“I heard the vice chair is a jerk,” I say. “Watch out for him.”
“I’m miles ahead of you.” She shifts from one foot to the other then sticks out her hand, startling me. I take it and accept her handshake.
“Thanks again for coming over,” she says. “I’ll make sure I meet a couple of neighbors and get their numbers so I have someone else to call if I see any more bike chains.”
She’s back in work mode. Or keep-me-at-a-distance mode. “Sounds good. See you around, your majesty.”
“See you,” she says, already heading down the hall before I’m out the front doors.
Nothing like a woman burning the rubber of her sneakers to get away from you.
I shake my head as I jog down the steps toward the street, but I’m smiling. If Phoebe was consistently standoffish with me, that would be one thing. But she’s not, and that inconsistency tells me something important: she relaxes around me in spite of herself.
I plot ways to see her tomorrow the whole drive home, and by the time I park, I’ve found the perfect excuse.
Chapter Sixteen
Phoebe
CallingJay over was not the best intervention for my patheticness. It’s even worse border enforcement, but when a bicycle tries to eat your hair, you call the number you’ve got.
I definitely need to get more numbers.
I leave right on time the next morning, dressing extra professionally, like it will somehow make Jay forget that he has twice now seen the director of the museum in cutoffs and sneakers. I caught him looking at my legs last night. Maybe he’ll be punished for that by the curse of knowledge, just like I’m being punished by knowing how his manly thighs feel as a headrest.
But I’m covered up with navy cropped pants today and a pink and white seersucker blouse with a Peter Pan collar. I am cute when I check my closet mirror but in an off-duty candy striper way, and that isfine.Great, even. If I can’t keep Jay at a distance by willpower, I’ll let this outfit do the work.
I swing by my mailbox before heading to the parking structure. I see something inside that wasn’t there last night, and the mail hasn’t come yet. Which means …
A few people pass near me on their way out of the maindoor or heading to the parking garage. I don’t want to sweet-talk my mailbox in front of an audience, so I work the combo without sucking up. It doesn’t work, nor does it after two more tries. Great. I hear someone coming down the main staircase and two more people coming up the hallway. Definitely not going to talk to it.
But as I peer through the glass window, it looks too much like the first Smitten Kitten letter for me to be patient. I lean forward and pat the metal door. “Art Deco is the best deco.”
“Excuse me?” a man coming down the staircase asks.
“Oh, just talking to mys—” I turn to say but break off when I am faced with a macaw on the shoulder of an otherwise normal-looking middle-aged man.
“Mailbox?” he prompts me. “You were talking to your mailbox?”
“Myself,” I say and struggle to maintain eye contact.
He shrugs. “Suit yourself, but they open faster if you have words with them.” He walks to a mailbox and gives it a sound thump with his fist before the bird squawks, “Open, sweetie. Sweetie, open.”
Two seconds later, it does.
I work my combo without a problem this time. Sure enough, a letter in the same type of envelope as the Smitten Kitten one sits inside the mailbox. I pluck it out, and my heart rate kicks up a gear when I spot the familiar handwriting addressed to Smitten Kitten from the same return address, with no stamp or postmark.
With a smile at parrot man, I slip it into my workbag and hurry out to my car, excited to get to work. By the time I pull behind the Martin house and park, I’ve invented fifty different possibilities for the contents of this letter, and when I get to the library, I don’t even set up my laptop before I lay the envelope on the desk.
Once again, I carefully cut along the shortest edge of the envelope, but instead of sliding the letter out, I pause.
It doesn’t feel right to open it without Jay here, which doesn’t make sense. These letters don’t have anything to do with him. If I’m honest with myself, it would be morefunto open it with him. I am the world’s worst border collie, but after his rescue last night, giving him a heads-up is the least I can do.
Phoebe
I got a new Smitten Kitten letter.
I expect to hear from him right away, but even though he sees it, he doesn’t answer. Not even a thumbs-up.
