Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
T he following Tuesday, Sloane glanced at the From column of her newly received emails and the name Seth Taylor jumped out.
She startled, then cautiously clicked on the email to read it. Was this hope she was feeling, or fear? Gravity—she was feeling that for sure.
Sloane, I got your letter and just wanted you to know that I’m not the father of your niece .
That was it. That was the whole email.
She had no idea which of the four Seth Taylors this was.
She replied.
Dear Seth,
Thank you for responding. I mailed four letters. Can you please let me know if you’re the Seth who lives in Boston on Pierce Street, Boston on W. 5 th Street, Arizona, or Tennessee? Once I know that, I’ll make sure that we don’t follow up with you again.
Sincerely, Sloane
He had the grace to reply with four words.
I live in Arizona.
Communicating with these strangers about a subject as weighty as paternity was intense. Thank God all of this interaction was going through her. This way, Sloane could serve as a buffer. No matter how hard the information, at least it would be delivered gently by someone who loved Ivy.
Sloane updated Ivy as soon as she picked her up.
Ivy took the news in stride. “I’ll text Mom to let her know. Then I’ll text Max to let him know, too.”
Felix
Checking to see if you’ve made any headway in locating Eugenie’s tiara.
Max
I’m still working on it.
The following morning, Sloane received a text from an unknown number.
I received the letter you sent and wanted to tell you that I am the father of your niece. But I’m not open to a meeting at this time. Sorry. -Seth Taylor
Sloane, who was in the kitchen, preparing to take a cup of coffee outside, peered at the words. Her reactions bolted in two directions. Pleased surprise—because it seemed, amazingly, they’d actually found the correct Seth Taylor . Disappointment—because Seth wasn’t open to the meeting Sloane knew Ivy wanted.
Earlier, she’d heard her niece moving around in her room. “Ivy?” she called.
“Yes?” came the response.
“Can you come out here for a minute?”
Ivy emerged.
“I just received another reply,” Sloane said, “to the letters we mailed to the Seths.”
“Really?”
Sloane showed her the text message.
“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” Ivy murmured. “We found my biological father?”
“I think so, yes.”
“ Oh. My. Gosh . I can’t believe it.” She bent her head over the phone for long seconds before raising her attention to Sloane. “He’s not open to a meeting.”
“No.”
“He says he’s not open to a meeting at this time . Do you think that means he might be open to it later?”
“Perhaps. Yes.”
“Anything we can do to change his mind?”
“No, sweetheart. We have to be respectful of his decision. The best I can do is text him back to thank him and encourage him to reach out if he changes his mind.”
She’d been worried about the sadness this search might cost Ivy. And she did see sadness in Ivy’s face. Yet her niece had said, “I can handle some disappointment or rejection . ” And Sloane could see that was true, too . . . in the way Ivy squared her shoulders and in her small, brave smile.
Sloane hugged her, pride welling high.
Her sister’s daughter was everything Harper could have dreamed she’d be. And more.
Ivy had called this morning and told Max that her biological father had texted Sloane but wasn’t willing to meet with her. Ivy had also told him that Sloane had said they had to respect Seth’s decision.
It didn’t surprise Max to hear that Sloane was advocating for respect and patience. With almost everyone in the world except him she was the poster child for respect and patience.
Given that, Sloane could do nothing more regarding Seth.
However, the same could not be said of him.
Max had plenty of experience dealing with men who did not fulfill their paternal rights. Also, if he’d waited around for people to change their mind because he was concerned about giving them respect and exercising patience, Libri would have been dead in the water years ago.
He refused to let Seth keep Ivy and Sloane in a holding pattern.
Max lingered at home until Sloane drove off the property with Ivy. Then he crossed to the garage apartment and let himself in with his key. Sloane’s perfume greeted him when he reached her bedroom. He paused, breathing in the light, flowery, classy scent.
Right away, he spotted what he’d come for—her turquoise notebook—on her desk. He opened to the page where she’d written information about the Seths. As expected, she’d updated the information. The Seth in Arizona had been crossed out and she’d added a phone number at the bottom of the page that she’d circled and starred.
Bingo.
