Phoebe
When I walk upto the Spring Brook campus library at 8:00 the next morning, Jay is already sitting on the top step holding two cups of coffee. “Cream, two sugars, and some caffeine before we start the search.”
“That’s sweet of you, but …” I nod at the sign on the library door stating no food and drinks are allowed inside.
He tsks. “Guess that means you’ll have to sit out here and visit with me until the coffee is gone.”
I roll my eyes but take the coffee and settle near him on the step to leave plenty of room for people to use the stairs. Truly. That’s the only reason. It’s definitely not because he’s dressed in tan slacks and a pale pink button-down that make him look extra East Coast Ivy.
I smooth my dress over my knees. I took the opportunity to wear something less office-y, plucking a green and yellow floral dress from my closet with a wider sweetheart neckline than I would wear to work. It had looked like late June hanging there in my closet, and I feel like walking summer in it now, especially with the white sandals I chose. “Any more tea sets show up?”
“A stack of fourteen by the back door.”
“You joke, but at this point, I’m expecting it.”
“Sure you don’t want to just do a tea set museum?” he asks. “You’re halfway there.”
I pretend to give it thought. “Do you think that’s what Foster wanted?”
“He was not a tea guy,” Jay says. “Okay. No tea museum.”
“How’s your book going?” I ask.
He takes a sip and considers this. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Ask to be polite.”
“I’m genuinely curious, History Hottie.”
He groans. “Curse my incredible beauty,” he mumbles into his cup, and I laugh.
“Maybe I’m halfway through your firstRevolutionary Roguesbook, and I want to know how soon my supply will dry up.” I’m absolutely halfway through it. I ordered it two weeks ago, but after learning about his teaching ambitions, I started it last night and stayed up way too late reading. Jay’s an excellent writer. He makes historical figures pulsate with menace and bad intentions.
“I’m stuck,” he admits. “Part of what makes villains compelling is that in their minds, they’re usually heroes. Or at least antiheroes. They have a justification they believe in. But Old Sam, he’s not like that. It was about pure profit for him, and right now this book is a list of chapters about why he was a dirt bag.”
“Does that mean you don’t have enough for a book?”
“I have a long enough book, but that doesn’t mean it will be good. I thought when I started pulling on the thread of why Old Sam sold out to the British, the reason would emerge. I still haven’t found any reason except greed.”
“Maybe it’s nothing more complicated than that.”
“Maybe.” He sighs. “I’m trying to come to terms with that. And with writing a boring book.”
I smile. “I like that you care so much.”
“You thought I wouldn’t?”
I might have assumed he wouldn’t care much about not understanding Samuel Davis Brown before yesterday, but one confession, dozens of videos, and half a book of his later, I know better.
“You’ll figure it out.” It comes out more earnest than I intend it to, and I want to shift the mood. I scan the expanse of green lawn between the campus buildings. “It’s quiet around here.”
“It’s early on a summer day at a small college.”
“True.” My cup is still half full, but I’m anxious to get into the archive and find answers. “I’m ready.”
We deposit our cups in the trash and walk in. The girl at the information desk looks mildly surprised to see visitors, but I explain our connection to the museum, and she tells us where to find the microfilm archive downstairs.
