“Let’s go look.” I try hard to keep my voice normal, and maybe it works because she doesn’t look at me funny.
We climb the stairs to the first floor, and she frowns halfway up. “There should be more people here. I usually have to apologize to at least ten for going around them on the way up.”
“Huh. Strange. Just one of those lulls,” I say.
When we get to the second-floor landing, she hooks a left to the “Heart of Serendipity Springs” gallery and stops short in the doorway. She’s quiet for a few seconds before she looks over her shoulder at me. “Jay?”
Her eyes are wide, and her face has softened from her “cheerful pro” face to a tender look she saves only for me.
“We have an appointment in the recording booth,” I tell her. I take her hand as I walk past her into the gallery, which is empty of people, but I doubt that’s what caught her eye. No, that would be the giant bouquets of sunflowers on either side of the studio door.
“An appointment, hmm?”
I love the note of excitement in her tone, the one she always gets when I suggest an adventure, big or small. This one is big. Very big.
“We do. You take the far seat.” I open the door, and she walks into the booth to take her chair. I settle into mine, which puts us both directly in front of the control panel. It’s as simple as we could make it, with large buttons and simple labels. It includes a camera and monitor for contributors who would like a visual record too. The button beneath the lens says “Press here to include video.” I do, and it automatically signals the audio system to kick on.
“I thought it was time we recorded our own story for the city history archives,” I tell her.
“Lead by example. I can get behind that.” She’s smiling, but there’s an alertness that tells me she knows there’s more than a simple recording happening, especially because we could do this any time.
“I figured we should start with the legend of the first director of the Museum of Serendipity.”
Her eyebrow goes up. “What legend is that?”
“Once upon a time,” I begin.
“About eight months ago,” she adds.
I nod. “About eight months ago, this building was a house. A house with a lot of history and memories, but still a house. And though the Martin family was friendly, the only people who ever got to experience it were the Martins and those they held as friends who were invited to visit. But Foster Martin was a generous and civic-minded Martin, and he decided to leave the estate to the city of Serendipity Springs to learn more about their own history, retelling familiar stories, and uncovering less familiar ones.”
“Your grandad was one in a billion,” she says.
“He was. And because he was, he knew when he had met another one-in-a-billion kind of human, and that person is you. So he made sure you became the first director of the Museum of Serendipity, because he couldn’t think of anyone he trusted more to bring his vision to life. And he was right to.”
The sheen of tears appears in her eyes, and she blinks them away. “Thank you.”
I shake my head. “No way. Thankyou. That’s from me and every Martin who ever was or ever will be. Anyway, eight months ago, when this story begins …”
“Right, sorry.” She’s smiling, not remotely apologetic.
“Your firstofficialday on the job, I met you down in the hallway with Harvey Bullard, Foster’s estate attorney.”
She looks confused that Harvey Bullard has made an appearance in our love story, but his cameo is far from over.
“We haven’t talked to or about Harvey much since, have we?” I smile when she shakes her head. “So imagine my surprise when Harvey called me into his office last month.”
“He did?” Now she looks surprised.
“He did. It turns out there was another clause in my grandfather’s will that it was time for him to exercise, one he’d never mentioned before.” I don’t know if I can make itthrough this next part without making a fool of myself on camera, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever happens next, however I may say it, it’s real.
I pull a paper from inside my jacket pocket, folded into thirds. “When I sat down in Harvey’s office, he asked my pardon for getting in my business, but he wondered if I could confirm whether the rumors of our relationship were true. I said they were. Then he said, ‘Son, I know I sound nosy, but I promise I am only attempting to fulfill the wishes of your grandfather as his attorney and as his friend.’ Then he asked me if I love you. And I had to admit, Phoebe Hopper, that I do. Very much.”
She leans forward to press a soft kiss to my lips. “I love that you tell me you do all the time, and I love you too.”
“Good. Maybe that will help my case.” I unfold the paper and hand it to her. “Harvey said if you took the job, and if Harvey were to determine at some point that you and I had fallen in love, there is a codicil to my grandfather’s will.”
“You’re kidding.” She sounds as stunned as I felt, and I wonder if the enormity of Harvey’s revelation can possibly have hit her.
