“I can’t tell if you’re cute or so ugly you’re cute. But your house rules.” Geometric gold markings cover his shell, and they look awesome against the black. But his head looks more like a snake, and with his red eyes, it’s kind of intimidating.
“I want you to know I’m only staying over here because I like my space, not because I’m afraid to pick you up.” But I eye his scale-covered legs that end in claws. Sharp-looking ones. “Are you even a dude? Maybe you’re a lady turtle and you can’t understand my problems.”
I get a slow blink that feels like an eye roll. Hmm. That’s got a distinct feminine energy.
“I could use a woman’s perspective. Do turtles do love at first sight? I’ve always thought the ‘instant’ thing was ridiculous, but two of my friends married women they claim they fell for the minute they saw them.”
It’s not bad as proof goes. I shift on the bench, and Ms. Turtle settles her back end down like a dog on its haunches.
“Fine,” I tell her. “Here’s a confession. Maybe I get it.Notthat I’m in love.”
But now I understand how someone can fascinate you before you even exchange a word because it happened to me two weeks ago. Every interaction with Phoebe intensifies that feeling, like every conversation is too short and no number of her smiles is ever enough. Like each new angle I see her in is a revelation, whether it’s the sun shining down on her as she walks to the vault or the way she’s still vibrant under utilitarian basement lights. I can’t get enough of her jokes or laughs or even her annoyed frowns.
I know how I sound. Like a maniac. But the thing is, I feel more clearheaded than ever.
Except for one thing. She says she’s only open to friendship, not dating. I could live with that if I thought she meant it. But I’ve seen too many signs that say she doesn’t. Signsthat say she feels drawn to me. I don’t think I’m flattering myself. I’ve dated enough women to read the situation.
None of that is helping with the “what next” question.
“Your thoughts, Ms. Turtle?” She blinks. “On what’s next?”
Her chest lowers to the ground, and then she disappears into her shell, and it closes completely. It’s how box turtles get their name.
“Thanks for nothing.” I get up and go in the house, but maybe the turtle answered the question:Run away and hide.
It’s not a Martin quality, and I try to be a quality Martin, so I guess that means I’ll do the opposite: Charge full steam ahead.
Chapter Twenty-One
Phoebe
The next day is chaos.Literal and figurative.
Literally, the contractor’s truck pulls into the Martin House right behind me, and I get out to greet him. We scheduled him to start today barring any last-minute objection from the board, and I texted him after the meeting to let him know he was approved. Within minutes his crew is making disturbing and very loud noises on the third floor.
Figuratively, the plan I’ve been forming over the last two weeks is a jumble of confetti inside my brain. No, something not festive. The plan is the sodden remains of a newspaper left on a driveway in the rain.
What does Catherine mean I got the facts but not the spirit? My former boss, Henry Chu, always cautioned me for being the opposite, so full of enthusiasm for an idea that I wasn’t fully considering whether it fit the mission of the Sutton. My point had always been that the mission of the Sutton should become more expansive, incorporating new mediums to reach younger generations, to bridge the gap between the way they experience art and life now to the eras covered in our collections.
He’d smiled and shaken his head and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to be in an art gallery somewhere?”
He was teasing. I’d managed a contemporary art gallery while working on my master’s. It was that practical management experience that had gotten me my full-time position with the Sutton to begin with. The ability to manage tasks beyond conservation and acquisition isn’t explicitly taught in most museum-focused degree programs.
Henry had let me propose about one in five of my ideas to the board. They’d approved one in five ofthose,but it still meant that in my three years as an associate curator, I curated an exhibition. Considering the Sutton only does two a year in addition to the permanent collection, it’s a big deal, even if they changed a lot from my original proposal.
I’d been more successful in pitching limited-scope programs, like enrichment nights for donors and members, when they got special access to tours or experts or speakers. In fact, I’d gotten more ideas from pitch to reality than any other curator on staff, and it was why I fully expected a promotion.
The one I didn’t get because of Catherine.
I was so very careful to Catherine-proof my presentation last night against criticisms of being too frivolous or lowbrow or whatever usual objections the stuffier Sutton board members had made in more diplomatic terms. If I needed any proof that Catherine’s issue with me was both personal and irrational, I got it when she criticized my plans for theoppositereason she’d always blocked them at the Sutton.
This has to go beyond the Hayes situation. I don’t know what to do about it yet, but I’ll suffocate beneath a truckload of Smitten Kitten dead letters before I let that woman squeeze me out of this job.
Three sonic booms sound from upstairs, and I clap myhands over my ears. My head is throbbing, and I don’t know if the demolition noise is causing it or imitating it.
I cannot think in here, and I’m too riled up replaying the meeting to focus on details, so I work on cleaning up, putting away the folding tables, rearranging the furniture.
When I pass the sofa where I toppled over Jay, I pause. I know more about how strong his thighs feel than anyone who isn’t wildly into him should. Not my fault. Not for getting my hair stuck in a bike, which Istilldon’t understand how it happened. Not even for playing keep-away with the cookie.
