He pushes up from his chair. “Nope, you don’t have to say another word. I got it. I’m sorry, Phoebe, but I will not be asking you out.”
I sigh, knowing he’ll keep playing semantic games. But also maybe to keep from smiling in spite of myself.
He heads toward the hallway, whistling “Sexy Back,” and stops at the door. “Just to be clear, you do not want me, an expert historian, to come check out the building my grandfather—who I knew better than anyone—chose for you without explanation, and you also do not want me, an expert researcher, to help you track down the origins of this sixty-year-old letter?”
“Yes, Jay. I’m saying that I, as an expert curator, have the skills to wander around my own building and figure stuff out.”
“As you wish.” Then he winks and turns to leave when a chime sounds. Or something? I haven’t heard it before.
Jay turns back to me, looking puzzled. “That’s the doorbell. Are you expecting anyone?”
I get up to answer it. “No. All my appointments are calls today.”
Jay moves aside to let me lead.
When I reach the front door, he steps into the bottle room where he can listen without being seen, which I think ishis way of acknowledging that it’s my job to handle whoever might be at the door.
I open it to find a woman about my mom’s age on the doorstep. She’s holding what appears to be a small moving box.
“Hello. May I help you?” I ask.
“This is going to be the museum, right?” she asks.
“Yes. I’m the director.”
She extends the box toward me, and I take it on reflex. “Donation.”
“Oh.” I look down at it. It’s an Amazon box. “What is it?”
“Tea set,” she says. “My grandmother’s. Had it in my house since she died, and I don’t want it, but it’s too old to throw away. Don’t need a receipt. I’ll just take a free ticket when you open. Margie Jarvis.” She says the last part over her shoulder as she descends the stairs.
I stare down at the box then call belatedly, “Thank you?”
When I close the door, Jay steps into the hall and offers to take the box. I let him, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. “In there, I guess?”
He sets it down on the kitchen table, and I open it. We peer inside, then lock eyes.
“Is this something?” He sounds doubtful. There’s a porcelain teapot and four cups with saucers in a pretty pattern of small blue flowers.
“I’m not up on my tea sets.” I snap a picture with my phone and throw it into a search. “Royal Vienna, vintage, not antique, listed on eBay for around a hundred bucks.”
“You good if I touch these?”
“Go ahead.”
He pulls out enough pieces to announce, “There’s no note explaining why it might be valuable.”
“Didn’t you hear? It’s too old to throw away.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “I’ve got jeans that fit that description. Broke them in just right.”
My mind conjures an image of him in jeans and a handknit sweater, the picture of New England preppy ruggedness. Oof. Please let him be gone before the cool weather hits, because that combo is my weakness.
“This tea set will not be relocating to the Museum of Serendipity, but I'm still working on a draft of our donation policies to give to the board for a vote. I wasn't expecting people to bring things in already. What am I supposed to do with this in the meantime?” I ask. “Donate it to a thrift shop?”
Like I have time to find somewhere to donate it. “Problem for another day. I’ll put it in the butler’s pantry until I can figure out where to rehome it.”
“All right. If you’re not going to pick my enormous brain anymore on your mystery letter, I’ll get back to work.”
