I growl and bat at the sofa cushion where he sat in case any crumbs were left behind. I do not feel better. I’m going to have to come up with a ritual for cleansing the Crawford energy from this room after every board meeting, like maybe choosing one of Foster’s volumes of poetry and reading aloud a stirring narrative poem about vanquishing foes?
Mmm, yes, that sounds like the perfect antidote. Some fierce vanquishing!
Right now, though, I can’t focus enough to find his poetry shelves with the racket above me.
I march to the desk, scoop up my work bag, and march myself out the back door. I will take my very first work-from-home day, and if the contractor or Catherine’s disapproving essence in the library or Jay judge me for it, I don’t care.
Twenty minutes later, I step into The Serendipity, where I hear laughter floating from the direction of the pool but no brain-rattling demolition.
The chaos in my head is quieting. I’ll be far more productive here.
I hold on to that belief for almost a full minute—until I swing by the mailboxes because I have that feeling again. It’s familiar somehow, and I’m trying to figure out why. Then I remember. In elementary school, all the fourth and fifth grade classes got a new pen pal each year. We’d trade letters once amonth, and our whole class would buzz a bit when it was letter week, knowing that any day, our teacher would announce the letters had come. Then she’d pass them out and we’d open them, wondering which lucky classmate might have gotten a surprise sticker or Pokémon card, or if our pen pal liked what we might have sent them in our previous letter.
This is the same feeling. Anticipation. When had I begun looking forward to these letters coming?
Sure enough, I spot a familiar white envelope in my box. I lean toward the dial and say softly, “Your timing sucks, but fine. You got me.” I work the combination, but the lock doesn’t open.
“Really?” I whisper-yell. I step back, roll my neck, draw in a lungful of the cool air, and pause. That breath was cookie scented. I sniff and catch the scent of fresh cookies wafting from the kitchen. A blonde head pops around the corner.
A friendly-looking woman asks, “Did you say something?”
“Oh, uh, no. It’s, um …”
She straightens and walks around to lean against the wall at the end of the mailboxes. “I’m Willa from 2J. I’m baking cookies for an event tonight.”
“Phoebe, 3E. Nice to meet you. I appreciate the aromatherapy.”
She grins. “Pop in any time you hear me working and grab a cookie. I always have extra.”
“Thank you. Sorry if I distracted you.”
“You didn’t. Is your mailbox giving you trouble?”
“I think I have it figured out.”
She gives me a knowing look, taps on the mailbox labeled 2J, and says, “You are aged to perfection. You know you want to open for me, don’t you?” Then she works the dial, and it pops open.
I shake my head and give my mailbox a couple of gentle pats. “Art Deco is the best deco.” It opens when I tug the dial.
Willa grins. “It’s not even the weirdest thing this building does. Hit me up for cookies and survival tips any time.”
“I will,” I promise as she returns to the kitchen.
I pull out the envelope. It’s for Smitten Kitten.
Next I pull out my phone and text Jay.
Phoebe
I’d rather die than work in the big house today. Meet me at Serendipi-Tea.
Jay
I will give you my entire trust fund if you get me a large chai and bring it to the cottage.
Phoebe
