For the rest of our lives, Kitten. Isn’t that something? For the rest of our lives.Those words sound like they should feel scary, but they don’t. In my mind, they’re shiny and golden. This must be one of those signs that we’re meant to be. They’re piling up!
As for this pageant, I’m all for it. I can’t believe your cousin talked you into it. It’s nice of you to do it for moral support, but she’ll regret it when you win, because how could you not? It’ll be a kick to brag to everyone about my sweetheart, Miss Serendipity. I know you’ll get a crown, but will you get any powers? That would be the real prize. You could go around making lucky things happen. Isn’t that the whole Serendipity Springs gimmick?
I’m keeping this short today. This new professor, Dr. Bryson, is hitting us right out of the gate with impossible labs. Fluid mechanics. What does that mean, you might ask? I don’t know, but I’d better figure it out quick since it has to do with keeping mechanical things aloft in the sky. Seems important to know for working in aeronautics. Be glad you never had to deal with this in your college classes. What I wouldn’t give to spend my time in the humanities building debating which ancient amphora is the best amphora.
Keep me in your thoughts, Kitten. You’ll be the reason I push through my toughest semester with a smile on my face.
The president’s holiday seems so far away, but I’ll work extra hard in my classes to make the time speed by until I can see you again.
Yours always,
Dear Heart
Phoebe presses her lips together and sets the letter on the coffee table with a distinct amount of force.
“Presentism?” I guess.
“Presentism. But also his condescension toward humanities.” She wrinkles her nose, like the attitude physically smells bad. “I’ve never run up against it in real life. Maybe I might have if I was in STEM? I hear MIT is one of the few colleges with more men than women, still.”
Something about that tickles my brain, but I set it aside while she’s talking.
“In museum work, most of us don’t care whether a curator or conservator or supervisor is a man or woman. I don’t know ofanyonewho cares. Or I didn’t used to.”
“What changed?” I don’t want to push her, but I suspect if I ask in the right way, she’ll tell me more about what makes her tick.
She searches my eyes for a couple of seconds before she gives me a single head shake.
I sense a guardedness about her that I’ve only seen come up with a very specific trigger, so I take a risk. “I assume thisrelates to the friction between you and Catherine Crawford last night?”
“Oh, you noticed that, huh?” Her voice is heavy with sarcasm.
“I doubt the other trustees thought much about it, but I already knew she stresses you out, and I was there for the pre-show.”
She doesn’t meet my eyes, and I wonder if she’s remembering the intense seconds we were tangled up in each other before Catherine came. It’s on repeat in my mind.
She drums her fingers against the sofa arm a few times. I feel the soft vibration on my end of the couch.
“The only person who ever made gender an issue at the Sutton,” she says, “was Catherine.”
I nod and settle back against the cushions, ready to listen. “Cabbage and king time?”
“More like baggage and ring. I’m only telling you this before you hear the story somewhere else, like from Catherine herself and whatever version she’s going to give everyone.” She drums her fingers a few more times, then presses her hand flat and moves it to her lap. “It’s time you know more about why I left the Sutton.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Phoebe
At some point in a friendship,you end up sharing stories about when you were not your best self. It can feel risky when you really need your friend to be okay with whatever you’re about to share. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like a risk because the story is a filter; it removes people from your life who aren’t ready to deal with all of you.
Or so the mesmerizing European therapist says on the marriage counseling reality show Francie and I are obsessed with.
Here’s the thing: if I were dating Jay, I would not want to tell him this story. As a friend, I think I do. But since he’s a trustee of this museum, I don’t know if I should.
I would like to believe this story would never come up from anyone else. But there are no guarantees with Catherine Crawford.
“I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to get chosen as a docent at the Sutton when I was working on my undergrad,” I start. “Even though it’s a volunteer position, it’s highly competitive. And when that turned into a paid internship, I was giddy. And when that led to being hired as an assistantcurator when I finished my master’s degree, I knew without a doubt I was the luckiest person in the world.”
“I hear all the time about how scarce those jobs are.”