Max typed the digits into his phone. Let himself out of the apartment. Dialed as he walked the dirt path that led away from his house through the forest toward the stream at the far end of his property.
His call went to voice mail.
“Seth, this is Max Cirillo. I’m the CEO of Libri. I know we haven’t met, but we have a mutual friend, and I have a question for you. I’d appreciate it if you could give me a call at this number. Or feel free to call Libri’s office, extension 210. My executive assistant will put you through. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Thanks.”
Max was betting Seth would look Max up. And, when he did, almost certainly call him back.
Sure enough, barely an hour passed before Seth called Max on his cell. By then, Max was sitting in his ocean-view corner office at Libri’s headquarters.
Max cut right to the point. “I know that you received a letter recently from my friend Sloane Madison about her niece Ivy Ray. I’m the family friend Sloane mentioned in her letter.”
“Oh—I . . .”
“I know that you’re Ivy’s biological father. And I know you said you weren’t open to meeting with us at this time. Look, I realize your time is valuable. If you’ll meet with Ivy for thirty minutes, I’ll pay you five thousand dollars.”
“That’s . . . You will? ”
“I will.”
“That’s very generous.”
“We’ll enter into an agreement in writing, of course. My assistant can get a document to you today. Following your conversation with Ivy, you’ll receive the money. I have two stipulations. The first is that you meet with Ivy, Sloane, and me this weekend. I’d like to get things moving and I don’t see any reason to delay. Do you?”
“Uh . . . no?”
“My second stipulation is that you not mention this to Sloane and Ivy. I don’t want them knowing about the five grand, so you’ll need to act like we’re speaking for the first time when we meet. Got it?”
“Yes. I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll meet with us this weekend.” Seth did not immediately respond, so Max applied pressure. “This is important to me. We have a deal, right?”
“We have a deal.”
“Very good. Please text Sloane back today and set up a meeting.”
Seth
Sloane, I think I was too quick earlier to say that I wasn’t ready for a meeting. I’ve reconsidered. I can visit with Ivy for thirty minutes this weekend.
Sloane
Ivy will be delighted to hear that! Thank you. Where do you live?
Seth
Boston.
The messages had arrived while Sloane was waiting in the parking lot of Ivy’s driving school. As soon as the girl bounded into the car, Sloane, beaming, showed them to her.
Ivy squealed. “We waited and he changed his mind!”
“Yes. Politeness for the win!”
“I was praying that he’d change his mind. God worked faster this time than I dreamed.” She grinned. “Can you text him back, please? To set up a time to meet?”
“At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I want to reiterate that we do not have to rush. We could propose meeting with him a few weeks from now to give you both time to process.”
Ivy gave her a look like, Are you crazy? “No, the sooner, the better.”
“Sure?”
“Yes!”
Sloane
We can meet you either Saturday or Sunday in Boston.
Right away, dots appeared. Sloane and Ivy, heads close together, watched the screen with humming expectation.
Harper had always chosen football-player types. She’d been a teenager completely lacking in protection, so thinking back on it, it made sense to Sloane that her sister had gone for boyfriends who were, at least, physically strong. Some of her football-player-type boyfriends had been decent guys, but Harper herself had never been healthy enough to sustain a long-term relationship with any of them.
For Ivy’s sake, Sloane hoped that Seth fell into the decent-guy category.
A text from him arrived with a ping .
Seth
How about Sunday afternoon at three at Coffee and Chocolate Haus?
Ivy threw back her head with a whoop and thrust both fists into the air.
“I take it that’s a yes?” Sloane asked.
“Yes!”
Sloane
Wonderful. We’ll see you then.
“Do you think Max can go with us this weekend?”
“I’ll ask him but it’s likely he already has something scheduled for this weekend.” At least one could hope very, very hard that was the case.
“I’m going to celebrate back at the house by putting Kevin and Ricky in their exercise balls.”
Every few days, Ivy placed the rats in specially made, vented balls. They walked and ran inside the balls, causing them to roll around their apartment. Sloane feared they’d roll a ball against something, and the ball would spring open. At which time Kevin (or Ricky) would vault loose and make a run for Sloane’s jugular.
