I can hear you already, indignant that I presume to know what you think when you’ve said the very opposite. But I know what your eyes say when you don’t think I’m looking, and what your smile says, the special one I’ve never seen you give anyone else but me. I most certainly know what your lips said when we kissed on the boat beneath the Fourth of July fireworks, and it had nothing to do with words.
I’m not sure who is putting ideas into your head about my sincerity and intentions—or why—only that they’ve given you the most incorrect of ideas.
Would a man who is looking only tofeather his cap by dating through the Boston socialite scene bother putting pen to paper when the object of his affections runs out on him? That’s you, by the way, Kitten. You are the object of my affections. The sole object of all of them. I thought for certain my actions have shown that, but since they apparently have not, let’s make it so my words do.
If you are not also chicken in addition to your feline perfection, I would very much like to hear why you left Boston so quickly that you couldn’t tell me you were leaving. And if you’re very brave and honest, you’ll tell me.
I’ve laid out every one of my cards here, Kitten. I have nothing to hide.
Ardently,
Dear Heart
I give a low whistle. “Shots fired.”
Phoebe sets the letter back down. “One and a half pages, front only. Definitely a gauntlet thrown.”
I pull out my phone to make notes. “We’ve got 1965 and a woman from Boston who met and got involved with this guy who’s writing her, possibly through a club, and from the sound of the boat action, likely a yacht club.”
“They had some sort of argument,” Phoebe says, “and he thinks her feelings scared her into suddenly running away to Serendipity Springs.”
“But he doesn’t know that for sure,” I say. “We don’t either, without hearing her side. And we likely won’t, because you had to unseal that letter to read it, which means?—”
“She never saw this one.”
“That’s a shame,” I say. “He seems like he was into her.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “He seems like he was into the idea of her being into him. It sounds like that’s the exact accusation she made.” She taps the letter.
“It also sounds like she wrongly accused him,” I say. “That’s his whole point here.”
“Let’s stick with known facts. We know Smitten Kitten lived in The Serendipity in 1965.”
I give a slight grimace. “We know he thought she lived here in 1965, but since she never got this letter, he could have been wrong.”
“All right, that’s a good point.”
“How much do you know about The Serendipity?” I ask. “I know where it is, but I’ve never been inside. Maybe if we knew more about its history, we might know why a young woman would have been living there back then.”
“I don’t know much,” she says. “There are some quirks to the layout that make it obvious it didn’t start life as an apartment building, but I’ve lived there barely a week. Foster left a note for me when I moved in saying he’d picked it specifically because he thought I would enjoy it, but that he’d leave me to discover more on my own. I jumped right into work, so I haven’t had time to explore it.”
“I knew you had a one-year lease as part of your salary package, but I didn’t realize he’d chosen the building.” Grandad was a highly organized man, but not a control freak. The specificity of his will regarding his vision for the museumand who he wanted hired weren’t a surprise. That he would go as far as choosing Phoebe’s housing is.
“He chose well. I love the aura of it. Original brick exterior, a grand staircase, original hardwood floors, high ceilings with crown molding. It was definitely built before World War II. It has a gorgeous courtyard and pool. But then, there’s also a kitchen on the main floor.”
“As in, not in anyone’s apartment? Thatisodd,” I say when she confirms with a nod.
“Right? I’ve been wondering if it was a small hotel. It has what definitely used to be a front desk. Like a check-in desk. And there’s a big room behind the desk labeled ‘Ballroom.’”
“No way. Like the one here?”
“I’m not sure. It’s written on an old brass plaque over the doorway, but I didn’t poke my head in to look because a newer sign beside the door says ‘Manager.’”
“Well, your majesty, I believe this is when you invite me over to come explore.”
She fixes me with a look like she’s torn between scolding me, laughing at me, or saying yes. But when she speaks, it’s none of those things.
“Well, your worshipful trusteeness, since this is the third time I’ve seen you in my whole life, it’s time for a define-the-relationship talk.”
