“I knew it,” she says.
I doubt she knows anything going on in my head. She’d run for the hills if she knew how happy I am to have her here. I step back and wave her in. “Welcome to the cottage.”
She walks in and looks down at my feet. “Should I take off my shoes?”
“It’s not a rule. I just prefer bare feet.”
She slips off her white leather loafers and pads barefoot to the table to set down her workbag. “This place is big. Why is it called the cottage?”
“The style, I guess? Or maybe just because it’s smaller than the big house. It’s always been the cottage.” It was built about eighty years ago at the end of the Colonial Revival style. That Martin ancestor built it so his groundskeeper could live on the property with his family and the wife could work as the housekeeper for the big house.
Phoebe looks around, and when she doesn’t say anything,I grin. “It’s only been redecorated once. You’ll never guess when.”
With a glance at the avocado green kitchen cabinets and the yellow faux-marble linoleum, she says, “1975.”
“Or maybe you’ll guess exactly right. I plan to keep it like this until it’s a perfect time capsule and it looks carefully preserved instead of super outdated.”
Her eyes stop on the pinned backdrop. “Blackout curtain?”
“Basically.”
She points to the frame leaning against the hearth. “Is that your rogue?”
I walk over and pick it up, turning the portrait so she can see him. “Samuel Davis Brown, the guy who almost tanked America.”
Her nose wrinkles. “He looks smug.”
“You have no idea.” I put him back in time-out. “Letter time. Table or sofa?”
“The table makes more sense, but …”
“You’re obsessed with the sofa? Let’s do it.” The sofa, armchair, and ottoman are all heavy wood pieces covered in white velvet upholstery with a busy print of brown roses that can only be experienced, not described.
She moves her bag to the sofa and sits at one end, running her hand over the cushion. “It’s soft like a rose petal, but I didn’t know roses came in brown.”
“I believe the seventies might have been an era when the only limit to brown was your imagination.”
“You love it.” She’s smiling.
“With all my heart. Don’t get me wrong, it’s ugly as sin. But that makes me love it more.”
“Speaking of love …” She reaches into the bag and holds up an envelope and a letter opener. “Ready?”
“To be murdered?” I eye the opener. Why do they all have strong dagger energy?
“I found it in Foster’s desk. Seems more fitting for old letters.” She slits the short end and slides out the letter, doing her usual front and back check. “January 12, 1966. Yours always, Dear Heart.”
I nod and add the date to the notes in my phone. “So we find out if he convinced her over Christmas that he loves her.”
She unfolds it and begins to read.
Dear Smitten Kitten,
You love me. You love me!
That’s all I need to remember when I feel disappointed that you didn’t let me propose. But I understand. You’re right; it will be more fun to celebrate an engagement when you’re back here in Boston for good. All that matters is that you love me too. Everything else will fall into place. That’s how it works for real love, doesn’t it?
Your school year ends about two weeks after my semester. Say you’ll be able to come for my graduation. I’ll drive out and pick you up myself. I want you by my side for every milestone from now on.
