Chapter 35 Linc
LINC
The Lincoln Memorial Museum is a marvel of modern innovation, paying homage to history built into the undercroft of the landmark structure.
It includes exhibits, multimedia presentations, and displays, showcasing artifacts along with a timeline that charts every documented moment of Abraham Lincoln’s life.
Captivated, Jules traces information placards as if her mind connects dots I can’t even see yet, even though I know this history almost as well as my own.
She stops at a display about Lincoln’s time serving in the House of Representatives. “Check this out about the places Lincoln frequented while in Washington.”
I lean over her shoulder to read, catching the scent of whatever shampoo the hotel provided—spring rain and cherry blossoms.
I remind myself we’re here for history, not for me to notice how Jules is golden-hour gorgeous with her vintage-film eyes and warm campfire lips that threaten to turn me to liquid.
“‘Between 1847 and 1849, while Lincoln was representing Illinois, he had several places he liked to visit in the nation’s capital when he needed to think or write privately,’” she reads aloud.
“There was an inn called the Eagle’s Nest where he sometimes stayed overnight, and an old private library where scholars say he did some of his most important researching and thinking. ”
“Do you suppose that includes personal correspondence?”
Jules leans closer to read the placard containing artist renditions of the buildings.
I have to step back before I do something stupid like brush a strand of hair behind her ear or whisper something to her that will make us pick up where we left off in front of the Civil War painting at the gallery during our almost-kiss.
“Do you think either of these places still exists?”
I pull out my phone, excitement building like the final seconds of a power play.
“Let me search … okay, here we go. A modern office building was built on top of the site of the inn, but the building’s basement level apparently contains remnants of the original structure, including what the owners used to call the Lincoln Quarters, preserved in his memory. ”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Her eyes light up like she’s just discovered a chest full of treasure. If you were to ask me, Jules is where X marks the spot.
“What’s the building now?” Lifting onto her toes, she peers over at my phone screen.
I continue reading, then groan. “Of course. It’s now a security systems company called Checkpoint Secure. We won’t be sneaking through the window, that’s for sure.”
“But we’ll need to get inside somehow.”
Lowering my voice, I turn to face her fully. “Exactly how do you propose we break into a security company’s building?”
Swishing her mouth from side to side, she considers this. “We don’t break in. We act like we belong there.”
I arch an eyebrow, already not loving this plan. “Genius, but last I checked, neither one of us has a security systems background unless you have a degree or certificate I don’t know about.”
Her confident expression falters. “We could go in disguise. Carry clipboards. Wear confidence like an official badge.” She grins simply, like she suggested we grab ice cream instead of committing what are probably several more felonies.
This woman is going to be the death of me—either from stress or from falling so hard that I forget to breathe.
“There is also the library to consider,” she says.
“And let’s not forget about the architect Taylor mentioned.”
When my college hockey team captain, Anselm Nerh?user, met Taylor, it was love at first sight.
It took her a while to come around, but they’ve been happily together for years.
Not wanting to sound like a weirdo, I didn’t ask Taylor to keep my NHL career under wraps because that would’ve raised questions that had long answers.
Thankfully, she didn’t mention anything.
However, I was nervous the entire time to the point that I foolishly thought that maybe Jules was jealous at first, thinking Taylor was more than just my bro’s bride.
What has gotten into me? If I didn’t know better, I’d fear I’ve been body snatched or agreed to a role in a cringy teen movie. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.
Maybe because I haven’t.
We continue to browse the displays outlining the life of the sixteenth US president. I have to hand it to the museum curators, they did an amazing job highlighting Lincoln’s life and achievements, along with celebrating the memorial building itself.
“Here it is. The chief architect for the memorial that Taylor mentioned is featured, too.” I point to the exhibit about the construction of the building.
We look up information on the man Taylor said was the mastermind behind this feat of architecture to learn that Amos Price, the architect of this building’s grandfather, did indeed replace the wooden Capitol dome with iron.
Scrolling through, we also learn he was involved in cutting-edge—for the time—design, including glass structures.
“We need to find out more about him.”
“And figure out how we’re going to get into the Checkpoint Secure building,” I mutter.
When we exit into the evening, the sun is setting, casting distinct columns of shadow off the Memorial. If only my thoughts were so clear, so black and white.
