“You’re telling me I’d better be careful about speaking to any men in the building?” I joke.
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “The building has already gone to work on you. It’s sending you those letters.”
I don’t have the heart to tell them that the only men I’ve interacted with are the parrot guy and Peter, who I hear is very taken. If these letters are the building’s matchmaking, its magic is misfiring.
“Thank you for the warning. I’ll be on guard.”
“Don’t bother,” Mr. Hathaway says cheerfully. “If it’s found your match, it’s your time whether you know it or not.”
That sounds ominous, and I’m ready to leave the subject of magic aside. “As I mentioned, I was wondering if you might remember who lived in my apartment back then. We think it was two women—cousins. They were both schoolteachers. I’d like to return the letters to their owner or her descendants.”
“That’s kind of you,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “Let’s see, did I know 3E when I first moved in?”
Mr. Hathaway is already shaking his head. “I don’t recall. I met Jane shortly after moving in. People were always moving in and out, even back then.”
Mrs. Hathaway sighs. “Same, I’m afraid. Maybe if I knew this kitten’s real name, it would ring a bell, but I can’t recall who specifically had that apartment.”
I nod, disappointed but not surprised. Most historical mysteries are difficult to solve, if they ever get solved at all. They’re mysteries because information is missing, and it can’t always be recovered.
I set my teacup on the coffee table and stand, insisting they stay seated when they move to get up as well. “Please, sit and relax. I need to tackle the rest of my day, and I can see myself out. But thank you so much for your hospitality this morning.”
They wave and wish me good luck on my quest. Itisa quest, I decide, one that feels more pressing to complete with each letter that arrives. Since the letter on Wednesday, I’ve wanted to race over to the college library and lose myself in the microfilm newspaper archives. But it wouldn’t be right without Jay, and I need distance from him, so I’ve ordered myself to prioritize my job and spend my free time exploring the city.
After this chat with the Hathaways, the quest is calling to me again, and I go down to the basement to look at more of the old lease records. It’s not like I’m leaving Jay out of the library research, so I choose not to feel guilty about it.
Three hours in the basement doesn’t turn up anything either. The records stop around 1978, and when I do a public records search on the title history for the building, I see that’s when it was sold to the owner before the Galentine lady, and the only owner before that bought the building from the college. Another dead end.
I leave the cool basement for the warm outdoors, happythe temperature is back to hovering below eighty degrees. It’s the kind of day that makes me wish I had a bicycle with fat tires and a comfortable seat so I could cruise on it through the neighborhoods on my route today. They’re still lovely on foot, and I explore for a couple of hours.
Like most cities, the neighborhoods closest to downtown have older homes, and I entertain myself by guessing which homes belong to older owners and which belong to younger families. Those aren’t too hard to guess. Bicycles in the yard, small shoes on the porch, or chalked sidewalks usually give them away.
On Sunday, I check out a pretty church I noticed on one of my walks earlier in the week, which happens to be a Catholic church. Our Lady of Czestochowa? I need to look her up.
When I take a seat in the last pew a minute before the mass begins, I realize why I haven’t heard of her. No one is speaking English. A visit to the church’s website informs me I’ve wandered into a Polish service.
It raises a million questions. How have I missed that a sizable Polish population lives—and thrives—in Serendipity Springs, what brought them here, which neighborhoods do they mostly live in, and where is the pierogi shop? Because there has to be at least one epic pierogi shop.
Since I’m not Catholic, I don’t know what’s happening in the mass, but I like the pretty chapel, and the look of contentment on the parishioners’ faces is universal. I spend my time enjoying the music and reading about their saint. I love stories of the saints because they arewild. Or maybe “miraculous” is the technical word? This one involves a monastery and a painting and invading Hussites and some heavenly smiting of the invaders. Excellent.
I like Serendipity Springs more with each new part of it I experience, and I’m putting Our Lady of Czestochowa nearthe top of the list. I’ve started a new list of potential exhibits and lesser-known periods of the city’s history to explore, and today’s discovery will fit right in.
Unfortunately for Catherine Crawford, her criticism has sent me barreling down a path that is leading to so many ideas for the museum that I’m going to be ouster-proof in no time at all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Phoebe
Jay textsme a picture of several boxes in front of the main house’s front door Monday morning before I’ve even left my apartment.
Jay
Saw this coming back from a run. That’s a lot of tea sets.
Phoebe
IS IT? Are those tea sets? No. Do not want.
Jay
