Chapter 33 Jules
JULES
Never mind Juliana in La La Land—as Mom used to say to me when I was a kid and she’d catch me daydreaming.
I’ve entered an alternate dimension where I’m apparently the kind of person who jets off to major cities in the middle of the night to hunt for centuries-old love letters with a man who makes me feel like I have a Glowy Care Bear heart.
It’s well past midnight when we arrive in Washington, DC, both of us moving like zombies the moment before we realize the couple at the other end of the hall in the mirror are the walking dead. That would be us.
I don’t mean as a couple—just the two people who are boss and employee that were once adversaries, and have now settled somewhere north of hating each other.
Not a couple. I repeat, not a couple.
We shuffle through the elegant lobby of a posh establishment Linc booked with a casual phone call from the plane.
The suite he’s secured could house my entire family—yes, even with room for my bombastic brothers.
I’m beginning to think rich people have trademarked marble surfaces, floor-to-ceiling windows, and furniture that you don’t have to build yourself using crude instructions and a cheap metal tool.
We each have our own bedroom, separated by a spacious living area complete with a fireplace.
We’re well into August, but the raw D.C. night has me chilled.
“This is …” I gesture vaguely at the opulence surrounding us.
“Acceptable?” Linc supplies, loosening his tie. Even disheveled from travel with stubble filling in his jaw, he looks like he stepped out of a photo shoot.
“I was going to say extravagant.” I fidget with the silky tassel of an upholstered armchair pillow. “My entire apartment could fit in this bathroom.”
Linc pauses in the doorway to his room and his brow creases with sudden awareness. “Jules, I don’t know what to say. I’m not trying to show off. I have the resources available and—”
“I’m not used to it. I feel like I owe you.” My tongue feels clumsy when I speak.
“That’s not how this works. I’m dragging you along on this adventure, so I’m footing the bill. If you were searching for something your mother wanted to find, you’d lead the charge.” He shrugs, almost apologetic.
“I’m here willingly,” I say with a light laugh.
The corner of his mouth tips with a grin. “Good. Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll figure out our next move.”
I nod, suddenly too tired to process the weight of everything that’s happened. “Good night, Linc.”
“Good night, Buttercup.”
His pinky links with mine and he squeezes.
Still dressed, I drop immediately into sleep, though my dreams are chaotic—images of Civil War battlefields where every soldier has my face, alternating between the polished version from the spa and my usual self in leggings and an oversized hoodie.
Past Jules fights Future Jules in an endless loop of identity crisis confusion.
I wake to creamy sunlight streaming through windows with gauzy curtains and the distant sounds of the city waking up below. My phone shows it’s nearly ten—later than I’ve slept in months. The exhaustion of the last few days must have finally caught up with me.
A soft knock interrupts my mental inventory of everything that’s happened. “Jules? Room service will be here soon if you’re ready for breakfast,” Linc calls.
As if caught with my pants down, I launch myself out of bed and into the bathroom. After taking a hot shower, I wrap a towel around my head, don a soft, cozy robe I find on a hook behind the door, and check my phone.
I almost forgot to submit my monthly payment to my father’s debtors. My stomach clenches as it always does, the moment I make the transfer. I remind myself that someday I will be free of this burden. Someday, I won’t owe them any more money. I just hope that they never increase the interest owed.
I pad out to the living area where Linc is already dressed casually in jeans and a pullover, looking refreshed and relaxed.
The breakfast includes herbed scrambled eggs, hash browns with cheese, and maple bacon, cinnamon apple coffee cake with streusel topping, waffles with blueberry compote and lemon ricotta cream, as well as a variety of pastries with fruit.
“Did you order the entire brunch menu?” I ask, stomach suddenly rumbling.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked besides doughnuts.” He hands me a steaming mug of coffee with cream. “So I ordered everything.”
Linc opens his mouth as if about to say more. I lean closer, anticipating a bombshell. He closes his mouth, then opens it like a guppy.
“Unless you’d like me, your assistant, to prepare a PowerPoint for your presentation, you’ll have to share,” I tease.