I worry that we’re taking the investigation too far … that we’re taking us too far.
This isn’t only about the letters anymore. Every hour Jules and I spend together, every shared look and inside joke, every moment of seeing her handle unexpected situations with humor and grace, I’m falling a little deeper into something I don’t know how to navigate.
And the worst part is, she still doesn’t know who I really am. Not the hockey player part, or if my father is involved in a fraud scheme—that could change everything, including her employment status.
I can’t let that happen. But what do I do?
I flip my lucky penny and catch it. “In for a penny …”
“In for a pound of trouble,” she finishes, grinning mischievously.
I chuckle. “That’s not how the saying goes.”
“It’s how this saying goes. With us, trouble seems to be the standard unit of measurement.”
She has a point.
The next morning, over breakfast—another spread thanks to room service—Jules exits her room looking adorably sleepy. She sniffs the air as if detecting what may as well be her kryptonite: chocolate croissants.
Finding me on the sofa, she narrows her eyes, shakes her head, and abruptly charges my way. “We are getting into a fight today.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Excuse me?”
“We’ve been getting along too well.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Obviously.”
Setting down my mug, I ask, “I’ve been awake for two hours. I took a run, hit the gym, showered, and am fully caffeinated. But no, it’s not obvious.”
Crossing her arms, she pouts. “Remember how you used to call me Juliette? Or Yulia?”
“I never called you Yulia.”
“Ha! You so did. That means the wrong names were on purpose.”
Caught. “Well …”
She shakes her head. “We were engaged in a battle of mutually assured destruction, and now look at us. Sharing a fancy continental breakfast like civilized people.”
“The walls came down,” I admit.
She drops into a chair and stares at the floor for a moment before peering up at me, gaze pinched and earnest. “Be careful, Linc. I might start to like it.”
My upper lip quirks. Ah, so that’s what this is about. “I’ll admit that at first, you rattled me.”
“You were such a meanie!”
“We were instant adversaries.”
“Not true. I tried to be friendly Juliana. My mistake. You came in with guns blazing. I could’ve handled the stiff suit and fake cordiality, but you went full supervillain executive.”
“I was very bitter about being at Meridian. I took it out on you. I apologize.”
She straightens slightly, chin lifted, and gives me a nod of acknowledgement. “The thing about hating someone is that it gets exhausting over time. It’s like being locked in a dark room with a vampire—eventually, you run out of energy to keep fighting. What changed?”
I study her face, memorizing the way the morning light makes her eyes look like crystal, like glass. “I stopped the rude exec act because I realized I was acting like my dad. You were getting caught in my crossfire.”
She considers this, nods to accept it, and then quietly says, “You rattled me, too. I kept thinking, ‘Obviously this guy thinks he’s better than us worker bees, us little debt peons.’”
It’s my turn to hang my head in shame. “My father essentially installed me, so I figured if he was going to force me to follow in his footsteps, I’d go all the way.”
“I’ll admit that from what few interactions I’d had with your father, I hated him, too. Perched up there on the fortieth floor like a vulture.”
I chuckle darkly. Or a predator, depending on what’s going on with the insurance claims.
She adds, “He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”
My eyes arc a slow half-circle along the upper lids, weighing the notion as if that’s debatable.
She giggles.
It’s time to tell her that my father insisted I take the position at Meridian despite the fact that I have a full-time, demanding, and very fulfilling career. “The thing is—”
She waves her hands. “Wait. We’re getting too friendly again. We need to bicker.”
The moment to confess dissolves. “I prefer to think of it as banter.”
“You’re such a pest.”
I leap to my feet. “Ah ha! That’s it. If we’re going to pull off our visit to the Checkpoint Secure site, we have to seem like we’re coworkers for a pest company. Like method acting.”
Her grin turns mischievous. “Something you’re all too familiar with. When we first met, I was convinced they sent the villain executive from central casting. You forgot your curly mustache prop.”
I tip my head back with laughter, then level her with my gaze. “But that’s not what this is anymore, is it?”
Silence slinks between us as if we’re both afraid to answer the question and turn back to formulating our plan of infiltrating the building of a security company, which, no doubt, will have a high level of security.