Chapter 14
I spend the next morning trying to convince myself that I don’t really need Ben’s help to find the museum.
There’s a subway map in the drawer of my nightstand, and after I make myself a cup of tea, I pore over it, a desperate attempt to make sense of the disparate lines of the MBTA.
Part of me knows I could avoid the entire exercise and just walk across the hall to ask Ben, but two issues stop me.
One, the memory of how he previously opened the door still pops up in my head despite my best efforts to forget it, and two, I’m not totally convinced his girlfriend isn’t over there.
I’m still no closer to understanding the green line later that afternoon, or why there are five of them, or why some of them appear to be buses.
But I also come up with an idea that solves at least one of my issues.
I may not want to rely on Ben’s help, but if I need to, at least I can avoid the view.
I pick up my phone and call his number. After two rings, it connects.
“Hello.” His voice sounds deep and rough, but thankfully not tinged with sleep.
“Hi. It’s Marnie.”
“I know. Your name pops up when you call.”
Right. Of course it does. I texted him before, didn’t I?
I clear my throat, working to sound like the thought of him taking the time to program me into his contacts isn’t sending my brain into a tailspin. “I’m not catching you at a bad time, am I?”
“I’m just finishing up at work.”
I have no idea if this means it is a bad time or not, but I plow on anyway. “Okay, well, I was wondering if you had a second to give me some directions.”
“Where do you need to go?”
“The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?” I hate that I sound needy, but I also don’t know how not to. Trying to navigate my own brain when I only have partial memories and half-truths is terrifying.
A moment passes before he says, “The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.”
“Yeah. On Huntington Avenue?” I ask.
“I know where it is.”
“Oh, good. Well, I thought I would take the subway—”
“The T.”
“Right, the T. I just want to be clear on which train to take, though. It’s the green line, right? But I’m confused about which one goes where and—”
“You’re going by yourself?”
“I can manage, honestly. I just need—”
He cuts me off. “When are you leaving?”
I look down at my pajamas that I have yet to change out of.
“In a few minutes?” I say, wincing.
“All right. I’ll text you directions.”
“To the subway?”
“To the North Bennet Street School. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes and we can go.”
My eyes go wide. “Oh, I don’t need you to walk me to the subway or anything. I just need—”
He doesn’t wait for me to finish. “Fifteen minutes, Marnie.”
Then he hangs up.
I’m halfway through Ben’s directions before I realize that I’m starting to recognize the neighborhood.
After I turn right off our block, I know where to find Prince Street because I know Bova’s Bakery is there on the corner.
And I know I’ve turned the right way because I remember the playground there behind the tall chain-link fence, how it teems with kids during the week at lunchtime.
And on Hanover Street, I know when to turn left onto Richmond because that’s where there are all the signs pointing in the directions of different Italian cities.
By the time I turn onto North Street and see the North Bennet Street School across from me, I feel like jumping up into the air to celebrate.
But my wide smile is already getting a few looks from passing strangers, so I restrain myself and go inside.
The brick building looks old from the outside, but once I walk through the front doors, the sunlit atrium is thoroughly modern.
There are a few people milling about, and the sound of their laughter and conversation echoes off the cement floors, making the otherwise industrial space feel alive and welcoming.
The smell of wood and oil floating in the air only adds to the atmosphere.
“Can I help you?”
I turn around to see a woman approaching. Her hair is cropped short and she’s wearing an oversized pair of coveralls.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask, offering her a smile.
She laughs. “You look a little lost.”
“I’m meeting someone here. Ben Morgan?”
She nods toward the elevator. “I think he’s just finishing up his workshop. Up on three, second door on the right.”
I follow her instructions, letting myself revel in the opportunity to take an elevator, and get out on the third floor.
The second door on the right is open, room 304, but I still hesitate before walking in. Then I hear Ben’s voice, low and rumbling, coming from inside.
The smell of sawdust and pine welcomes me when I finally step forward.
It’s a huge space, running almost the full width of the building, with harsh fluorescent lights overhead.
Tools line the long walls, exploiting every inch of purchase around the tall windows.
There are a dozen tables spaced out across the room, each one crowded with angled pieces of wood, heavy chisels, random gloves, and paper. It feels warm. Almost inviting.
