Chapter 26
LINC
Everyone is familiar with the saying, “It’s always darkest before dawn.” What they don’t mention is that it’s always coldest before dawn, too. Yes, even during the summer.
Jules rubs her bare arms as the warmth of the doughnut shop envelops us, along with the smell of freshly fried dough and coffee. We order an assortment of glazed, chocolate, and a “birthday cake doughnut” with colorful sprinkles that she insists I need to try, even though it’s her special day.
“We’re paying for these, right?” I ask, half joking, but also hoping I didn’t accidentally wind up with a dine-and-dasher.
“Obviously.”
Jules calls to the woman behind the counter as she hands us our order. “Excuse me, do you happen to have two birthday candles?”
The woman smiles and rummages around, producing two slightly melted candles and a lighter. “Are you celebrating something?”
“That we didn’t get arrested,” Jules deadpans.
Yet.
The woman looks confused and then breaks into laughter. “You had me there for a second. I’m only on my first cup of coffee.”
I feel like the walking dead, yet strangely more alive when with Jules than I have since the Ottawa Outlaws had a real shot at the Stanley a couple of years ago.
We find a small table by the window and she sticks the candles into the birthday cake doughnut.
I light the candles and Jules says, “Make a wish.”
“It’s your birthday.”
“I couldn’t very well put a birthday cake with candles in that envelope along with the confetti, now could I? This is your belated birthday—fried-cake substitute—deferred celebration.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“And isn’t that the point? Both of us, on the count of three, make a wish, then we take a big bite.” She counts down with her fingers.
I close my eyes, and I find myself wishing for clarity. For the courage to tell Jules the entire truth about who I am, for answers about the letters Mom believed in so desperately, and for this thing between us to work despite all the secrets I’m keeping.
When I open my eyes, Jules is already looking at me.
We blow out the candles together, and as thin trails of smoke rise between us, I realize that maybe what I really want is right here. This. Her. Something real.
“Will you tell me your wish?” I ask.
“No way. You know the rules.” She licks the glaze off the bottom of the candles and splits the birthday cake one in half, then takes a chocolate one.
After helping myself to half of an old-fashioned doughnut, I say, “Tell me more about your family. Aside from your triplet brothers, what was it like when you were growing up?” I cannot imagine the lifestyle that spawned this unique woman.
She takes a bite of her doughnut, chewing thoughtfully … or stalling. “Not much to say. Dad was, um, in the casino business. Mom was a showgirl. She wanted me to live a sensible life.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“No, that would be you, a descendant of Abraham Lincoln.”
The weight of that legacy settles on my shoulders like it always does. “Is it? Sometimes I feel like I exist in the shadow of one of the greatest men to ever live. Like nothing I do will ever measure up to his legacy.”
I instantly wish I could take the comment back. I try to act as if it were offhanded, but that very thought has eaten me up for years.
Jules doesn’t seem fazed by my admission. Instead, her expression softens with understanding. “Are we talking about Honest Abe or Frank Andresen?”
I never thought of it that way.
“Maybe the point isn’t to measure up. Maybe it’s to honor the best parts of that legacy while still being yourself.”
The bonds of the past … and future loosen in my chest. She makes it sound so simple, so possible.
“Besides,” she adds, tearing off a piece of a jelly doughnut topped with powdered sugar and possibly trying to lighten the mood, “I bet Abraham Lincoln never wrote anyone a birthday song.”
Was that a birthday song or a love song?
I ask, “How do you know? Maybe he was a secret romantic.”
“Isn’t that what we’re trying to find out with those letters?” Her eyebrows crest.
“Is that what you want? A secret romantic?”
The question hovers like the puff of powdery doughnut sugar between us. While I perform an interrogation of my sanity, prepared to blame anything I say or do on lack of sleep, I watch her face carefully, looking for any sign that I’ve pushed too far.
But Jules doesn’t retreat. Instead, she considers my words seriously. I pause before taking another sip of coffee. My pulse is already loaded.
“Do I want a romantic? Yes, I do. A strong, manly romantic. What’s your take on it? I sense you have strong opinions or buried emotions.”
How can she read me so well? “I used to think romance was phony. Something people did for show, for social media, for status. But I could be convinced otherwise …” I trail off, meeting her eyes.
