He’s waiting for me to tell him more, but I just smile. “We all run into other people’s biases, right?”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t know anything about that. I definitely haven’t run into it lately, like someone holding my East Coast prep school education and sailboat against me.”
“That’s not bias. That’s the impartial light of experience.”
“Phoebe, you’re frowning again.”
“East Coast Ivy boys do that to me.”
“You hate them? Us? You hateme?” He grabs his chest like that got him right in the heart.
“Ever eat so much of your favorite treat that it kind of makes you feel sick, and you don’t want that treat anymore? Like even thinking about it makes you feel queasy?”
His eyes light up. “YouloveEast Coast Ivy boys. You have atype.”
“Had,” I correct. “I overdosed.”
He braces his hands on the desk and smiles down at me. “I would like to point out that I am that type.”
“For what, Jameson?” I ask with exaggerated confusion. “Friendship? Of course. Every type is my friend type. My number one not-dating type is men I work with.” I say it as a reminder to stay in his lane, but his eyes dance even more.
“Got it,” he says. “You dated an East Coast Ivy type you worked with, and now you think you have an allergy to them.”
“Toyou. And only a romantic one.”
He stands. “On that note, I’m going to go take my very non-flirting self to work at my job that defies your stereotype of East Coast Ivy boys. If I happen to look up some Dear Heart clues—like how ‘captain of industry’ makes me think Harvard business school—oh well. Sleuthing happens.”
When he disappears, I stare at the space he left behind. That’s how it feels. Like a nearly tangible imprint of where he just was.
How can a shameless flirt with intentions as deep as a Saharan rain puddle create a strong enough impression that I still feel him when he’s gone?
I shake it off, and for the rest of the day, I work on my presentation. I have to cover everything from what staff I need to hire, when, and for how much, to my vision for permanent collections and exhibits.
It’s the last part I’m most passionate about, of course. Curation is the museum specialty with the most range, but designing exhibits—choosing a focus and the most relevant artifacts to educate the public about it—is the beating heart of the job.
In his bequest, Foster spelled out the mission statement of the museum, and at this point, I have it pretty much memorized. For the locals, he wants them to learn or rediscover parts of the city’s past they may have forgotten. For everyone else, he wants them to know how a small town on the Worcester Plateau became an integral part of Massachusetts’s proud history of progress and innovation.
In his notes breaking down each piece of the mission statement, he put it this way: “Serendipity Springs will become a stronger draw than Salem as visitors discover we are the seat of the true magic in the Commonwealth through our people, industry, and long history of civic engagement. Salem can become an interesting side trip.”
I chuckled when I read that the first time, imagining Foster and the near constant twinkle in his eye as he plotted ways to outdo Salem—but making magic, for him, is no joke.
So much rides on this meeting tomorrow, and I’ve never been more serious about anything.
Chapter Eighteen
Phoebe
My suit jacketfeels itchy as I finish setting up for the board meeting in Foster’s library. I’ve chosen a 1930s-style men’s suit for my presentation to the trustees, except it’s a reproduction, not real vintage. It’s tan wool with high-waisted wide-leg trousers and a roomy jacket with wide lapels. The only feminine thing about it is my white blouse with a floppy silk bow at the neck instead of a men’s tie.
Hayes hated this suit. He called it man repellent. I love this suit. I feel very Katherine Hepburn. Let other women keep their St. Laurent;thisis my power suit.
Usually.
I resist the urge to scratch and tug at a half dozen spots where I suddenly don’t like how it feels, and it’s not even touching my skin. The blouse has long sleeves.
This is nerves. I’m getting in my head. I force myself to draw a calming breath.I am prepared.
I’ve made only two changes to the way I usually wear this outfit. Despite Hayes’s idiotic take, I’m not trying to minimize my femininity, not even to make Catherine Crawford take me more seriously, so I’ve switched my usual lipstick fora power red. It’s not quite Taylor-at-a-football-game red. I’ve gone a couple of shades deeper. But it’s definitely woman-in-Congress-tearing-up-a-hostile-witness red.
