Chapter 24
LINC
“What do you mean you don’t think there is just one painting?” I ask Juliana.
She arches an eyebrow. “I think it’s part of a diptych.”
“A what?”
“It’s the name for a piece of art that consists of two panels. Together, they tell a complete story.”
“Apparently, one of us did pay attention in college,” I mutter.
She shifts and then points to the screen. “Look at the composition. See how Lincoln is positioned off-center? And this shadow here suggests there’s something—or someone—just outside the frame.”
My pulse quickens. “Like what?”
“Like Mary Todd. Or maybe the painting shows Lincoln before and after a pivotal moment. The Gettysburg Address, perhaps, or …” She trails off, chewing her bottom lip in a way that makes me want to find out if she’s wearing cherry lip balm tonight.
“Or what?”
“Or it could be documenting something more personal. More private or particular, like a post office.”
I chuckle because that’s classic Jules, being random.
Then her eyes meet mine, eyes as expansive as the sky, and I see the same excitement that hits me when I’m on a breakaway. “Linc, what if your mom was right? What if there really are love letters, and these paintings are a map that leads to them?”
Even though it’s a balmy summer night, a shiver runs across my skin. “My mother wrote almost that exact thing in her journal. Only, she didn’t speculate about there being a second painting. Hadn’t gotten that far, I suppose.”
Even the whir of the washing machine fades as the possibility of actually finding those letters grows. “I think you’re onto something.”
Jules squishes up her face and pinches her fingers together. “There’s only one problem. I can’t be sure unless I see the original again.”
Thinking about my father’s comments earlier, I say, “After the, um, security incident, I’m not sure I can get us access.”
… and the almost kiss. How can something that didn’t happen take up all the air in my lungs, all the oxygen in the room? Sitting so close to her, my body remembers every moment of the almost-kiss.
My gaze drifts to hers. Our eyes lock. Her full lips quiver ever so slightly. My pulse is thunderous. As if sensing one of us is going to do something stupid, she hops up to toss her clothes in the dryer.
When she returns, her expression is mild, a Mona Lisa. “Is it really necessary for us to ask permission?”
Her mysterious smile lingers before what she means hits me.
Lowering my voice, I ask, “Are you suggesting we break into an art gallery?”
“We wouldn’t be stealing anything,” she says quickly.
“Just … unauthorized viewing.”
I hedge.
“Think of it as research.”
I should say no. Should remember my father’s warning, think about my career, and consider the consequences.
Instead, stomach swooshing, I ask, “When?”
Her eyes twinkle. “Now.”
“Now?” I find myself repeating much like the text earlier.
“There’s no time like the present! Seize the day, er, night!” She pumps her arm enthusiastically. “Plus, I already scoped out their security system online. They have motion sensors, but the cameras are focused on the doors—”
“You researched their security system?” I hastily lower my voice.
“I may have gone down a rabbit hole.” She shrugs, looking adorably pleased with herself.
“Explain.”
“While the art on display has value, it’s not Picasso or Renoir. More of the special interest sort and on temporary loan. So security is more of the warm-blooded variety than the techy type.”
“So you mean there will be security guards?”
“Who spend more time on their phones than watching for suspicious activity during their shifts.”
“Still, it sounds sketchy.”
“I’ll be James Bond.”
“You mean a Bond girl.”
“Me, a Bond girl? Hardly.”
“You have those sugar eyes.”
She inclines her head. “What about your slow-burning stare?”
Whatever this is, it stokes the embers inside, starting with the vacant, lonely place I’ve occupied for so long and spreading like wildfire. I should keep a fire extinguisher at the ready.
She blinks and says, “You have more of a Clark Kent look.”
“Are you saying I’m like Superman?”
“If the cape fits …”
I think of Aiken and his silly cape at the rooftop party and prefer my superheroes without makeup and tights, but I play along. A church bell chimes somewhere in the distance, deep and resonant, interrupting my thoughts.
After the twelfth ring, Jules softly says, “Happy birthday.”
“But—” I start, about to comment about the confetti birthday wish, when I put two and two together. It’s her birthday and I want nothing more than to give her birthday kisses.
“We’re birthday neighbors?” I ask.
Her smile is small, not the kind I’d expect from someone who is so obviously excited about life that she keeps a Care Bear with a cheerful rainbow on its belly on her bed. “That is much preferred to living next door to Screechy and Grumbly.”
