains and beauty. It’s a killer combo.” His eyes are warm and liquid as he looks at me with blatant, unabashed admiration. He then abruptly turns on his heel and marches towards the nearest bookshelf… leaving me standing in the wake of his charm with insides that now also feel warm and liquid.
When he reaches the shelf, he looks over his shoulder with a flirty smirk. “Are you coming or what?”
“Sure am,” I say as evenly as possible, forcing away the herd of internal butterflies rampaging around my stomach.
Together, we rake the shelves, exploring the old tomes. There are rows of encyclopedias, stacks of Oxford English Dictionaries, and a whole shelf’s worth of cartography books boasting maps of the world.
I can imagine the young women of generations past coming in here to peruse the volumes on the shelves, trying to find information for papers they were writing. College during the pre-internet era must have been such a different experience.
I cross the room to another large bookshelf and squint up at a line of thick-spined hardcovers cased in burgundy leather on the top shelf.
“Becks?” I call and he crosses the room in three long strides. “Up there.”
He comes to stand behind me, his large body shadowing mine as he reaches up and easily pulls a book from the top shelf. As soon as he cracks it open, a cloud of dust puffs into the air.
His mouth drops open. “It’s a yearbook!”
“Really?” My eyes widen even as I fan the dust away from my face. “What year?”
Beckett flicks through a couple of pages. “1956.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he slots the yearbook back in place, then counts four spots to the right and eases another one down.
“This one should be 1960,” he mutters.
His cheeks are flushed, and his long fingers tip-tap impatiently on the book’s cover as he leads us to a small loveseat in a corner of the room. We sink into it, our thighs almost touching, and he opens the book into the small space between us.
Spring Brook College Yearbook, Class of 1960 .
We lean forward, my hair falling over my shoulder as we pore through the pages.
Soon, I see a name—and face—I recognize.
“Oh, my goodness, that’s Sissy!” I exclaim, staring at the page featuring my favorite brutally honest Texan librarian. Her hair was just as big back then as it is now, and her smile is toothy and bright and undeniably her .
Underneath the photo, a nameplate reads “Cecelia ‘Sissy’ Brown.”
It states her major as English Literature, her place of residence as Serendipity Hall, and there’s a quote: “Seize the day, ladies. It’s yours.”
I chuckle. “She hasn’t changed a bit. She’s the head librarian at Spring View now,” I tell Becks. “‘Mayhew’ is her married name.”
Becks looks at me, his hazel eyes wide. “Cecelia was one of the names on the wall downstairs.”
“No way,” I breathe. “I never considered that Sissy was really a Cecelia. Do you think she and your grandmother could have been friends?”
“According to the names on the wall downstairs, apparently they were best friends.”
Becks starts flipping pages faster. In the middle of the book—before we reach the Q’s—he pauses over a few photo collages.
“That’s the courtyard outside! The Serendipity’s courtyard!” I exclaim as I point to a picture in the corner of four girls laughing with their arms wrapped around each other.
Becks’s pointer finger lands on the girl on the far right. His voice cracks a little as he says, “And that’s my grandmother.”
We share a look of triumph before I grab the book and flip ahead, racing past the M, N, O, P names until I turn to a page with a glowing photograph of none other than Noeleen Quinn.
A shiver dances down my spine. “This is crazy.”
“I’ll say.” Beckett’s eyes are moving over the page like he’s trying to soak up as much information as possible.
I pore over it, too. Her major was Music—fitting, given Becks’s musical talents—and her place of residence was also Serendipity Hall.
Her quote, however, makes my breath catch.
“‘A light heart lives a long life,’” I read aloud, my voice sounding distant. “My grandpa said that to me once. When he gave me this ring.” I hold up my hand.
Becks stares at it for a moment, and then, in a low voice, he says, “Keeley, do you mind if I take a look at that?”
The expression on his face is so intense, I don’t bother to question him. Instead, I slip off the piece of jewelry and hand it over.
Beckett holds the ring up to examine it and immediately stills.
A few moments pass where he remains unnaturally silent, spine ramrod straight and expression frozen. I bite my lip as I watch him.
“I assume the writing inside is Irish?” I ask when I can’t take the suspense anymore. “I don’t know what it means.”
My voice seems to snap him out of his reverie. He looks me dead in the eye. “I do.”