“Not exactly.”
“For future reference, any time a young man has hands on you for any reason, lead with that. Now, tell me all about him.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
Francie makes a “wrong answer” buzz. “You’re trying to sound too casual, you bad liar. Tell me about the peach farmer.”
“Francie!”
“Boston Harbor. Chuck that tea.”
“This trustee is Foster Martin’s grandson. He’s irritatingly attractive.”
“Ooh, finding someone irritatingly attractive is how all my favorite romance novels begin.”
“Stop,” I say, laughing. “It’s not like that. I meant it more like he’s cute and he knows it.”
“What does he look like?” she asks. “I need a proper mental picture.”
“Henry Cavill? No. Too rugged. Oh, Timothée Chalamet on Henry Cavill’s body. And add a five o’clock shadow.”
She sucks in a breath. “So, when you say cute, what you mean is Foster Martin’s beautiful grandson had his hands on your peach?”
“Beautiful is putting it strongly.”
“Is it, though?” a male voice asks behind me.
I whirl to find Jay leaning against the doorway of the library, arms crossed over his chest, grinning at me in a very beautiful way.
Is this library cursed? It must be cursed.
I nod to acknowledge him and speak to Francie in my most businesslike tone. “That’s a good way to describe that painting.”
“Uh, what?” she asks.
“Anyway, anything you can get me on the postal regulations around opening misdirected mail would be excellent, especially if there’s a statute of limitations after which the obstruction-of-correspondence penalties no longer apply.”
“Is the peach farmer there?” Francie asks, her tone amused now.
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Text me a picture.”
“No, thank you. That will not be necessary. Have a good day.” I end the call and set my phone on the desk.
“Don’t have to wrap up on my account,” Jay says. “I want to hear more about this beautiful male.”
“It’s just an old letter,” I say, deliberately misunderstanding him. “It’s not that interesting. Good morning, by the way. Can I help you with something?”
“What about an old letter? Maybe I can help you with it.”
“Not unless you’re a mailman,” I tell him. “It’s misdelivered mail, that’s all.”
He gives me a strange look, half disbelief and half amusement. “You have no idea what I do, do you?”
“I don’t.” I remember Foster mentioning one of his grandsons was studying history, but a deep dive into the trustees’ backgrounds isn’t on my to-do list until I begin to prepare for my meeting with them next week. I don't know Jay's specialty.
“Well, Phoebe Hopper, it sounds like I’d better reintroduce myself.”