“In that case,” Sloane said, “I’ll make a point to spend some time outside at the café table.”
“Still afraid of my rat boys?”
“Terrified.”
Sloane
Ivy’s birth father, Seth, texted me just now. He’s willing to meet with us Sunday afternoon in Boston.
Max
I’ll join you.
Sloane
That’s definitely not necessary.
Max
It is to me. When are we leaving for Boston and when are we returning?
Sloane
Ivy and I are thinking about leaving Friday afternoon and returning Sunday night. We’re planning to go on a “Walking Tour of the Freedom Trail, Women’s History Edition” on Saturday.
Max
I’ll have my assistant make all of the travel arrangements.
Sloane
If you could join us only for the meeting with Seth, that would be best.
Max
If I’m picking up the tab, I’m going on the entire trip.
Sloane
No one asked you to pick up the tab. We wouldn’t dream of it.
Max
I’m going on the entire trip. I’ll take care of the transportation to and from Boston. And the hotel. And dinner out—bring nice clothes for that. In return, can you do one thing for me?
Sloane
What’s that?
Max
Buy me a ticket for the Walking Tour.
Sloane
I don’t believe men are permitted.
Max
Nice try but 1) That would be discrimination and 2) Think how much satisfaction you’ll get from watching the tour guide torture me—I mean lecture me—about women’s history.
In the past, breakfast out had been a twice weekly treat that Fiona enjoyed alone. But nowadays, Burke often joined her at Java Junkie, a coffee shop in downtown Groomsport located just a few blocks from Fiona’s office. She and Burke had rekindled their friendship ten months ago and, in that time, he’d become her closest friend.
Before Burke, she’d viewed her solo breakfasts as a luxury. (One of the many she indulged in since what was the point of living if one wasn’t frequently indulging in luxuries?) But her breakfasts with Burke were an even richer luxury because Burke was the type of person whose companionship both lowered her blood pressure and lifted her spirits.
There was probably a saying, written on decorative signs and hung up in houses, that emphasized this general concept. Something along the lines of, Joy is multiplied when shared with a friend. Fiona was not a decorative-sign type of person. Not at all. Yet her friendship with Burke had convinced her that joy really was multiplied when shared with a friend.
This morning, he’d brought along his three-year-old granddaughter, Lottie Rose. This was his daughter’s daughter, and she looked exactly like Fiona remembered her brown-haired mother looking back when Lottie Rose’s mother and Jeremiah had been in kindergarten together.
The little girl clearly idolized Burke, and with good reason. Fiona was biased, but he seemed to her to be the world’s best grandpa. Calm, kind, supportive. Burke always regarded Lottie Rose with so much approval and tenderness that there was no way this little girl was going to grow up not trusting in her own worth.
This display of grandparent/grandchild happiness emphasized to Fiona how beyond ready she was for grandchildren of her own. She had a lot of love to give, and she wanted the chance to view her own little grandbabies with approval and tenderness.
The three of them were sitting at a table together, Lottie Rose perched on Burke’s knee. Fiona had selected a sugar-free blackberry lemonade muffin and a skinny cappuccino. Burke—a Danish and black coffee. Lottie Rose—a small cinnamon roll and milk.
Currently, the child was ignoring her breakfast because she was appropriately preoccupied with Fiona. Lottie Rose’s little hands twirled Fiona’s rings and feathered over her gleaming manicure.
“Can I have nail polish?” she asked Fiona.
“Absolutely. A lady is never too young to look her best. In fact, I think I have some clear polish in my handbag here. If so, I’d be glad to apply it for you.”
Her round face lit up.
Sure enough, Fiona did have polish, as well as several other things she viewed as female necessities. Hand cream. Powder compact. Seven lipsticks for different occasions and lighting. Roll-on perfume. A hairbrush.
“Place your hands on the table,” Fiona instructed.
Lottie Rose did so, keeping her fingers very still as Fiona applied the polish to her minuscule nails. “When I’m done with this, I can also update your hairstyle, if you’d like. How do you feel about two French braids?”
“What are French braids?”