“Maybe it’s private. Just for the two people in the relationship and not the public.”
“I’m starting to wonder if maybe I just hadn’t found the right person to be romantic with.”
The piece of doughnut between her fingers falls back into the box between us. “And now?”
“Now I’m sitting in a doughnut shop at sunrise with someone who wants to break into art galleries and forge paintings, and I’m pretty sure songs could be written about her every day for the rest of her life.” The words come out before I can stop them, more honest than I’ve been with anyone.
Jules stares at me, birthday doughnuts forgotten, and I immediately worry I’ve overwhelmed her.
“Linc …”
“Too much?” I ask, suddenly uncertain.
“No, it’s not too much. It’s …” She fidgets with her coffee cup. “I’m not used to people seeing me. Most of the time, I feel like I’m just part of the backdrop.”
The sadness in her voice makes my chest ache. I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. “Jules. You’re definitely front and center.”
She looks down at our joined hands, and I can see the moment she starts to pull back emotionally. The vulnerability becomes too much, too fast.
“We should probably talk about what happens in,” I check my watch, “two hours when we’re back at the office.”
“Business as usual. We hate each other, remember?” She laughs, meaning it as a joke, but what I despise is the notion of anyone hating her. Most of all me.
I study her face, picking up on the nuances of how her upper lip quirks at one corner in a stubborn way that tells me she’s calculating something behind her innocent expression.
The fine tension gathering at the outer edges of her eyes like storm clouds on the horizon.
“I’m afraid that’s hardly the case anymore. ”
She gives me a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Guess we’ll have to work on our acting skills.”
And I should probably come clean about my actual day job instead of playing the role of a tough executive understudy.
The next couple of days at Meridian are an exercise in specialized torment. Jules and I exchange polite pleasantries in the hallways, maintain an appropriate distance during meetings, and somehow manage to keep up the pretense that we barely tolerate each other.
It’s exhausting.
Every time she walks past my office, I have to resist the urge to call her in just to see her smile.
Every time she hands me a report, I’m hyperaware of the brief moment when our fingers brush.
And every time Ms. Drecken, our acting COO, makes one of her subtle comments about my “improving relationship with the staff,” I wonder how obvious we’re being.
Then again, I’m certain she has a pair of flying monkeys reporting our every move.
“Your father mentioned you’ve been working closely with Miss Lindley on some research projects,” Maxine says after a meeting. Her tone is casual, but her eyes are calculating slashes.
I play it cool. “She’s thorough. Good attention to detail.”
“Indeed. I’ve noticed she’s been quite … dedicated. Staying late, accessing archived files. Admirable work ethic.”
Drecken’s gaze, fixed on me, isn’t the only thing that makes my skin crawl.
Has she been watching Jules, keeping track of her activities?
She was at the gallery the night of the Civil War artifact exhibition.
Did she notice us sneak off together? I file the questions away and make a mental note to be more careful.
That afternoon, Dad announces he’s taking me on a quick, mid-week business trip to woo a foreign investor at a resort in Sand Valley, Wisconsin.
It’s not far and we’ll take the private jet, but the idea of being away makes me want to dig in my heels and stay.
I know it’s really just an excuse for him to play golf with potential investors while I smile, nod, and pretend I care about quarterly earnings.
He claps me on the back and says, “It’ll be good for everyone to meet the future of Meridian Holdings.”
The two days drag by in a blur of schmoozing, forced conversations, and sneaking away to check NHL news on my phone …
And to see if Jules texted. When I should be memorizing the names of global hedge fund giants, I find myself thinking about her.
Wondering what she’s doing, whether she’s making progress on her painting copy, what her favorite movie is, book, color …
The only takeaway, other than that my father must spend a lot of time perfecting his swing, is a comment he made over dinner.
We were alone briefly and he noted that I’d been spending some time in the archives.
He asked if I’ve noticed anything of interest. Irregularities.
He said to bring them to him, no one else.
Likely, he wants the letters if I find them. But why? It could be to protect his involvement with the fraud, followed by an empty promise to take action against whoever he pins with the wrongdoing. Sounds like a deceptive, if not losing, playbook.