I take a few steps in but pause when I see Ben.
He’s standing at a table near the back of the long room, bent over a set of plans with the sleeves of his gray sweater pushed up to the middle of his forearms and a pair of glasses perched on his nose.
Beside him is a man a few years younger than him, listening intently.
I can’t hear what Ben is saying, exactly, but the young man is nodding along as Ben carefully traces his finger down the lines in front of him to make his point.
The young man finally smiles as Ben straightens.
They seem to be wrapping up, so I start forward again, my feet kicking some of the wood shavings across the floor.
It’s loud enough to draw their attention.
Ben meets my gaze from over the rim of his glasses, his dark eyes so intense that I almost trip.
“Hi,” I say lamely, waving one hand.
The line between his eyebrows deepens with concern. “Has it been fifteen minutes?”
“Fourteen. But to be fair, I left early,” I say, holding up my hands. “Just in case I got lost.”
His expression turns doubtful. “Did you follow the directions?”
“Yes.”
“Then what were you worried about?”
I smile as I throw my arms out dramatically. “Do you know how many bakeries I passed that I wanted to stop in?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Give me a minute and we can go.”
I wander further into the room, stopping at the desk in the far corner.
I recognize Ben’s coat over the chair and his leather messenger bag on the seat.
On top of the desk is a mess of papers, a few small tools.
A notebook, a cell phone, and a thick paperback with a faded cover. I crane my neck to read the cover.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Before I can study it further, I hear the shuffle of papers behind me. I turn as Ben folds up the plans in front of him. The young man takes them, his eyes darting to me, then back to Ben before gathering up his things and heading for the door.
I don’t want to blatantly stare as Ben walks toward me, but it’s hard not to.
It’s like seeing a wild animal in their natural habitat.
He’s large but at ease as he saunters over to the other side of his desk, like he’s in no particular rush.
He reaches for his messenger bag and starts to gather items from his desk.
The notebook, the cell phone, the paperback.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” I say. “Is it good?”
“It’s one of the best books ever written.”
I throw him a dubious look. “Ever?”
He nods.
“What makes it so great?”
“Well, for starters, no one is hiding a wife in their attic.”
“Ha ha,” I reply flatly, even though I really want to smile. “I’m serious. I feel like this is the one book that all men love but I have no idea why.”
He pauses. I can almost see how his brain condenses everything he wants to say into one concise sentence. “It’s about hope and forgiveness. And revenge.”
“For a thousand pages?”
“There’s a lot of revenge.”
I laugh as he turns to lead us out of the workshop.
“Do you want to borrow it?” he asks when we reach the hallway.
“Aren’t you in the middle of reading it?”
“I’m rereading it. Should be done soon.”
“Sure. But fair warning, my brain is still a little broken, so I can’t promise I’ll finish it. Or remember to give it back.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up as he holds the door for me. “That’s all right. I know where you live.”
We take the same path as we did to the bookstore, turning left down Hanover Street, through the North End Park, but then we veer off in a different direction.
I’m trying to keep track, memorize the landmarks as we go, but downtown is crowded—not just with people, but buildings.
They feel like they’ve been squished together so haphazardly, I could wake up tomorrow to find them completely rearranged, and it wouldn’t be all that surprising.
“What’s at the museum?” Ben asks as we cross another street. I can see the sign for the subway stop at the end of the next block.
“I don’t really know,” I say, squinting against the midday sun. “But there was a museum map pinned up on my corkboard, so I’m assuming I went there at some point.”
He nods once and I brace myself for follow-up questions, but none come.
“It might be nothing,” I continue. “I mean, look how the bookstore turned out, and this time I don’t even have a specific thing I’m looking for. I have to just wander around hoping I see something familiar—and if I don’t, what then?”
“You’ll have spent the afternoon at one of the best museums in the country,” he says flatly.
I roll my eyes even as I smile.
We reach the subway entrance a minute later and I’m about to turn to thank him, ask him to go over the trains with me quickly, but he walks right past me into the station.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I ask, following close behind.
He looks at me like he’s the one who should be confused. “What does it look like I’m doing?”