“Oh, my young protégé, you have much to learn.” She eyed Burke teasingly. “What are you teaching this child?”
“Things that have nothing to do with French braids,” he admitted.
Lottie Rose’s outfit and hair had obviously been overseen by Burke this morning. Like many men, he hadn’t the faintest idea how to handle a three-year-old girl’s outfit and hair.
“What’s protégé?” Lottie Rose asked.
“It’s kind of like an apprentice.”
“What’s apprentice?”
“It’s kind of like a student.”
“Oh.” She smiled up at Fiona.
With his big, weathered hand, Burke gently smoothed Lottie Rose’s bangs out of her face.
It did not take Fiona long to finish the nail polish. “Come sit with me, darling.”
The girl’s slight, warm weight settled on Fiona’s lap. Fiona swiftly went to work on French braids. When finished, she handed over her open compact, so the child could admire her hairstyle in the mirror.
Lottie Rose’s lips formed a delighted oval. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Come to me for manicure, clothing, and hair advice anytime. I love discussing those topics.”
Burke went to get more coffee.
By the time he’d returned, Fiona had coaxed the girl to eat most of her cinnamon roll and consume all of her milk.
Burke lowered into his seat and grinned at the sight of Fiona and Lottie Rose. “My two favorite girls.”
“As well we should be,” Fiona returned. “Right, Lottie Rose?”
“Right!”
“Want me to take her?” Burke asked.
“By no means. I deserve more snuggle time.”
He sipped his coffee. “You still haven’t heard from Max as to whether Nicole is willing to talk with you?” Burke asked.
“Still haven’t. Do you think I should pester him about it? It’s in my nature to pester.”
“No. Good things come to those who wait.”
“Good things come faster to those who pester.”
He chuckled. “In this case, I think waiting will pay off.”
Jude
I had a conversation with an agent who’s active in the FBI’s Jewelry and Gem Theft Program. He suggested I check out a jewelry database for transactions that show where the tiara might have been sold or purchased. I went through it carefully, Max. I don’t see any transactions indicating that the tiara’s been sold.
Max had booked a private plane for their trip to Boston.
A private plane.
In retrospect, Sloane reflected, this should not be taking her aback as much as it was. Yet, she absolutely felt taken aback as she and Ivy followed a beautiful employee across the tarmac toward a rolling staircase situated beneath a jet. Max waited for them there, wearing sunglasses and a smug expression.
He really was so frustratingly good-looking. The secret bolts of attraction she’d harbored toward him back in the day were beginning to make a comeback. The more she tried to block them, the more they made themselves known with a vengeance.
Back when a limo had arrived with a chauffeur but without Max to pick them up at the garage apartment, Sloane had concluded that Max had booked airline tickets. It was only when the limo carried them to the airstrip in Rockland (a place she’d never used in her life) that she’d comprehended they were not flying commercial.
This was how Max Cirillo could afford to travel these days. By private plane.
A gulf existed between this and how she remembered them traveling in Libri’s early days when they’d taken trips to New York to meet with publishers and several other states to meet with potential investors. Then, their budget had been tight. They’d driven long distances to save money, or they’d rooted out the cheapest possible fares on planes and trains. Yet now, with a snap of his fingers, he’d booked a private plane for something that wasn’t even related to business.
“I feel like I’m in the movies right now,” Ivy said to Max when they were still several yards away. “Is this real?”
“This is real.” Max was obviously enjoying the role of benevolent Daddy Warbucks.
“I’ve never flown anything except economy,” Ivy said. “Not first-class and definitely not this.”
“I’m glad I could introduce you to something new.”
Ivy scampered ahead up the stairs and out of sight.
“This wasn’t necessary,” Sloane told him. “Ivy and I don’t need luxury.”
“I know. But I do.” His eyes were masked behind the gray lenses of his sunglasses. “This is just the beginning. Wait until you see the hotel I’ve booked and the restaurant where we’re eating dinner tonight.”
She studied him for a long moment. He’d mastered the mocking, hard, sophisticated image he presented. Since coming to The Gables, it had been easy for her to believe that’s who he was now. She hadn’t looked closely for evidence to the contrary.