The corner of his lip curls and he lets out a breath. “I’ve been thinking … it’s like I’ve been on a waitlist for my whole life, leading up to the year before turning thirty.”
“Because of Meridian?”
“My father appointed Drecken as acting, provisional Chief Operating Officer because he’s holding out for me.”
“I take it that’s not the future you see for yourself.”
He bunches up his shoulders and then drops them.
“My life has been one giant hourglass of expectations and pressure as I near thirty and prepare to step into my father’s shoes, taking on more responsibility before taking over the company entirely.
That’s not the future I want. Not the one I see for myself. ”
“Some fathers have high expectations for their kids. Some have none.”
I’m glad Linc can’t read my mind because I’m not proud of the little detour I took from college, which led me to make some questionable decisions to help my father out when he got sick.
He was on a job, needed help finishing it.
I learned the ropes real quick. The kinds of things not taught in an academic setting.
We didn’t net enough. The collectors came a-calling.
I’m still on the hook for the money he owed.
Linc nods and adds, “What I’m saying is I want to call a truce between us. Maybe after all this, we can trust each other.”
“I’m willing to try … if you concede.”
“About what?”
“That I was right about the chocolate,” I say, recalling our very first conversation on the phone during which I suggested Lindt hazelnut truffles are superior to all.
He laughs, nods, and lifts his coffee mug for me to clink as a slow, easy smile rises on his lips. “There was something about you …”
“That you hated?”
“No, Jules. Quite the opposite.”
We settle at the small dining table by the windows, the Washington Monument visible in the distance like an exclamation mark against the vivid morning sky.
I take a bite of a butter croissant infused with hazelnut chocolate spread and nearly moan, it’s so good.
“Let me make sure I understand our current situation, just in case I hallucinated last night’s events.
We’re in Washington, DC, chasing a theory about glass buildings that may or may not point us toward love letters that may or may not exist, written by your great-great-however-many-greats grandfather to his wife. ”
“That’s an accurate summary, yes.” Linc’s mouth quirks upward. “Having second thoughts?”
“About the sanity of this whole endeavor? Absolutely. About doing it anyway?” I take a sip of coffee and meet his eyes. “Not a chance.”
His smile transforms his entire face, and I have to look away before I do something embarrassing like stare.
I pull out my phone and start researching.
“Okay, so about that Crystal Palace connection. The original structure in London was a massive iron and glass building—a revolutionary feat of engineering for its time. If Lincoln and Mary did visit, or even if they just knew about it, the symbolism of placing her in a similar glass structure in the painting has some sweetly romantic connotations.”
“A transparent life together,” Linc muses. “Nothing hidden.”
I swallow a bite of eggs on a wedge of toast. “Exactly. And if the artist included specific architectural details from the proposed DC World’s Fair buildings …
” I show him images on my phone. “These were never built, but the plans were widely circulated. Maybe there’s something about the location they were meant to occupy. ”
“But Abraham Lincoln was long gone before those plans came to fruition.”
Biting my lip, I think this through. History can sometimes be like a tangled ball of yarn.
If you find the right strand and pull, it’ll come loose.
“Perhaps it was a building he’d originally wanted created during his presidency and the World’s Fair proposal architects intended to construct it in his honor. ”
Linc snaps his fingers and points at me as if I’m onto something. It’s a wild hare, but at this point, we’re operating on butter, chocolate, and hope.
He pulls out his own phone. “I’m going to call someone at my old college. The athletic department had to deal with the excavation when they found those artifacts I mentioned. I still know someone there.”
He heads to the balcony to make his call, and I can’t help but wonder about his life here in DC. College years, old friends, old girlfriends. The thought makes me uncomfortable—hot, humid, and prickly. I text Oly instead, giving her an update.
Me: Still alive. In DC. Will explain later.
Oly: As in Washington, DC? Our nation’s capital?
Me: The very one.
Oly: Did NYC not meet your jet-setting expectations?
Oly: Did your mysterious billionaire boss kidnap you?
Oly: Should I call the FBI?