I chuckle. “Thanks for the confetti. Any big plans to celebrate?”
“It’s not a big deal. I don’t really do celebrations.”
The way she says it, like her birthday is insignificant and just another day, makes something in my chest corkscrew. “Why not?”
She fidgets with the smooth edge of her laptop. “My Dad died a few days before I turned twenty-two and that kind of sucked the fun out of it.”
Before I can overthink it, I ask, “If you could have anything for your birthday—anything at all—what would it be?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, watching the machines spin. “I’ve always wanted someone to play me a love song. Like, actually play it. Sit down at a piano or pick up a guitar and play something just for me.” She laughs, embarrassed.
A buzzer sounds, indicating the dryer is done. She closes her laptop, hops down, and stuffs the clothing in a mesh bag.
“Can I walk you home?” Not that she has a choice, not at this hour.
“Sure, but the fact that I machine-wash instead of dry-clean my work attire is between you and me. Don’t tell Carmen in the Collections Processing Department. It’ll spike her blood pressure.”
I chuckle and we chat about safe topics—avoiding discussions about burglary and birthdays. When we get to her building, she passes me the hoodie I gave her to wear when she was cold on July Fourth.
“Um, I can’t take that right now.”
“Why?” She clutches it like a pillow, like she doesn’t intend to hand it over.
My lips quirk. “Because I have a birthday song to play for you.”
She looks up at me, surprised by the intensity in my voice.
“Hang onto that. You’ll need it.” Not ready for tonight to end, I hold out my hand, changing direction.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
She slides her soft palm against mine. Our fingers twine together and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.
She looks at our hands for a moment before moving. “We’re holding hands purely for security purposes, right? I can’t have someone try to kidnap me at this hour.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” I say around a laugh.
We walk a few blocks to a small jazz club my buddies and I used to go to in high school—the kind of place that stayed open late and didn’t ask too many questions about how many times a patron had traveled around the sun.
The bartender is on his phone as we enter. The place is nearly empty, just a couple in a dark corner nursing drinks and one guy at the bar.
Assuming no one will mind a little entertainment, I sidle up to the piano and take a seat.
Warm lights shine overhead. My hands are suddenly nervous as I settle onto the bench and gesture for Jules to sit beside me.
“I should probably mention I’m not exactly Carnegie Hall material,” I say, positioning my fingers over the keys.
“The extent of my musical ability is ‘Chopsticks.’”
I chuckle and then start with something simple, warming up and letting my muscle memory take over.
It was built during the many years of lessons and my mother’s skills as a professional pianist, a soloist in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and at our church.
I tell Jules this as a new melody flows from my fingertips, soft and sweet and entirely for her.
Her jaw lowers slightly as her gaze swings from me to my hands and back again. So things don’t get too serious, I change to the birthday song. Despite what she said about not celebrating her birthday, she can’t suppress her smile.
“Okay, time for presents,” I say, and then change tunes. I begin to sing the first things that come to mind, my voice rough around the edges but carrying the words I’ve been trying to find since we almost-kissed. Maybe even since we first met.
I sing, “She walks into the office like the summer sun, illuminating everyone. She makes me forget my name, only to remind me to live again.”
It’s not polished. It’s not perfect. But it’s real, and it’s hers, and when I glance over, she beams.
“Jules with the pencil in her hair, Jules who makes me stop and stare, didn’t imagine we’d spend this time, wishing she could be—”
Mine, oh, mine.
It’s not quite a rhyme, but it works and I’m afraid it’s true.
The last words trail away. The final note fades. Silence stretches between us like a question.
“You wrote that,” she whispers. “Just now. For me.”
“Now,” I say, echoing the question I’ve asked twice tonight, but as a declarative statement. “Happy birthday, Buttercup.”
I play a variation of the song that’s popular at kids’ birthday parties just to keep things light, so I don’t ask another question. Why were the words that came out so natural? The words about making this woman mine?
She’s quiet for so long, I start to worry I’ve completely misread the situation. Then she leans over and kisses me on the cheek. It’s soft and sweet.
She rests her head on my shoulder and says, “Will you play it again?”
I do, but I change the lines, making them silly before shifting into a melody of familiar songs.
When my fingers go still again, we get up. I drop a generous tip into the jar on the counter for the bartender, and then we step outside into the balmy night.