But now she was looking. She, who’d known him tremendously well. And she could see in the details—the worried aspect of his forehead, the way he curled his fingers in with a vulnerable flick—that there was still more to Max than he was letting on.
Felix hadn’t acknowledged Max as his son until he’d been forced to do so. Sloane knew that rejection had dealt a huge blow to Max’s pride and that, ever since, Max had been striving to prove his worth independent of the Camdens.
He still was. The mansion. The expensive cars. The private plane. The colossal success with Libri.
Would enough ever be enough for Max Cirillo? Would he reach a place of contentment? Or would he spend his life accumulating more and more in order to prove to the world that the illegitimate son had made good? Whether Max realized it or not, the world already believed he’d made good. Quite possibly the only person remaining who didn’t believe that was Max himself.
Max checked them into the most extravagant hotel in Boston. He snorted with approval when he saw his room. An Eastern European princess would have found this place too opulent.
That night, they ate at a restaurant so fancy that their server wore a tuxedo. Most of the menu was incomprehensible. He’d chosen this place because he knew Sloane adored fine dining.
“Aunt Sloane, can you teach us the etiquette of how to eat here?” Ivy asked as soon as they settled at their table.
Sloane brightened. “You’d truly like to know?”
“Yes, please. You’d like to know, too, right, Max?”
“Absolutely.” Honestly, he wasn’t interested in etiquette. Never had been. But he definitely did want the chance to sit back and watch Sloane talk about . . . anything. Even this.
“We start by placing our napkins in our laps, like so.” With one subtle movement, her napkin disappeared.
Max and Ivy mimicked her.
“We won’t set any of our personal items on the table,” Sloane instructed. “No cell phones. No eyeglasses.”
Max, who’d already placed his phone on the table, picked it back up. “What if I’m expecting an important call?”
“Make sure your phone’s on vibrate, stick it in your pocket or partially under your leg. If an important call comes in during the meal, excuse yourself and leave the table. We never keep our ringer on when dining and we never answer a call while sitting at the table with others.”
“Huh.” He stuck his phone partially under his leg, which wasn’t all that comfortable.
Their server delivered menus.
“This is very expensive,” Ivy whispered. “Should I just order one small thing?”
“I’m paying,” Max told her. “Order whatever you want.”
“Here’s my recommendation.” Sloane tipped her menu down so she could see Ivy over the top of it. “If you’re a guest of someone—and tonight you’re a guest of Max—do not order the most expensive thing on the menu because that’s not in good taste?—”
“You can order the most expensive thing if that’s what you’d like, Ivy.”
“It’s wise,” Sloane continued, “to casually ask the host what he’s thinking about ordering. If Max is only getting one course, then follow suit and order one course. If he’s ordering two or three courses, feel free to order two or three.”
“I’m ordering three courses,” he told Ivy. “Maybe four because I’m afraid the portion size here is going to be small enough to fit in a matchbox.”
They navigated ordering, three courses for each of them, then their server moved off.
“We refrain from grooming at the table,” Sloane instructed Ivy. “No messing with your hair, no toothpicks, no applying lipstick.”
“I can’t apply lipstick?” Max asked.
“If there’s a need to pass anything around the table, we pass to the right with our right hand. If we’re passing salt and pepper, those two always remain together. When the food comes, we’ll wait for everyone to be served before anyone begins. I suggest taking—at most—four bites of food before setting down your cutlery and pausing. Oh, and don’t cut anything on your plate except the bite you’re about to take. Cutting a dish into small pieces in advance is only for children.” Sloane was sitting very straight, gesturing gracefully. He could easily picture her as a duchess from long ago.
“What do I do with all these forks and knives and spoons?” Ivy asked.
“When the food arrives, we’ll start from the outside and work our way in.”
“Is it okay to lean forward?” Ivy rested her elbows on the table.
“We never place our elbows on the table. Throughout Western culture, that’s considered rude. Not to mention, it causes us to slouch our posture.”
“Oh. So where should I put my hands?” Ivy held them up like stop signs.
“Under the table,” Sloane answered, “except to eat, drink, or motion with them when speaking.”