Oly: Also, did you wear something fabulous last night?
Oly: Send photographic evidence!
Oly: Also, are you sure he’s not secretly married or has a bunch of love children hidden away somewhere?
Oly: Why aren’t you responding?
When Linc returns from the balcony, I quickly snap a selfie of us. “It’s for Oly. She needed proof of life.”
My best friend replies instantly.
Oly: That tells me nothing, Juliana Lindley. NOTHING.
“Is she alright?” Linc asks.
“She’s just making sure you haven’t spirited me away to commit crimes of the historical art variety.”
“Well,” he says with mock seriousness, “the day is young.”
With another casual display of his resources, Linc arranged for fresh clothing—that must be where his new jeans came from.
Shopping bags arrive from stores I’ve only ever admired from the sidewalk while window shopping.
Everything fits perfectly—dark pants, a stylish tank top, and a light blazer for moving in and out of climate-controlled spaces.
“How did you know my sizes?” I ask when I emerge from the bedroom.
Linc rubs his thumb over his penny. “Lucky guess.”
We spend the rest of the morning wandering through the Smithsonian as if we’re tourists with only twenty-four hours before we move onto our next stop … or a couple on their honeymoon who don’t want to miss a thing.
We’re searching for anything by the artists Douglas Kinnard, Clement Marchand, or having to do with Lincoln. In the same way history can be like a ball of yarn, it also leaves breadcrumbs. There have to be clues here somewhere.
Linc repeatedly checks his phone. Tension bunches in his shoulders. No surprise, all things considered, but I prefer the fantasy of us being a couple on …
Kidding! I’m kidding. I did not just think that.
But my stomach does a disco boogie.
“Tell me more about your parents,” I say as we sit on a bench outside the National Gallery of Art, watching families stream past with strollers and camera bags, students with large portfolios, and ordinary museum visitors who’re probably as interested in the cafeteria offerings as the history hung on the walls.
“What about them?”
“You said they honeymooned here. That they loved art and history.”
His expression softens. “They did, hence my father becoming a titan in the industry. He’s obsessed with preserving it, even more so after we lost Mom.
She loved art, paintings especially for the stories they told, the beauty they portrayed, the hope they inspired.
She could spend hours in front of a single piece, seeing things that everyone else missed.
My father used to tease her about it, but he’s snatched up as many of her favorites in the years since. Ironic, I suppose.”
“In her memory?”
“It’s hard to tell because even before she passed, he was only focused on business and already less interested in the things that used to matter to them both.” Linc’s voice is soft with sadness.
I reach out and touch his hand, wanting to comfort him.
He gazes out the window. “I think that’s part of why finding these letters matters so much to me. It’s not just about Lincoln and Mary. It’s about seeing what love looks like.”
Feeling unsteady with emotion, I say, “My parents weren’t like that. Allegedly, my father was charming when he wanted to be, but not reliable. Not the kind of man who wrote love letters. They split when I was too young to remember.”
“That must have been hard.”
“Mostly on my mother. She kept believing he’d change and then finally had enough. I only saw him a couple of times a year before he got sick.” I watch a young couple sharing a pretzel, unconsciously mirroring each other’s movements. “Maybe our motives aren’t that different.”
He squeezes my hand gently. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
Me too and somewhere along the way, I’ve started trusting him without even realizing it. I don’t know if I should make a pact with Oly that I not do anything stupid or … just see where things go. I mean, we’ve already been to New York and now Washington, DC. What’s next? Oz?
We grab a quick lunch at a café filled with young professionals zipping around in tailored suits and confident strides. Watching them makes me think about my real job, the one I should probably be at right now.
“Should I call in sick?” I wonder aloud, then immediately feel guilty. “I’ve never taken a sick day that wasn’t actually for being sick.”
With a confident smile, Linc says, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got you covered.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re officially on assignment. Research for the company.”
“Linc, I can’t let you—”
Stealing a chip from my sandwich basket, he says, “Let me handle this part, please.”
I nod, agreeing, hoping I don’t regret this later.