Soon their first course arrived, and Sloane demonstrated to Ivy which pieces of cutlery to pick up. She held her fork in her left hand and her knife in her right in a position she called the “continental” style.
Sloane took a bite of food, and he caught himself staring at her mouth.
“Will you teach me more etiquette when we get back to Maine?” Ivy asked her aunt.
“Of course. I’ll teach you all the etiquette you’d like to know.”
Max tried his appetizer—a prosciutto and fig dish. “Mmmm,” he moaned loudly in a bid to amuse Ivy.
The girl broke into a huge smile.
Sloane blinked at him.
“Is moaning good etiquette?” he asked Sloane.
“The best etiquette is about being considerate of everyone. So I decline to scold you for moaning.”
“Declining to scold me must be hard for you.” He took another bite and moaned again.
“It’s requiring herculean effort,” she admitted.
Ivy had oohed and aahed her way through every new reveal of the day. Their hotel room. The Mercedes (piloted by another chauffeur) that cruised them to dinner. The restaurant’s decor.
Ordinarily, Sloane loved seeing Ivy happy. Yet her niece’s bubbling began to grate on Sloane by the time they returned to their hotel that night.
For one thing, the girl was shoveling an outsized portion of fangirling in Max’s direction. For another, Sloane didn’t want Ivy placing gigantic value on expensive items that didn’t actually matter in the grand scheme of life and death.
Sloane, for one, had taken in as much splendor and watched as many females flirt with Max as she could stand for one day.
Sloane locked herself inside the bathroom, stepped into the marble shower, and stood under its spray. She’d been constrained by her own good manners all day, speaking nothing but crushingly polite words to him since the tarmac. But now, with the water pounding her shoulders, and the sound providing cover, she indulged herself by calling Max every bad name in the book. She lambasted him. Railed. Chided. All in a whisper that went no farther than her ears.
The following morning, Max dressed in a gray T-shirt, joggers, and a pair of Adidas in advance of their walking tour. The three of them shared a quick, early lunch at the hotel, then their driver dropped them off at Bunker Hill. It wasn’t hard to recognize their tour guide because she was the only person wearing historical clothing. She had on a big, old-fashioned, blue and white dress and shoes with buckles.
Max wasn’t a costume guy and so regarded people who willingly dressed in costume with suspicion.
The woman beckoned the three of them forward to join the group already assembled around her. “Welcome, one and all. I am Abigail Adams.”
“ The Abigail Adams?” Sloane asked. “Married to John Adams?”
“One and the same.” She was a very circular person. Circular face that made him think she was around forty-five. Circular waist. Circular wig of gray curls. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. Will you grace me with the honor of your surnames?”
“My surname is Madison,” Sloane supplied.
“Ah!” Abigail smiled with recognition. “Are you a relation of James Madison, the statesman who helped to organize the Constitutional Convention?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Sloane answered, playing along. “I’m his granddaughter.”
“He’s a patriot indeed.”
“And the fourth president of the United States.”
“My dear, this is the year of our Lord 1800. My husband is president.” A plane flew overhead and teens staring at their iPhones walked past.
Everyone else supplied their surnames. The other tour participants included two fifty-something women who were eyeing Max so venomously that he had to wonder if they hated men in general. In contrast, four women around his age, who might be on a girls’ weekend, were eyeing him with deep appreciation. A few friendly-looking grandmotherly types rounded out their group. He was, of course, the only male since no ordinary man would ever sign up for this.
“A few years ago,” Abigail announced in a loud voice, “I wrote a letter to Mr. Adams, and I don’t mind sharing with you what I said. I wrote, ‘ I desire you would Remember the Ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the Husbands. Remember all Men would be tyrants if they could. If perticuliar care and attention is not paid to the Laidies we are determined to foment a Rebelion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation .’”
The two women with the venomous gazes clapped enthusiastically.
Abigail inclined her wig. “Because of my affinity for the ladies, it is a particular joy to have been tasked today with the honor of guiding you on this walk and sharing with you tales of the valiant women of the American Revolution. Huzza!” She pronounced the last word strangely. “I see your confusion,” she went on. “Our most common cheer is huzza, spelled H-U-Z-Z- A and pronounced huzz-ay so that it rhymes with day. Let’s practice. Huzza!”
“Huzza!” everyone but Max returned. He was already sacrificing as much of his dignity as he was willing to part with.
“The president and I were deeply involved in the Revolutionary War and the earliest years of our good nation. Mr. Adams was the first vice president of the United States, making me the first vice presidential wife. Currently he is serving as the second president of our United States, making me the second presidential wife.”
“Congratulations,” Ivy told her kindly.
“Why isn’t the president here with us today?” Max asked Abigail.
“The president is currently attending to matters of state.”
“Or lying six feet under for the past two hundred years,” he whispered to Sloane.
A smile transformed her face.
The sight of that smile gave him an instant dopamine hit.
“‘ I am fearfull of the small pox .’” Abigail was quoting again from her letters.
He tuned her out.
When, where, and how had Sloane become so beautiful? He’d classified her as plain when they’d first met but there was nothing even remotely plain about her now. The sunlight slanted across her gentle features, emphasizing her porcelain skin. Everyone but Sloane and Abigail were wearing athletic clothes or shorts for the walk. Sloane had chosen a cream V-neck top. Her wide black skirt was drifting in the breeze. Her slip-on shoes were spotless.
Abigail droned about the Battle of Bunker Hill. Had Max been married to this Abigail at the time of the battle, he’d have thrown himself into the line of musket fire.
“Brave Deborah Sampson was so committed to our cause,” Abigail informed them, “that she disguised herself as a man and enlisted in the Fourth Massachusetts Regiment. She served for a year and a half, scouting territory and reporting on British troop movements. She helped lead expeditions and participated in a raid that captured fifteen men. At one point, she received a cut in her forehead from a sword. Upon being shot in the thigh, she retrieved the pistol ball herself and continued. When it was eventually discovered that she was female, she was honorably discharged and received a military pension.”
Abigail led them downhill, and they wound past well-preserved New England buildings, their flower boxes dripping with color. They crossed a bridge over the Charles River to Copp’s Hill Burial Ground, then on to the Old North Church.
“‘ I have sometimes been ready to think ,’”—Abigail raised an arm dramatically as she stood before the church—“‘ that the passion for Liberty cannot be Eaquelly Strong in the Breasts of those who have been accustomed to deprive their fellow Creatures of theirs.’” Max’s mind wandered, coming back in time to hear her say, “‘ that generous and christian principal of doing to others as we would that others should do unto us .’”
As time passed, it became clear that in Abigail, Sloane had found a kindred spirit. They were both passionate about old-fashioned manners.
When they reached the Paul Revere House, Abigail relayed Paul’s story, then continued. “Are you familiar with the girl known as the female Paul Revere? Sybil Ludington was sixteen years of age when her father, Colonel Henry Ludington, learned that the British were on the move. He needed to stay with his men, so Sybil volunteered to warn local militia and rode forty miles through the night to do so, outsmarting bandits and the British on the way.”
Near Faneuil Hall, Abigail mentioned something about abhorrent spies and Max felt like one of those, sent to this tour by the percentage of the population that had one X and one Y chromosome.
The closer they got to downtown, the more old construction gave way to skyscrapers.
“Margaret Corbin followed her husband to war, assisting as so many women did, as a camp follower. In that role, she cooked, cleaned, nursed wounded men, and brought water to the front line. When her husband was struck down while manning a cannon, she stepped into his place at once and continued to fire the cannon upon the Redcoats. Fellow soldiers noted her steady aim and sure shot.”
They came to a stop on a street corner, waiting for the crosswalk light to signal green. Abigail was talking about relying on horses as their transportation. “In fact, Mr. Adams and I departed our wedding ceremony on a single horse to begin our lives together.”
“Have you ever thought about taking a Tesla from point A to point B?” Max asked.
Abigail responded the same way she’d responded to every such question on this tour. “I do not know this Tesla of which you speak.”
“Might be worth checking into,” Max said. “A lot less poop involved with Teslas than horses.”
Sloane was pointing her phone upward to take a photo and stepped back, bringing her closer to the curb. Instinctively, Max braced an arm against her lower back to keep her from accidentally falling into the street.
Sloane gave a small gasp and looked at him, their profiles inches apart. He could feel the contours of her spine and ribs through her shirt. Blood rushed desire through his veins?—
“Mr. Cirillo,” Abigail said, “I will not allow that type of forward advance in my presence.”
“Excuse me.” Ensuring that Sloane was safe, he removed his arm from her. “I was trying to save James Madison’s granddaughter here from being squished by a Tesla.”
The tour concluded at a place named Abigail’s Tea Room in honor of the real and dead Abigail Adams, not this circular Abigail.
“My tearoom overlooks one of Boston Harbor’s inlets.” Her wig was starting to sag in the heat, one curl trembling sadly near her jaw. “The Boston Tea Party took place in December of 1773. Our people protested taxation without representation by throwing bales of tea into the water. ‘ Surely the very Fiends feel a Reverential awe for Virtue and patriotism, ’ I wrote in a letter. Huzza!”
“Huzza.” It was clear to Max, if not to Abigail, that even the most gung-ho in this group were getting sick of saying huzza .
“I can’t help but think that this Abigail might be more comfortable in a mental health facility,” Max said to Sloane. “She seems to be living in a very deep and extended delusion.”
Sloane peeked at him out of the corners of her sparkling eyes. “The same could be said of you.”
Ivy frequently felt nervous. Like when she had to speak to a group of people. Or take an important test. Or dance with her friends in the school gym in front of people.
But it was unusual for her to feel nervous for this long.
It was Sunday, the day of her meeting with Seth. And as soon as she’d woken up in the hotel, nervousness had jumped on top of her like a cat with sharp claws. The hours of this day had gone on forever. But it was finally almost time to meet Seth.
Max held the door of Chocolate Haus open for her. She entered the coffee shop, which smelled like coffee beans and liquid chocolate.
Aunt Sloane had insisted they arrive fifteen minutes early. Seth wouldn’t be here this early, probably. Or would he? Ivy looked around, stomach jittery.
She didn’t see any men alone inside.
“Would you like something to drink?” Max asked her.
She shook her head.
He turned to Sloane. “Would you like something?”
“An English breakfast tea would be lovely.”
Max nodded and moved toward the line as Sloane took Ivy’s elbow and steered them to a square table surrounded by four chairs. Ivy took the seat that had the best view of the door. To her side, a large window showed people walking past on the sidewalk.
“How are you holding up?” Sloane asked.
“Nervous.”
“That’s understandable.” Ivy could tell by the tightness of Sloane’s mouth that she was on edge, too. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Ivy shook her head. She hoped Seth wasn’t disappointed when he saw her. She’d washed her hair and blown it dry and done her makeup. She’d put on her favorite dress—the white one with the little blue flowers on it.
When Max reached their table, he set Sloane’s tea before her. He’d purchased one of those tiny mugs of strong coffee for himself. Espresso? He didn’t try to draw Ivy out, and she was thankful. But when her eyes met his, he looked back with an extremely steady expression. She and her aunt might be shaky in this moment, but he was not. She saw nothing but confidence in Max right now and some of his calm slid into her, helping a little.
Earlier, she and Sloane and Max had gone to the fine art museum. If she hadn’t been so stressed today, she’d have been able to enjoy spending time with them the way she had yesterday and Friday. Being near Sloane and Max was like living inside a romantic movie because it felt at any second like one of their arguments might lead to kissing.
Ivy didn’t want Sloane to fall for a player and it seemed like Max was a player. But Ivy believed he’d straighten up if he had the chance to be with Sloane. He looked at her all the time like he was crazy about her.
Ivy reached for her phone, deciding to play a game on it to distract herself.
Every time the front door opened, Ivy caught her breath and glanced up. Each time, the person who entered wasn’t Seth. Still nine minutes to go until three. She played the game as if her life depended on it.
At two minutes before three, she raised her face at the sound of the door and saw immediately that the man walking through it must be her biological father.
This is him , she thought dumbly.
This is him.